Stories by David Accampo, Chris Anderson, Joshua Alan Doestch, Paul Montgomery, Christa Nahhas, Caroline Pruett, Jeremy Rogers, Jay Stringer and Teresa Tulipano
‘Tis the season to be eerie in this volume of strange and unusual holiday tales featuring two-bit occult detective Doctor Xander Crowe and his partner, the sardonic hacker-magician, Sparrow. Together they encounter all manner of winter mysteries, from a new relationship troubled by Krampusnacht to a generational family story haunted by bloodthirsty tomte. Over the course of nine stories, the uncanny twosome come face to face with an assortment of sinister marvels, including festive homunculi, and a necessary plot to kill Santa. If you like your eggnog with a side of ectoplasm and brimstone, these Yuletide stories are ready to be read in front of a fire, with a glass of single malt whiskey, and maybe some rosary beads. Just in case.
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EXCERPT FROM WEIRD WINTER STORIES
TRAGEDY OF THE GREATEST DIMENSION
By Jeremy Rogers
The projector bulb heats up, burning the dust in the air around the concentrated light.
Crowe’s apartment in Koreatown above a Laundromat is a Rube Goldberg contraption, an intricate balance of dusty tomes and peculiar artifacts, most of which should be curated in some institution far away from the weak, corruptible minds of men. Instead, the vast knowledge and occult danger is eccentrically catalogued; for example, what better way to prop up an uneven leg of a cluttered coffee table than with the one of the few written accounts of the cruel Assyrian demon, Adramelech, the pages of which were crafted from the flayed skin of children sacrificed a thousands of years ago? To be fair, Crowe has been pulling his raggedy head of hair for weeks and torn up his apartment in the process looking for this book. Unfortunately, he has no recollection of using it in such a manner.
Walter Bruise sits on the sofa in the living room. He can hear Sparrow and Crowe bickering in the kitchen, but they are engaged in hushed tones, and he cannot understand a single word they are saying; words about him, he assumes. He glances at the withered Christmas tree through the living room window, already discarded out onto the fire escape. Drugstore bargain bin ornaments adorn the tree, as does an empty bottle of Maker’s Mark stuck to the tip like a star.
Walter’s eyes scan around the rest of the living room. Told to have a seat, he is far too timid to stand up and look around, even if his interest is piqued. He remains on the edge of the cushion, both of his knees bent at the same angle, his feet lined up perfectly on the floor. Walter is in his late forties, his blonde hair combed over his rounded head stays in place with the oil and sweat on his forehead. He carries a double chin and a round belly that does not hang so much from excessive weight but distends pointedly from the center of his gait, pushing the buttons on his short sleeved button-up that has not been sold at Target for a few years. Regardless of these sad sack admonitions, he was a guest at the spendthrift collector’s party on Christmas Eve.
“You know how much I hate Keanu Reeves!” Sparrow raises her voice unexpectedly, still out of sight in the kitchen. “And VHS? Really, what am I supposed to do with that?!”
Sparrow walks out of the kitchen, frustrated, startling Walter with her entrance, all sound and fury. Crowe follows close on her heels, sloshing a cup of black coffee. He is wearing the color of brown slacks that match his suit, and a white shirt – if a recurring wardrobe worked for Seth Brundle and Einstein, it could work for Crowe, he thought. The yellowing on his forehead has manifested an ugly mark around the heavy thread stitches that pull the banks of the injury together. Sparrow has shed (truth: burned in her gas fireplace on Christmas morning) her dress, and is now clad in a much more comfortable pair of black denim jeans and a vintage Naked Raygun t-shirt.
“It’s an awful movie. But don’t you see the similarities? I bought it second-hand on VHS precisely because I know you don’t have the antiquated equipment to watch it,” Crowe says, believing he has done well with his gift-buying and that she is nothing but a spoiled brat. Such a frustratingly stubborn girl she is.
“Gee, thanks, Xander,” she says.
“And thank you for the bottle of hooch,” he replies. “You enabler.”
Walter stands up from the sofa, looking back and forth between the two of them with a passive impatience. “Please, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, though he does not hold eye contact with either Sparrow or Crowe as they return in it. “I don’t mean to be snappish, but it’s been a long trek from Decatur, and I’d like to get this underway.”
“Sorry,” Sparrow replies.
“My sincerest…” Crowe adds, and then turns to Sparrow. “Let’s not pretend this is about my gift to you, hmm? No, this is residual awkwardness from the other night.” Crowe raises an eyebrow in ownership of his directness, which breaks the scab that has just begun to heal.
Sparrow laughs at his pain. “Get over yourself.”
“Please, Mister Crowe and Miss Sparrow, I must insist on your attention.” Walter pulls a 16mm film reel out of the jumbled cardboard box on the floor by the projector.
“Actually, it’s Doctor, if you want to be specific,” Crowe says as he walks to the window and lowers the blinds, putting the living room into darkness.
“A label that’s hardly relative for a film screening.” Sparrow drops down onto the sagging corner cushion of the sofa opposite Walter’s designated spot, her mumbled wisecrack lost in the action. She removes her laptop from a backpack; it is a ratcheted-up 13 inch off-brand computer, dense and scratched and scribbled with strange markings all over the casing. To Sparrow, it is her baby, an ever-changing, developing extension of herself. She lifts the screen, pushing a glow into her eyes as the machine powers up with an ethereal hum.
“Yes, well. I hope you have a fondness for exploitation and keen eyes for the supernatural,” Walter says. “Miss Sparrow tells me you’re a serious film buff. Let’s say we test your expertise.”
Walter feeds white leader into the projector, the sprocket wheel catches and jerks the celluloid through the gate, pulling the slack and cranking the film tight. The leader flickers by, sputtering with degrading glue that barely holds the splice together, and the living falls into almost complete darkness.
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