Christmas Tales of Terror Read online

  For Ian

  Contents

  1 The Green Man

  2 The Musical Box

  3 The Snowman

  4 Frost

  5 In the Bleak Midwinter

  6 Soot

  7 The Last Present

  The Dead of Winter

  More Tales of Terror

  Mister Creecher

  About the Author

  1

  The Green Man

  Stephen Levenson stood for some time looking at the house at the end of the long, tree-lined drive. It was the view he always pictured when he was at school, thinking of the Christmas holidays. But since his father’s death three years before, it was tinged with sadness.

  Woodehouse End was as lovely as ever, with its high gables and ornate brick chimneys, from which tall columns of smoke rose into the cold, grey sky. It had always been more his father’s house than his mother’s, and it even seemed to have something of his father’s combination of quietude and confidence.

  Stephen took a moment to remember how life used to be before his father died – and before his mother had remarried. He thought of these times fondly and without bitterness. He had adjusted to the new state of things with the good grace he knew his father would have expected of him. Besides, he was away at school most of the time.

  Stephen took a deep breath of chill air and set off up the gravel drive.

  ‘Why, Master Stephen!’ cried Elspeth, the parlourmaid, when she opened the front door. ‘We wasn’t expecting you till three.’

  ‘I caught an earlier train,’ said Stephen.

  ‘You should have called. Mr James would have fetched you from the station.’

  ‘It’s all right. I like the walk.’

  ‘Madam will be pleased,’ Elspeth went on. ‘’T ain’t Christmas till you come, sir.’

  Stephen smiled. It was good to be home.

  ‘Well, are you going to let me in, Elspeth?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Is Mother about?’

  Elspeth took his coat and bag.

  ‘She’s in the hall, Master Stephen, decorating the tree. You should see it, sir. It’s a giant!’

  ‘You say that every year, Elspeth,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Well, this year it’s truer than ever,’ she replied, as she walked away with his bag.

  Stephen had to admit that the tree was indeed enormous. His mother was looking up at Hills, the butler, who was teetering precariously atop a tall stepladder.

  ‘No, no,’ Stephen’s mother was saying. ‘A little to the left.’

  ‘If he goes any further to the left, Mother,’ said Stephen, ‘poor Hills will fall and break his neck.’

  ‘Stephen!’ said his mother loudly, making Hills wobble even more and drop the bauble he had been trying to hang. It shattered into a thousand glittering fragments.

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ said Hills.

  ‘Never mind,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Come down, come down. I think that will probably do in any case.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Hills, the relief evident in his voice. ‘I’ll get Elspeth to clear this up.’

  Mrs Levenson turned to her son and put her hands to either side of his face.

  ‘It’s so lovely to have you home,’ she said. ‘You’re freezing, Stephen. Get yourself by the fire.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ he said. ‘Please don’t fuss.’

  ‘Your father will be so pleased to see you.’

  Stephen did not respond. He was not willing to join in with his mother’s new conceit of calling his stepfather his father, but neither did he want to argue with her or upset her unnecessarily. It was Christmas.

  ‘You’ve gone rather overboard with the greenery,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ his mother replied, clasping her hands together. ‘Lady Fairlove’s house was full of green leaves last Christmas and it looked marvellous. I can’t think why we’ve never done it before.’

  Stephen shook his head in amazement. Swathes of ivy coiled up the banisters of the stairs and round the frames of the paintings on the walls. It wound round lamps and chairs and table legs and was pinned to architraves.

  Wreaths of holly hung from every door and bunches of it had been strewn on shelves and ledges and gathered together with yew branches in vases and jugs. Every windowsill was decked with great clumps of leaves and berries.

  ‘Your father gathered it all,’ his mother added. ‘It took him an age, but you know how persistent he is.’

  Stephen smiled. His stepfather was not such a bad sort, but persistence could not be counted among his most obvious characteristics. His main goal in life seemed to be to avoid any kind of confrontation with his wife, so Stephen was convinced that most of this alleged ‘persistence’ came from her. He was positive that, left to his own devices, his stepfather would have happily made do with a few sprigs here and there.

  ‘But where did it all come from?’ asked Stephen. ‘I can’t think there is a corner of our land that’s untidy enough to supply such a crop.’

  Stephen noticed that his mother suddenly seemed a little nervous.

  ‘From Freya’s Hill,’ she said airily.

  Stephen stared at her and she looked away, adjusting one of the vases of holly.

  ‘Freya’s Hill?’ said Stephen. ‘But you know that Father forbade anyone from –’

  ‘You have a new father now, Stephen,’ said his mother. ‘And he isn’t quite so superstitious.’

  ‘Father respected the –’

  ‘Respect?’ his mother said crossly. ‘Do not use that word in relation to such heathen practices.’

  Stephen’s mother had taken solace in the Church after his father had died and Stephen had the distinct impression that she had begun to believe that her late husband’s interest in folklore and magic might have contributed to his early death. She would never have voiced this opinion to Stephen, but he felt it was there in the background, always. Stephen’s goodwill began to ebb.

  ‘If you think them heathen, Mother,’ he said, ‘why bring green leaves into the house at all? Surely that is heathen. It has nothing to do with Christianity, after all.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said.

  ‘How is it nonsense?’ said Stephen.

  ‘Well, the wreaths of holly represent the crown of thorns and the berries the drops of blood.’

  ‘Mother,’ Stephen said, shaking his head. ‘You know full well that –’

  ‘I won’t debate with you, Stephen,’ she said, waving him away as though he were a wasp. ‘You and your father were always too clever for me.’

  Yes, thought Stephen. Father was always too clever for you. That’s why you chose such an amiable fool for your new husband.

  And just as he thought that, Stephen’s stepfather walked into the hall.

  ‘Stephen!’ he cried with a grin. ‘Good to have you home, my boy.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ said Stephen. ‘Mother was just telling me how you collected all this holly and ivy.’

  ‘No “sir”, boy,’ said his stepfather. ‘No need for all that. Yes – the greenery. Scratched myself to ribbons on brambles, don’t you know, but wouldn’t let that stop me. Once I get started on something . . .’

  Stephen bit his lip. It’s Christmas, he told himself again. He smiled and said that he really ought to go up to his room and unpack. As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back down, past the tree and the swathes of ivy, at his mother and stepfather standing talking below. It was almost like looking down into a forest glade.

  Stephen wondered what his father would have made of it all. He suspected that he would have found it ridiculous rather than annoying, and so Stephen tried to embrace that idea himself, as
he closed the door to his room and wallowed in the peaceful embrace of the familiar, of the unchanged.

  The following day was Christmas Eve, when Stephen’s parents had always held a festive lunch, and the tradition continued – although the make-up of those attending had changed somewhat since his father’s death.

  For one thing, far more of the guests were female. Stephen’s mother invited several ladies from the watercolour society she had founded years before, as well as members of the committee of the amateur dramatic and operatic clubs she was part of. Looking round the table, Stephen could see that the only men, in fact, were Reverend Ashcroft, Stephen’s stepfather and Doctor Meadows.

  Doctor Meadows was the one person who could be counted as a close friend of Stephen’s late father. Doctor Meadows, like Stephen’s father, was an amateur antiquarian. They had both shared a fascination with folklore and ancient history, and had written a book together about a barrow they had excavated at the far end of the village many years earlier. Doctor Meadows was in the process of writing another about the customs and traditions of the local area.

  It was not long before the subject of the greenery came up at dinner. Stephen’s stepfather was telling Mrs Darnley, who ran the post office in the village, in great detail, how he had gathered the holly and ivy for the decorations. Mrs Darnley listened with polite indifference until he mentioned the source of the foliage.

  ‘And you say you took it from Freya’s Hill?’ she said, a little aghast. Those nearby stopped their conversations to listen.

  ‘Yes,’ said his stepfather, oblivious to her tone. ‘Spooky kind of a place.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Darnley. ‘I wouldn’t go up there for all the tea in China. It’s . . . Well, it’s . . .’

  Mrs Darnley struggled to find a suitable word.

  ‘I think it’s rather fascinating,’ said Reverend Ashcroft.

  Stephen’s mother frowned. She had always thought Reverend Ashcroft far too liberal.

  ‘Really, Reverend?’ she said. ‘I would have thought the Church would take a dim view of such things. You know the villagers still go up there and leave things at the stones, when they want a baby or some such. It’s shocking.’

  Reverend Ashcroft smiled.

  ‘I don’t find it so. God made the trees and the stones and everything we know. A worship of nature is, after all, a worship of God and all his works.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Well, I’m not sure the devil isn’t involved. It all smacks of witchcraft to me.’

  ‘Witchcraft?’ the vicar replied. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  ‘We need to be on our guard,’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Every time we fail to act against these blasphemies, the devil moves a little closer.’

  ‘I hope we have moved on,’ said Doctor Meadows, ‘from the days of persecuting anything we do not understand. Those people are no more agents of the devil than you or I, Beatrice. They may be foolish, but I don’t think they’re evil.’

  Stephen’s mother pursed her lips but said nothing.

  ‘But I’m afraid you have made an error taking that greenery from Freya’s Hill,’ the doctor continued, with a frown. ‘It won’t go down at all well in the village.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Nonsense. My late husband used to pander to that sort of thing, but no more. Freya’s Hill is part of our land. Those people are trespassing! How dare they tell us what we can do on our own property!’

  Stephen looked to the urn on the mantelpiece that contained his father’s ashes. He missed him so much.

  ‘Strange to say,’ said Stephen’s stepfather, ‘there was a chap watching me while I gathered the stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ said the vicar. ‘Someone from the village?’

  Stephen’s stepfather settled back in his chair.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think so. He was trying to scare me, I reckon. Did a fair job as a matter of fact, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Scare you?’ said the vicar. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen’s stepfather, ‘he was always at the edge of my vision, you know. Whenever I turned to face him, he ducked out of sight.’

  ‘You never mentioned this to me,’ said Stephen’s mother, with an arch of her eyebrow.

  ‘Only remembered it now,’ said Stephen’s stepfather. ‘I thought several times of packing up and leaving, but once I start something I see it through, by George. I had my twelve-bore in the cart, so I knew I was safe enough should things get to that.

  ‘In any case, I felt confident he wasn’t going to physically attack me, that he was only observing. He wasn’t going to stop me, though I’m convinced he would have dearly liked to. It was as if he was almost daring me to carry on. Ha! It all sounds like poppycock now I think about it.’

  ‘Maybe he was trying to warn you,’ suggested Doctor Meadows.

  ‘Threaten you, more like,’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘It’s outrageous! Do you see why we must make a stand against this sort of thing, Reverend? I shall bring it up at the next Parish Council meeting.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Doctor Meadows.

  Stephen noted the tone of utter seriousness in the doctor’s voice. Stephen’s mother noted it too, and though she coloured slightly and pursed her lips, she let the matter drop.

  ‘Don’t want to upset the natives, eh?’ said Stephen’s stepfather, with a wink.

  The doctor smiled weakly and took another sip of port. Stephen had the distinct impression that Doctor Meadows felt that the damage had already been done.

  ‘People can still hold the most bizarre beliefs very dear,’ the Reverend said. ‘I rather think Doctor Meadows is right. Best not to cause unnecessary offence. I remember when I was at the mission on the shores of Lake Victoria . . .’

  The vicar began one of his extended anecdotes about his time in Africa, but Stephen was not listening. He was thinking how long it had been since he had last visited Freya’s Hill.

  The light was fading as Stephen crossed the top meadow. It never felt like much of a climb, but away to his left he could see the village and the river winding into the misty distance. Ahead of him, across rough ground pitted with rabbit burrows and mole hills, lay Freya’s Hill.

  There was a stone wall running all round the top of the hill, enclosing the trees of the wood and the circle of stones that stood among them. The wall was green with moss.

  Stephen’s father said that the patch of land within the wall must have lain undisturbed like that for centuries, as each owner of the land had let it be. His father had spoken in a reverential hush, as though they had been standing in a church. Stephen had always been a little frightened of the place.

  He put his foot on a stone that stood out enough from the wall to give him some purchase, and lifted himself up to see over. He came to a sudden halt as he saw a movement in the bushes.

  He peered in. Nothing. No – there it was again. But no . . . Every time he turned to look, he saw nothing but the trees and the standing stones: some dark, beshadowed, others pale and frost-coated.

  Movement again, out of the corner of his eye. And again. It had to be the man his stepfather was talking about. It was just as he had said. Every time Stephen looked, the man was gone.

  ‘I say!’ called Stephen, trying to sound as assertive as he could. ‘Who’s there?’

  There was no response, but the movements did not stop. Whoever it was, they were still there. Stephen’s nerve was already going. He was sure that their presence and the animosity Stephen could sense must have something to do with the greenery his stepfather had taken.

  ‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ said Stephen. ‘About the ivy and so on. My stepfather meant no harm. He didn’t realise.’

  Again there was no response.

  Stephen took one last look at the stones and then climbed down, striding across the top meadow, suddenly eager to be back in the house. He had a horrible sensation of the trees and brambles re
aching out to him across the wall.

  Taking off his muddy boots by the back door and changing into his slippers, he walked through the hall and heard the click of billiard balls. He found his stepfather and Doctor Meadows deeply involved in their game, the doctor about to take a shot, his cue arm rather unsteady.

  There was a bottle of brandy on the table and both men seemed more than a little intoxicated. Doctor Meadows had always enjoyed his drink, but, since retiring, this tendency had become far more noticeable.

  Neither man spotted Stephen in the doorway and Stephen carried on to the drawing room, where he found his mother reading by the fire.

  ‘Stephen,’ she said. ‘There you are. I don’t like you walking about in the dark.’

  ‘It’s not dark, Mother,’ said Stephen, but looking out of the window he saw that it very nearly was.

  ‘Where did you go, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, not far,’ said Stephen. ‘Any grub, Mama?’

  She frowned.

  ‘You know I don’t like that sort of slang, Stephen. Cook will give you something. We’ve already had supper.’

  She dropped her voice to a whisper.

  ‘I rather think we may be having Doctor Meadows to breakfast,’ she said. ‘I can’t send him home in his state. You would think a medical man would have more restraint.’

  ‘Doctor Meadows is a good man,’ said Stephen. ‘Remember how kind he was when Father was ill.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t say he wasn’t, Stephen,’ she said, closing her book, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I remember only too well how . . .’

  Stephen leaned forward and hugged her.

  ‘I know you do, Mama,’ he said.

  As anticipated, Doctor Meadows was in no state to go home, and Stephen’s mother made up a spare bed for him, the servants having all been given the night off.

  Stephen wished the doctor goodnight as he passed his room on the way to his own, and the doctor waved by way of response as he struggled to get his shoes off.

  Stephen was asleep almost immediately and fell to dreaming just as quickly. He was back on Freya’s Hill, peering over the wall again. Except this time he felt he really could see someone there in the shadows.