Christmas Tales of Terror Read online

  The vicar was delighted with the money for the roof and called the boys his ‘angels’, but was then astonished to hear that each and every one of them was leaving the choir. When he asked why, Simon explained that they had all lost their taste for singing – overnight.

  Simon Littleton could never abide to hear carols sung for the rest of his life, and it only took a few notes of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ to send him into a gibbering fit.

  6

  Soot

  Elizabeth Farmer wished they were back at home. She simply could not understand why they had to spend Christmas here at all. Just because her aunt and uncle had bought this stupid house, she didn’t see why they were supposed to get excited about it.

  For months now, she had suffered letter after letter being read out by her mother, telling her every unwanted detail about the purchase and the rebuilding work.

  Farthing Lodge had been deserted and dilapidated, and though it had been very cheap because of the state it was in, her aunt and uncle had been forced to spend a fortune on the renovation. The work had gone on and on, but they had absolutely insisted that it be completed in time for Christmas. They had only moved in a few days before and, to celebrate, they had invited Elizabeth and her parents to stay with them for the festivities.

  It was true, the house was very grand – much grander than Elizabeth’s own – but although the structural work was complete, not all the rooms had been made entirely habitable, and this meant that she was having to share a bedroom with her cousin.

  Theresa was not so bad as cousins went, but she was four years younger than Elizabeth. It was monstrous that she should be forced to share a room with someone so young. Even so, complain as she might, she was told in no uncertain terms that there was no choice in the matter.

  So it was that Elizabeth Farmer awoke on Christmas Eve to find her Cousin Theresa standing at the fireplace in their bedroom.

  ‘Look at the mess that Father Christmas has made,’ said Theresa as Elizabeth climbed out of bed and went to stand beside her.

  There certainly was a lot of soot and pieces of what Elizabeth thought must be mortar lying on the hearth and the rug. She vaguely remembered hearing strange noises in the chimney during the night.

  ‘Father Christmas doesn’t come until tonight, silly,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘That’s what I thought. But there you are.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s been before,’ whispered Theresa.

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Shhh!’ said Theresa. ‘It’s a secret.’

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  ‘I wonder how Father Christmas could fit down the chimney,’ said Theresa, kneeling down and peering inside. ‘It’s awfully small.’

  ‘I expect he wears a corset,’ said Elizabeth, stifling a yawn, ‘for smaller chimneys.’

  Theresa giggled at the word ‘corset’ and stood up, smiling brightly. At the sound of voices, Elizabeth announced that it was time to go downstairs for breakfast.

  ‘Good morning, girls,’ said her Aunt Judith, as they walked into the dining room. ‘Merry Christmas!’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Aunt Judith,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Merry Christmas, Mama.’

  Elizabeth went across to her mother and kissed her. Theresa went and did the same to her mother.

  ‘Theresa, really!’ said Aunt Judith with a chuckle. ‘Have you washed this morning?’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said.

  ‘Lying is a sin, Theresa,’ chided her mother. ‘You have a great sooty mark on your face. It astonishes me how a young lady can get quite so grubby, so quickly, Theresa. Look at your cousin there – spotless as always.’

  Elizabeth smiled, although Aunt Judith had a way of making all her compliments sound as though there was a hint of criticism behind them. She had noticed the soot mark on her cousin’s cheek but had not felt the need to point it out. Well, if the silly girl would go looking up chimneys.

  ‘I think it must have been Father Christmas,’ said Theresa. ‘When he kissed me.’

  Aunt Judith and Elizabeth’s mother both laughed their Isn’t-she-adorable? laugh and Elizabeth sighed.

  ‘Off you trot, young lady,’ said Aunt Judith. ‘No breakfast until that face is clean.’

  Theresa scowled and flounced out of the room with her nose in the air. Aunt Judith looked at Elizabeth and shook her head. They both laughed again.

  ‘How did you sleep, my dear?’ asked Aunt Judith.

  ‘Not very well, Aunt, I’m afraid,’ said Elizabeth, stifling another yawn. ‘I think there are birds nesting in your chimney.’

  Elizabeth’s uncle walked in with her father.

  ‘What’s that? Birds nesting?’ Uncle Gregory said with a smile, patting her on the head. ‘Not this time of year, sweet pea. Squirrels, maybe?’

  Elizabeth flicked her hair back into place.

  ‘Oh, it’s not rats, I hope,’ Aunt Judith sighed.

  ‘It’s not rats, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘You’re always talking about rats. Stop worrying.’

  ‘We had terrible trouble with rats when we first moved in,’ explained Aunt Judith.

  Rats! Elizabeth shuddered. The very idea! How she wanted to go home. She hated rats.

  ‘Probably just the wind, Lizzie,’ said her father, seeing his daughter’s worried face.

  She clamped her lips together and flared her nostrils. How she hated to be called Lizzie. Her father only ever called her that when there were other people about. It was as though he was deliberately setting out to annoy her.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t the wind, Daddy, because –’

  ‘So,’ said Uncle Gregory loudly. ‘Who’s for breakfast? Ah – here she is!’

  Theresa re-entered the room and was lifted up by her father and given a hug and a kiss.

  ‘Good morning, darling!’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Papa!’ she said. ‘I made you a lovely present yesterday but I can’t tell you what it is because it’s a surprise till tomorrow.’

  More Isn’t-she-adorable? chuckles from Elizabeth’s aunt and mother, and more sighing from Elizabeth herself.

  ‘It wasn’t the wind,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘What was that, sweet pea?’ said her uncle.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Elizabeth sullenly.

  Elizabeth was surprised to discover that Christmas Eve at Farthing Lodge was not quite the circle of hell she had expected it to be.

  Try as she might to resist it, she soon succumbed to the festive atmosphere her uncle and aunt created. Though she tried to remain annoyed about having to share a room with Theresa, as the day went on she began, despite her best intentions, to enjoy herself.

  Lunch had been, by everyone’s agreement, the very best meal that any of them had ever tasted, and Elizabeth’s mother declared that the treacle pudding was so light, she was forced to eat it to stop it flying away.

  In the afternoon they played game after game, and consumed mince pie after mince pie, until eventually they all slumped exhausted by the fire, and Uncle Gregory read them stories from The Jungle Books.

  Later, while the grown-ups played whist, Elizabeth helped Theresa make a jigsaw. The picture showed a farmyard scene with chickens and pigs and horses. The pieces were very large and the jigsaw very easy, but Elizabeth rather enjoyed doing it.

  ‘It was Father Christmas,’ said Theresa, as they tried to find the top of the barn.

  ‘What was?’ said Elizabeth. ‘Look – here it is!’

  ‘Who left that sooty mark,’ whispered Theresa. ‘He kissed me on the cheek. He always does.’

  Elizabeth smiled.

  ‘Might it not have happened when you looked up the chimney?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Theresa. ‘I was very careful.’

  ‘Well, did he look like he does in the pictures?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Theresa. ‘You aren’t allowed to look at Father Christmas, else he won’t bring you pres
ents. I’ve never looked at him any of the times he’s come down the chimney.’

  ‘How many times has he been?’ said Elizabeth with a giggle.

  ‘Every night since we moved in,’ said Theresa. ‘So . . .’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Six times. He’s come six times.’

  ‘Six! You must have lots of presents, then.’

  ‘Well, actually, he hasn’t left any yet.’ Theresa sighed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll leave them tonight,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes,’ Theresa said. ‘I feel so sorry for him, though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s so very cold.’

  Elizabeth’s mother chuckled to herself upon hearing this last snippet and smiled at Elizabeth as the two girls got on with their jigsaw.

  By the time Elizabeth had eaten her cold supper of a ham sandwich and piece of pork pie, she was very tired. She didn’t even mind being sent to bed at the same time as Theresa. It would take more than that to dent her good mood. Besides, they were only there another day and night. She would survive. And, best of all, she was almost certain that for Christmas her mother had bought her the lovely green velvet dress she had begged for.

  Elizabeth’s mother hugged her at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘That was very sweet of you, dear,’ she said, ‘to play so nicely with Theresa. I had to stop myself bursting out laughing when she talked about Father Christmas being so cold. Oh my. The young have such vivid imaginations.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Goodnight, darling,’ said her father, coming and kissing her on the top of the head.

  The two girls hung their stockings from nails banged into the mantelpiece and then climbed into bed. Aunt Judith tucked her daughter in and kissed her on the forehead. She did the same to Elizabeth as she passed her bed.

  ‘Goodnight, Aunt,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Goodnight to you, dear child,’ she said. ‘Christmas Day tomorrow! Now straight off to sleep, you two. No chatting. Father Christmas won’t come to little girls who chat.’

  There was no danger of that. Theresa was asleep before Aunt Judith reached the bottom of the stairs – asleep and happily snoring.

  Elizabeth pulled the covers over her head and thought of her lovely new dress, and how jealous Isabel Fullerton would be when she saw it. And, with such pleasing thoughts in her head, she drifted off to sleep.

  In her dream, Isabel grabbed her arm and began to shake her quite hard. It was not the reaction Elizabeth had hoped for and she awoke to discover Theresa standing by her bed.

  ‘He’s coming,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ said Elizabeth, blinking and trying to adjust her eyes to the gloom.

  Then she heard it too. The same noise as the night before. In the chimney. A rustling.

  ‘Father Christmas isn’t coming yet, Theresa,’ said Elizabeth with a sigh. ‘It’s too early. Go back to bed. You don’t want him to catch you still awake, do you?’

  ‘But, Lizzie –’

  ‘Never call me that!’ hissed Elizabeth.

  Even in that poor light she could see Theresa’s lip was beginning to tremble. Elizabeth resisted the urge to slap her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Elizabeth stiffly. ‘I shouldn’t have been cross with you. But I’m very tired. Please go back to sleep. Father Christmas won’t come while you’re awake.’

  Theresa did not move. Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to ignore her.

  ‘Can I sleep with you? I’m scared of the noise.’

  ‘A minute ago you said it was Father Christmas,’ Elizabeth replied.

  ‘But you said it isn’t,’ said Theresa. ‘If it isn’t him, what is it?’

  There was another little outbreak of rustling in the chimney, louder this time.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Elizabeth, throwing back the bedclothes.

  Elizabeth wasn’t at all keen on those noises either, and, if she was being completely honest with herself, she was grateful to have the company. Rats! Elizabeth shuddered again.

  Theresa climbed into Elizabeth’s bed and, following a short negotiation over space and blanket, the two girls settled down to sleep.

  After what seemed like only a few minutes, Elizabeth awoke again with a start. She sat up and stared at the hearth as soot began to fall in little puffs, with small pieces of plaster pinging against the metalwork of the grate. Theresa snored contentedly, oblivious.

  ‘Rats,’ said Elizabeth to herself, with a little whimper. She tried to nudge Theresa awake, but to no effect.

  Suddenly there was a soft thud as something landed in the fire basket and then rolled out on to the hearth in a cloud of soot. As Elizabeth stared in wide-eyed incredulity, a figure rose up next to the stockings hanging on the mantelpiece.

  It was Father Christmas! Theresa was right. Elizabeth closed her eyes as he turned round. It couldn’t really count that she had seen him from the back. She snuggled under her covers, grinning to herself.

  She strained her ears to hear him moving, but she could hear nothing at all. She waited and waited . . . but eventually could not wait any longer. Rolling back the covers, she cautiously peeked out.

  Standing beside her bed, only inches away, was a boy, his face and hands glowing blue against the darkness. He was a skinny, sad-looking figure covered in soot, but impossibly pale beneath that grubby coating. He held out his arms towards her.

  ‘S-s-s-so cold,’ he said, with a voice that sounded like wind in a chimney.

  Elizabeth screamed and screamed and she opened her mouth to scream again, but this time no sound emerged. Her heart clenched like a fist and she slumped across Theresa, who was screaming now herself as she woke to find herself looking into her cousin’s frozen, staring face.

  One day, many years later, Uncle Gregory arrived at his sister’s house to tell Elizabeth’s parents he had received a letter from his lawyer enclosing some rather interesting papers concerning Farthing Lodge.

  Uncle Gregory showed them letters and clippings detailing the sorry tragedy of a climbing boy who died at the house in the 1780s.

  A cruel and barbarous sweep – a common enough character in those less enlightened times – had tried to force the poor boy higher up the chimney, until the little fellow slipped, breaking his neck on a ledge and becoming jammed as he fell. According to the papers, he was dead by the time they prised him free and dragged him out.

  Elizabeth’s parents did not need to ask in which chimney the fatality was reported to have taken place.

  Farthing Lodge had been put on the market not long after the incident with Elizabeth – though, many years on, a buyer was still to be found. Theresa had refused to sleep there after that terrifying night.

  Elizabeth herself was never told about the sweep or the boy. There seemed little point. She had ceased to speak after that night, and had retreated into a world of her own. She would spend hours making jigsaws alone in her room, living in a self-imposed silence.

  Elizabeth was, in fact, a perfect picture of calm and peace. Unless, that is, she saw the smallest speck of soot. Oh, the screams there would be then!

  7

  The Last Present

  Miranda Butler yawned. She had forgotten how tiring the present-giving part of Christmas morning was. It was lovely to receive presents, but frightfully boring to have to wait patiently while other people opened theirs.

  ‘There’s one last present here that doesn’t have a name on it,’ said her brother, Ralph, as he crawled out from under the Christmas tree.

  ‘Does anyone recognise it?’ said Miranda’s mother.

  The present was poorly wrapped, the cheap paper not quite being held in place by some crudely knotted string. Blank faces greeted the question.

  ‘I think one of the servants must have put it there, then,’ said Miranda’s mother, putting a hand to her heart and smiling. ‘Gladys, perhaps. How sweet.’

  Miranda smiled as she saw her father roll his eyes.

/>   ‘Who’s going to open it, then?’ said Ralph.

  ‘Well, I suppose you should as you’re holding it,’ said his father.

  Ralph grinned and pulled the string and paper away and set the present down on the rug. It was a toy drummer boy, standing about a foot high. He wore a shirt with horizontal navy blue and white stripes, a pair of white trousers and a straw boater hat with a red band around it. The costume was grubby and stained, the hat rather battered.

  The drum was carried on a strap that looped over the boy’s shoulder and under his arm, and he held a drumstick in each hand. The drum was large and hung at an angle. It had a painting of a sailing ship on the side.

  The drummer boy was not at all attractive. His eyes were rather too real, staring in a frozen expression of wildness utterly out of keeping with his gloomy, downturned, red-painted mouth. The rest of his face was white, except for two large dots of red on his cheeks.

  ‘Well!’ said Miranda’s mother. ‘What an ugly fellow!’

  Miranda stared at it in confusion.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ asked her grandmother. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘It’s a toy,’ said Miranda’s mother, grimacing. ‘Some sort of drummer boy.’

  Miranda frowned. She had seen that drummer boy before; she was sure of it. Several days earlier, a pedlar had visited their home. She had thought it was a man when she came round the corner of the house with Ginny, their wolfhound. Ginny had barked furiously, making the figure turn at their approach.

  The pedlar was horrible and filthy, dressed in a huge overcoat that looked like the kind of thing a pirate might wear in bad weather. On her head – for Miranda realised that, despite the clay pipe and heavy riding boots, the pedlar was indeed a woman – she wore a wide-brimmed hat, her hair gathered into a matted pigtail behind.

  She had a cart, pulled by an old nag who looked on the verge of collapse. The cart was loaded down with a pile of disparate items – none of which Miranda could imagine anyone in their right mind would want – and one of these items was this very toy.