Fiction: 'Advent'

This story appeared online last year as part of a creepy advent calendar of stories for the wonderful Sinister Horror Company (who publish Trying To Be So Quiet & Other Hauntings, as well as much other sinister goodness).

When I originally got the invite to write a story for the project, I decided to be get all meta, and try and write a horror story about someone opening an advent calendar (because that's just the kind of twat I am). The piece was originally published on the 17th of December, which is when its set, and also my birthday. So I thought I'd republish it here, a year to the day later. Thanks to Justin Park at Sinister for asking me to write it in the first place.

Happy Christmas to all readers of this blog... if we get past the 17th December, that is.

Advent

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He cut himself on the cardboard doing so, sucked the pad of his finger. There was a chocolate wrapped in red foil inside; he looked around for his son but his son wasn’t there, so he ate it, dropped the foil to the ground. Tasted blood.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He cut his finger on the cardboard doing so. There was a chocolate wrapped in yellow foil inside; he looked around for his son but he wasn’t there. He called his son’s name but there was no answer, so he yelled again, then ate the chocolate, dropped the foil to the ground. Tasted blood.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He reopened a cut on his finger doing so. There was a chocolate wrapped in orange foil inside; he looked around for his son but his son wasn’t there. He called his wife’s name instead, but she wasn’t there either. He listened for the sounds of weeping in the house, then ate the chocolate, dropped the foil to the ground. He felt sick and at the same time hungry. Tasted blood.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. There was a callous on his finger that stopped him cutting himself. He looked around for his wife and son but they weren’t there. What were they so scared of? He’d slept it off now. He unclenched his fists. He ate the chocolate, dropped the red foil to the pile of it on the ground. He felt sick and at the same time hungry. Tasted blood, which couldn’t be right?

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. The thick callous on his finger stopped him cutting himself. He looked around for his wife and son but they weren’t there. What were they so scared of? He was sober now. He unclenched his fists. He ate the chocolate, dropped the orange foil to the pile on the ground. He felt sick like he’d eaten too much chocolate and at the same time hungry like he’d eaten nothing but. Tasted blood, but from where?

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He didn’t cut himself. He looked around for his wife and son but they weren’t fucking there. What were they so scared of? He was sober now. He hit the wall, remembered her face. How she’s been slicing beetroot at the chopping board at the time. He ate the chocolate, dropped the yellow foil to the pile of it on the ground. His insides felt sick, emptied. Tasted blood, which when he spat it out was stained brown.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He didn’t cut himself. He looked around for his wife and son but they weren’t fucking there. What was he so scared of? He’d kill for a drink. He hit the wall, remembered her face, how she’d said she wasn’t going to let him do it again. He ate the chocolate, dropped the foil to the pile of it on the ground. His insides felt sick, emptied, muddled. Tasted blood, like he always did.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He didn’t cut himself. He looked around for his wife and son but couldn’t see them. What was he so scared of? He hit the wall, remembered her face, how she’d said she wasn’t going to let him do it again. Said she’d see him in hell first, and he’d said prove it you bitch. There were drifts of foil around his feet. He ate the chocolate. His insides felt sick, emptied, wounded. Tasted blood, like he always did when he got angry.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He looked around for his wife and son, for anyone, but everywhere was grey and misted in his sight. What was he so scared of? He touched the wall, saw the colour his hands left it. She’d said she’d see him in Hell, and he’d said prove it you bitch. How she’d been slicing at the chopping board at the time. He puked up chocolate even as he ate it. His insides felt sick, emptied, wounded. Tasted blood; his fingers had been clutched to his gut and he tasted blood off them.

***

The next day, he opened the window on the advent calendar: 17th December. Tasted blood.

The cold foil around his feet was red and orange and yellow, like flames.