#christmas ghost stories
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Someone suggested we should revive the tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas and I thought that sounded fun, so here's my (not very creatively titled) contribution.
A Christmas Ghost Story
Mama moved to the little white cottage at the edge of a derelict lemon grove about twenty years ago, trading dust and howling coyotes for a fresh breeze and sea lions barking in the distance. She learned as a child how to pull cholla from the dog’s long hair and to read every constellation in the immense, pitch black sky as easily as neon signs. She grew up taciturn, her words sparse and sharp like the desert flora she loved. To this day, the scent of creosote still clings faintly to her skin, or maybe it just seems that way.
I’ve never quite understood what happened to make her suddenly pull up the stakes and land in this mild world, never far from the laughter of gulls or waves crashing against the sand.
I lived there, too, though I don’t remember it well. I was born on the winter solstice in the crowded emergency room of the only hospital for a hundred miles.
“Dropped you right on the floor like a loaf of bread,” Mama laughs.
She loves to tell me about the time she looked through the kitchen window and saw me in the garden, wearing diapers, tiny cowboy boots, and a tie-dye t-shirt, pulling up a carrot to feed a wild burro.
“I wish I remembered that,” I say each time.
“You were so little, I’m not surprised you don’t,” she replies.
My only memory of that place is the lonely owl calling for a mate through long winter nights, and the time I looked out to see its inscrutable face staring at me from the low sycamore branch outside my window. It hooted in surprise and flew away on soft, silent wings.
I also can’t even remember the last time Mama slept through the night. I first noticed her insomnia when I awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep to her crying into her hands at the foot of my bed, the mattress creaking with each heave of her chest.
“Mama?”
“Nicole!”
Her face radiated shock. She looked around the room, filled with carefully labeled unopened boxes, and felt for my face on the pillow.
“Nicole? Baby, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
“That’s OK Mama, I wasn’t tired anyhow.”
I threw my arms around her until her sorrow was spent and she collapsed into sleep by my side.
The next night, wailing from the kitchen woke me. I glided barefoot down the hallway to the kitchen doorway. Mama spun around to face me, screamed, and dropped the glass of water she had just filled into the sink.
“Nicky, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
I’d never seen her so rattled, and after that, left her to comfort herself. She went to work in the day, unpacked boxes in the evening, and most nights wandered forlornly around the house while I listened to her muffled footsteps and moans from my bed. Her life settled into a rhythm. She planted flowers and tended a few of the spindly lemon trees. On days when she swam in the surf, Mama returned smelling of citrus and kelp.
I think, after a time, she was happy enough because she began coming into my room sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, telling me stories of her childhood or poring over a photo album where she holds me, wrapped tightly in a blue and pink blanket, triumphantly on a hospital bed, or kisses me on the cheek on my first day of school. We laugh at the one where I’m barking back at the dog, and she caresses my chubby little baby legs in a bathtub photo. I always want her to tell me about the picture of me sitting on Santa’s lap, but she turns the page so fast I only catch a glimpse. I enfold her in my love, sure that nothing can breach such a formidable barrier, but her eyes are always hollow.
She baked me beautiful birthday cakes, fluffy pink frosting and sprinkles giving way to smooth ganache or fondant as the years passed. When I tired of my window’s unicorn and rainbow curtains, Mama redid my whole bedroom in sophisticated shades of blue and green, and replaced my wardrobe with the latest fashions.
At the heart of our domestic bliss, however, lay the mysterious sadness that tinged Mama’s speech and forced careful, measured movements from her always-tired limbs, as if the weight of even so slight a body as hers was more than she could bear. Something heavy flattened happiness and unhappiness alike and she trudged deliberately through her days.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” I would ask. She met my longing gaze with her own, then turned her head away.
Christmas came especially hard for her, and frequent calls from her sister only made her more despondent.
“Justine, you need to do something good for yourself. If you can’t make it for Christmas, please come visit for New Year’s. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you,” Aunt Susan implored over voicemail. “I love you and am here if you need me.”
We decorated a tree each year and Mama sang carols as she mopped the floor or baked cookies for her office but the closer we got to Christmas the quieter she became and she spent most nights curled up in her bed alone as soon as it got dark.
For some reason, I never seem to remember Christmas. I can remember the weeks before but as the date gets closer, it’s like I fall into a void within myself sometime around Christmas Eve and remain there until Mama’s sobbing drags me back and life goes on as usual.
“I would so love to see you, Justine, and it would be good for you to get away,” Aunt Susan said yesterday over the phone. Mama sighed and looked me up and down, as if noticing for the first time how adult I had become.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
We spent the night looking at the old photos and telling the old stories, and some new ones about our life in the cottage, and as the weak Christmas Eve day sun struggled over the mountains to the east, Mama took my hand and rose.
“Nicky, come. I want to show you something.”
We got into the car and blasted through a maze of freeways until the air became dry and sharp and ragged mountains rose pink and grey to our right. We turned onto a smaller highway, and finally, a single-lane road. It felt both new and as familiar as my room, an uneasy sensation that made me nervous.
Mama parked the car in front of a shady, grassy park. We entered and strolled through what turned out to be gravestones. Mama clutched my hand and strode toward a slab of pink granite on the far end of the field. Her pulse pounded in the vein of her neck and she swallowed back tears.
“It’s OK, Mama, I’m here,” I said bravely, squeezing her hand.
“Nicole, I need you to just watch and listen for a moment,” she whispered. “Look.”
Engraved on the stone in tidy Gothic font it said:
NICOLE SUSAN BRISCOE
DECEMBER 21, 1994 - DECEMBER 24, 2000
Beloved daughter, forever young
The tattered remains of several stuffed animals and plastic flowers sat at the base and glass candleholders with printed dates lay scattered over the grave: 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017. Fragments of broken glass hinted at even older candles.
Mama took a new candleholder and lighter from her purse. I saw a label with “2022” on it as the flame leaped onto the wick. I felt as if my guts were being torn out through my feet.
Mama cleared a space and set the candle down with the others, then faced me with both my hands in hers.
“Nicky, I need you to really listen this time. This is your home. I suppose it has been for 22 years.”
“I don’t understand, Mama!”
She smoothed the panic off my face with the back of her hand.
“We were coming home from the mall. You had sat for the first time on Santa’s lap and you were so scared at first! But he told you a joke and asked what you wanted for Christmas and when you smiled, that’s when the photographer took your picture. We had hot cocoa and started on the way home.”
I felt dizzy and had a sudden sensation of speed as images and sounds came back in a blur. Metal crunching. Pain. Oblivion. Then Mama sobbing on my bed.
“But we never made it. Or, rather, I eventually did but you did not. A drunk driver going the wrong way hit us head on. The airbag saved my life but not yours.”
I crumpled as if struck by lightning. Mama knelt and cradled my face in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I swerved but it was too late. I wish it had been me.”
I heard the most piteous wailing come out of my open mouth and could not make it stop.
“You are grown now, and have been for years,” Mama said gently. “It’s time for you to move on, and for me to move on too. This time, I’m begging you to please stay.”
We huddled on the grave, Mama stroking my hair and wiping away my tears, while the candle sputtered out and coyotes seranaded the twilight. I inhaled her scent, which was that of the desert itself, and pressed my ravaged face against her breast as lethargy seeped into me and my vision began to fade.
“This gets harder every year, Nicky,” Mama murmured. “I can’t do it anymore. You can't keep coming back."
She kissed my cheek but I barely felt it because my face was starting to dissolve.
“Mama! Help!” I shrieked, but she heard only agonized moans.
“I love you, Nicole. Goodbye,” Mama said as the earth absorbed me in a mist.
Mama dried her own tears and reached for her phone.
“Hi, Susan?” she said wearily. “Can you pick me up at the airport tomorrow?”
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If the "Scary Ghost Stories" are a classic Christmas tradition you wish would come back...I wrote one! Sort of! Featuring my chaotic little team of characters from Compass.
Going home to Pete's Appalachian family for Christmas was supposed to be an escape from work life for a week. But when Pete's five year old niece is bitten by a vampire, Sierra, Pete, and Shay are back on the clock...in more ways than one.
You can read it on my WorldAnvil here: http://tinyurl.com/4at24mav
Or on my author site here: http://tinyurl.com/y3k2jjcs
(Yes, I wrote it in a week and it might be a bit messy, and I'm totally spoiling the ending of Compass for everyone, but like I said yesterday, some writing advice can be ignored sometimes and I'd rather be sharing fun Christmas stories than worrying about any of that!)
@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies
#christmas ghost stories#or more accurately#christmas vampire stories#compass#sierra aguirre-stoker#pete jemison#shane barrett
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“Count Magnus is the latest ghost story for Christmas from Mark Gatiss coming to the BBC and Gatiss also stars as Jacob Marley in a stage production of A Christmas Carol in his own retelling of Dickens’ classic winter ghost story.”
New ghost story for the holiday season! 🎄👻
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December, aka Spooky Season Pt. 2 (December 16, 2022)
#rust belt jessie#my photos#books#currently reading#christmas ghost stories#ghost stories#christmas#horror
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Omg folks look at the log line, I'm going to faint: "AUTHORS: EDGAR ALLAN POE and LEANNA RENEE HIEBER"!!! *runs around flailing in a black crepe whirlwind*
"Not More Lovely than Full of Glee" is a Christmas 'ghost' story about what happens after the events of Poe's "The Oval Portrait"...
Now live, for free, on PseudoPod, in digital and audio! Donations to PseudoPod encouraged!
Darlings, can I just say what a thrill it is, what an honor it is, what a joy it is to see a lifelong dream come true? To be situated next to THE legend, the man who remains my foremost inspiration, it is just the most incredible thing. I find it hard to put to words what it feels like to see my name next to his name. He is my everything. I would not be a writer if it were not for him.
I wrote "Not More Lovely than Full of Glee" for A WINTER'S TALE: HORROR STORIES FOR THE YULETIDE in 2020 and I had a dream that someday I'd see my sequel placed side-by-side with what inspired it. "The Oval Portrait" remains one of my favorite Poe stories, short and terribly chilling, and I felt I had something to say about the woman whose life was painted away...
Listen / Read here! Happy Holidays! Happy Haunting!
#audiobook#audio drama#edgar allan poe#inspiration#gothic#gothic fiction#gothic horror#theovalportrait#leannareneehieber#free reads#christmas ghost stories#horror stories#pseudopod#podcast#podcastfiction#horror podcast
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Nice interview with Mark
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Christmas Ghost Stories: Between The Lights By E.F. Benson
In a realm where the supernatural intertwines with the ordinary, set against the backdrop of a mysterious country house, our protagonist grapples with unexplained occurrences. The story navigates the delicate boundary between the living and the dead, offering a gripping exploration of the uncanny.
Read the story: https://www.screamingeyepress.com/between-the-lights-by-e-f-benson/
#horror#ghost story#christmas#christmas ghost stories#ghost stories#victorian ghost stories#stories#story#short story
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The History of Telling Ghost Stories at Christmas
The History of Telling Ghost Stories at Christmas
#WritingCommunity #WriterCommunity #BloggingCommunity #BloggerCommunity #ChristmasGhostStories #FestiveSeason #History #Tradition #Blog #Holidays #HolidaySeason #Christmas #Ghost #Xmas #Solstice
Hi everyone, I hope you’re all well!It’s that time of year again—the time for eggnog and Christmas cookies, and as the winter nights draw close and turn chilly, there is no better time for telling a ghost story around the fireplace or, if you’re anything like me, reading them in bed at night. But when did this tradition begin? Why do we like to tell ghost stories at Christmas? Let’s explore!
The…
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#christmas#Christmas Ghost Stories#ghost stories#history#holiday season#spooky#Spooky Christmas#Yule
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Review of Sunless Solstice—Christmas Ghost Stories
As my various posts over the years about Christmas ghost stories might suggest, I’m on a bit of a mission to bring this spooky seasonal activity back into fashion. But I’m not alone in my quest! The British Library has started publishing annual collections of haunting Christmas tales as part of their Tales of the Weird series. Sunless Solstice: Strange Christmas Tales for the Longest Nights,…
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#anthology#book review#Christmas ghost stories#collection#ghost stories#horror#Short stories#sunless solstice#weird fiction
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Scary Christmas!
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GHOSTS for Christmas.
Just started reading Catherine Crowe's 'Ghosts and Family Legends: a volume for Christmas' published in 1859. Also about to start her 'The Night-Side of Nature, or Ghosts and Ghost Seers' of 1848.
Recently discovered Catherine, would love to have known her. Strange fact: In February 1854, she was discovered naked in Edinburgh one night, convinced that spirits had rendered her invisible.
#CatherineCrowe #ghoststories #christmasghoststories #reading
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The Fangoria interview is available now.
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A Warning to the Curious (Lawrence Gordon Clark, 1972)
#A Warning to the Curious#Lawrence Gordon Clark#1972#Ghost Story for Christmas#Clive Swift#Peter Vaughan#TV show#BBC#TV series#long shot#nature#sea#water
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BBC's Ghost Stories for Christmas: Lost Hearts (1973)
#ghost stories for christmas#lost hearts#1970s#m. r. james#bbc's ghost stories for christmas#b&w#my edit#gif
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youtube
Hello darlings. My one wish for the world, on this day and every day, is Peace. There isn't anything I can write here that I haven't already said in my books, as my books are aching, yearning hopes for a kinder and more beautiful world; ghosts and all. And on this day in particular, I like to share this segment from MISS VIOLET AND THE GREAT WAR (set in my Strangely Beautiful universe) which features The Christmas Truce of World War I, a real historic event. May you find transcendence in the year ahead. Blessings - Leanna
#merry christmas#historical facts#historical fiction#historical fantasy#book reading#books and reading#authors of tumblr#christmas truce#gothic fiction#gaslamp fantasy#christmas wishes#peace#christmas ghost#christmas ghost stories#strangelybeautiful#missvioletandthegreatwar#misspercyparker#peaceonearth#Youtube
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