Sinister Scribblings - Volume 1 Read online

  Mobile phone applications can be used to give the child the impression that Father Christmas is calling, to check up on them. Another ingenious invention allows the parent to send an email – yes, please stay with me – from the North Pole and from the jolly fat man himself, informing the child whether or not they have made the correct list. Most parents will actually orchestrate a message to their child, letting them think that they have been assigned to the naughty list, in a feeble attempt to keep their little ones from bouncing off the walls during the advent period.

  It’s all good, harmless fun … isn’t it?

  No.

  What if I was to tell you that there is a naughty list? The naughty list is very real, and the truth is much more sinister. The man who controls the names on this list is actually doing the world a favour.

  For the sake of this story, he could be a jolly fat man. For the sake of this story he could have a big white beard. He could even have several flying reindeer and a magical sleigh. He doesn’t, but what’s more important; he has a list and he has a Christmas gift. His gift is that he has the ability to look into the hearts of children, ignoring the mild petulance and naughtiness. He can spot the really mean ones, the ones with real darkness in their hearts, and the ones with tainted souls, long before they flourish.

  He is often misinterpreted, but, as I have previously mentioned, he is actually doing the world a favour. He is taking care of these evil souls before they have the chance to do any real damage. For the sake of this story, we could call the jolly fat man Santa, but the correct spelling is slightly different.

  It’s actually spelled Satan.

  *****

  Little Jimmy Paskin was twelve-years-old, one year away from reaching an all important milestone in his life; becoming a teenager, a defining moment in any boy’s life.

  Jimmy was naughty. He wasn’t naughty in the respect of running on the grass where the sign prohibited, or kicking a ball through a church window. Jimmy was naughty in the respect of bashing his pet mice’ heads in with his dad’s ball paned hammer through sheer boredom, or stealing the collection money from the plate when forced to attend church.

  Despite his obvious bad behaviour, his parents treated him like the little prince that he wasn’t. Jimmy was a gift from God in their eyes, as, thirteen years ago, his mother was told she would never be able to bear children.

  Yet here he was, a little miracle.

  During his initial stay at the hospital the midwife had joked that she should change his admission number to six-six-six, due to his continual squealing and crying when most of the maternity ward attempted to sleep. She also joked that she'd not laid eyes on such a sick child, not since watching that film about a young girl that becomes possessed by a demon.

  We were just waiting for his head to spin.

  Despite his bad behaviour, Jimmy was a child. When the Christmas season arrived, he looked forward to it like the rest of his school class. I would have said like the rest of his friends, but Jimmy was pretty much a loner.

  He was a loner through his own choice; he just didn’t interact with other children well. The fact that he would often berate or freak his peers out with his odd behaviour just added to his solitude. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Jimmy sat outside the school assembly hall at the little wooden desk, scratching his name into the surface with the tip of a compass. The sound of joyful children’s voices singing Christmas hymns floated through the air from inside the hall. Jimmy had been kicked out of the service by the head teacher, when he pulled a stunt on stage that resulted in the back row of the fifth-year male choir collapsing backwards, resulting in a heap of twisted arms, legs and cheap choir dresses.

  Sitting at the desk, and for no other reason than morbid curiosity, he decided to stab his finger with the point of the compass. He cursed at his stupidity and thrust the tip of his index finger into his mouth to soak up the drops of blood that followed.

  With the hymns still emanating from within the assembly hall, his thoughts once again turned to Christmas and the conversation with his parents that had taken place about a month ago. Mother had called him down from his bedroom. After being called another four times, he shuffled his way into the living room where his parents were sat.

  “What do you want Mom? I’m busy,” he snapped.

  “Well, your father and I are just discussing what you would like for Christmas."

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno.”

  “Well, surely there must be something that you would like Santa to bring you?”

  The boy huffed. “Santa? Come on, Mom, I’m twelve. I know that Santa isn’t real."

  “Well, if he’s not real, who brings you all of your presents on Christmas Eve?”

  The boy looked at the woman scornfully before replying impassively, “Whatever. Can I have an air rifle?”

  The woman looked towards her husband nervously, recalling when she had found the dead mice in his room. The boy had had offered no explanation and claimed that he had found them that way after school.

  “Sweetie, what do you want to do with an airgun?”

  “You know? Shoot stuff.”

  “I think perhaps you’re a little too young for an airgun this year,” his father added. “Perhaps we could get you a new laptop, or a new mountain bike since yours was stolen?”

  Jimmy thought back to him reporting his missing bike to his parents; in reality, he had sold it a few months ago so that he could have some cash. He totally expected his parents to buy him a new one. Much to his astonishment, they had refused.

  “I want an airgun,” the boy hissed. “If you don’t get me an airgun, then don’t bother getting me anything at all." He then turned and stormed out of the living room, back up to his own bedroom.

  Lo and behold, Jimmy smiled in satisfaction a few weeks later when he spied his father signing for a delivery of an item that had been sent from a company called ‘Big Boys Toys.’

  The school bell rang, signalling the end of the day, the end of term, and the beginning of the Christmas holidays. Not hanging around to speak to the head teacher about any further form of punishment for his prank, Jimmy pulled on his coat, sprinted out of the doors and out of school, not glancing back.

  The following day, Jimmy was being dragged around the town centre by his mom, insisting that she needed to do some last-minute shopping. “Mom, couldn’t I have just stayed at home?” he grunted, shrugging his shoulders and dragging his feet.

  “No, sweetie,” she replied. “Besides, I told you that I wanted to take you to see Santa.”

  The boy groaned. “Oh, Mother, I’m twelve. I don’t want to see Santa. I know he doesn’t exist.”

  She ignored the boy’s plea and marched him on to the department store. Despite the store being extremely busy with the flurries of last minute shoppers, the crowds of people seemed to subside as Jimmy and his mom approached the grotto at the rear of the store. As they walked down the last corridor towards the grotto, the overhead lights dimmed and they spotted the entrance in the distance.

  They realised suddenly that there were no other people about at all. In the subdued light, the scene which had been made up to resemble a beautiful winter wonderland had more the appeal and look of a haunted forest. Life size wax models of elves and other Christmas animals stared back at them as they walked. Their dark, lifeless eyes leering like evil, macabre sprites. As they trod through the artificial snow that littered the ground, on the approach path to the grotto, the hustle and bustle from the store seemed to have disappeared into a distant background noise. Jimmy breathed and noticed that he could actually see his breath. He looked at his mom, who also appeared to be a little un-nerved.

  “I’m not so sure about this, Mom,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie," she replied, putting on a brave face. "There’s nothing to be afraid of. Look, there’s no queue, we can go straight in.”

  The boy paused, unsure. After a few seconds, he followed the woman�
�s lead. They entered the grotto, the lights were even dimmer inside. The only illumination was courtesy of a few fairy lights that hung from the ceiling. They continued slowly down the gloomy corridor to a piece of green fabric that hung from the ceiling as a make-shift doorway. Next to it stood a cardboard sign with the word Santa, and his creepy looking smiley face scribbled in red marker.

  “They spared no expense at this place, did they?” he said.

  His mother called out nervously, "Hello?"

  After a few seconds, a voice came from the other side of the curtain.

  “Ho, ho, ho, please … come in.”

  They ducked through the entrance to a small room. Illuminated by red and green fairy lights. The sitting man was dressed in an ill-fitting, filthy Santa costume, complete with scruffy white training shoes with a familiar logo. A fake, fluffy white beard hung from his face, and he wore lopsided glasses that appeared to be held together with sticky tape.

  “Merry Christmas,” the man bellowed. "Please, come and take a seat. His left hand gestured to two empty crates to his right, covered in white fabric. They both sat down.

  “So, what is your name?”

  “Aren’t you meant to be Santa,” Jimmy replied sarcastically. “Surely you should know my name by now.”

  The man’s eyes drew slightly narrower. “I have millions of girls and boys all around the world. Sometimes I just get a little confused,” he replied, as if reeling off a pre-defined answer to the question. Composing himself, he continued. “So, what are you hoping that Santa brings you this year?”

  Jimmy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

  “Have you been a good boy?”

  The boy shrugged his shoulders again, and lied. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Perfect," the man said. “You may take a present."

  The boy’s mother looked on in disbelief at the total lack of effort and time that the man had spent with them. Still, it was free and what did she really expect for nothing?

  “Thanks, Santa," she said before turning to duck back out of the room. Jimmy reached for the black bin liner that contained a pile of presents wrapped in cheap tatty Christmas paper. As he picked one up, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed him tightly by the wrist.

  The boy stared at the man, his features had changed. His eyes appeared darker, malevolent, brimming with hatred, Jimmy could feel the evil emanating from the man.

  “Ow,” he screamed, “let go, you’re hurting me.”

  The man held onto the boy’s wrist, his grip as tight as a vice. His dark eyes bore into the boy's own. Jimmy felt terrified.

  In a voice that was unlike anything the boy had heard before, a noise that sounded guttural and twisted, the man spoke. “You're on the naughty list.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You, little Jimmy Paskin, are on the naughty list,” the man repeated, his voice filled with vehemence.

  Suddenly, he let go of the boy's arm and Jimmy stumbled, dropping the present. He retreated from the room, taking careful steps backwards, not removing his eyes from the man.

  Suddenly, the man spoke, his voice had returned to normal. He waved. “Merry Christmas.”

  Jimmy turned and ran from the grotto. Catching up to his mother in blind panic. “You look as white as a sheet,” she said. "Are you alright?”

  “Yeah,” he lied, “let’s just go."

  Three days later, it was Christmas Eve.

  Jimmy sat in the living room watching Santa Claus: The Movie. It was a family tradition that his parents insisted on for years. He sat in silence and stared vacantly at the television screen, the film that he had seen many times before was just finishing up. He thought about the incident at the grotto over and over and put it down to his imagination running away with him. Glancing at the Christmas tree, he felt a sudden surge of excitement as he imagined waking up the next morning to find his new weapon in place.

  Could spend all day shooting birds.

  “Right then, son,” his dad said. “It's nine o' clock and time for bed. If you don’t go up now, he may not bring your presents.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “And don’t forget to put out some cookies and milk,” his mother called behind him.

  Jimmy went into the kitchen and prepared the food on his mother’s insistence. He grabbed a raw carrot for the reindeer from the pantry and placed the food on the dining table. Once done, he turned to head up towards his bedroom.

  “Good night, sweetie,” his mom called after him.

  His dad warned him on his ascent. “Straight to sleep, no getting back up.”

  Jimmy walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He knocked off the light and jumped into bed. He lay thinking about the Santa in the store and what he had said. He was convinced that it had been his imagination, however, his wrist had been sore for hours afterwards. After a restless hour or so, his eyelids drooped and he fell into a slumber.

  Jimmy woke up to a sound. He checked the digital clock on his alarm, it read 01:23. He listened, holding his breath, and he heard it again. It sounded like a footstep creaking on the stairs. His heart rate surged, each beat pounding against the inside of his chest, threatening to smash through his ribcage. Jimmy listened intently, another sound followed.

  It was definitely footsteps.

  Another creak of floorboards.

  Whoever it was, they had reached the top of the stairs, and the footsteps were continuing across the landing, creeping towards his door.

  “Dad?”

  No response came.

  “Mom?"

  Again, no response.

  From right outside his bedroom door came the noise of someone standing on a squeaking floor board. Then, nothing - total silence.

  “Hello,” he called out quietly. “Is anyone there?”

  No response came, the house fell into total silence once more.

  Throwing back his Zippy quilt cover, he swung his legs out of bed and crept to the door on his tip toes, the thick pile of the carpet soft below his foot falls. Placing his ear up against the back of the door, he listened intently. Jimmy heard nothing.

  Slowly, he grabbed the handle and turned. He opened the door slowly with a long creaking sound. As the doorway was fully exposed, he screamed. Stood before him was a huge figure, at least seven feet tall and dressed in a silky, blood red cowl that concealed his face behind a dark shadow. The landing was gone, in its place was a dark, filthy room, lined with slimy brickwork, illuminated by burning torches that hung from the walls. The scent of burning embers and decay filled the air.

  Stood swaying behind the figure were dozens of young boys, all about Jimmy’s age. They had been stripped to the waist, no shoes upon their feet. Their filthy bodies were covered with scars and scratches, their skin and lips a deep shade of grey. Their eyes were devoid of emotion, the sclera totally black as they stared vacantly. They waited patiently, like soulless drones.

  The figure held out a scrolled weathered piece of parchment, scribed in red ink. In the same handwriting as the sign in the grotto, his name was clearly written.

  Jimmy Paskin.

  Without a chance to react, the figure grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him into the room. The boy screamed out in pain as the figure’s white hot grip burned through his flesh, immediately making his skin blister and melt. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Jimmy’s parents awoke before eight on Christmas morning.

  His dad pulled on the fake Santa outfit, one he wore every year. He buckled up his belt, shoving fake padding down the front of the costume and adjusted the fake beard.

  “Ho ho ho,” he said cheerily as he led his wife towards Jimmy’s bedroom.

  When they opened the door, they found nothing but an empty bed.

  Satan’s Little Helper

  Jack Scott was a man who had it all.

  He had youthful good looks - his slim, handsome facial features made him look younger than his thirty-seven years of a
ge, and always of appeal to the opposite sex. His jet-black hair was always perfectly styled and gelled in a neat parting. He had high, prominent cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and a strong chiselled chin speckled with downy, designer stubble. Behind his thin, smooth lips were a perfect set of white teeth. His deep, emerald-coloured eyes portrayed a real sense of openness and trust – ironically, two traits that Jack didn’t possess. Jack was shallow, selfish, and all about life’s material possessions.

  In addition to the appealing appearance, he had a perfectly toned body - wide shoulders, a defined, muscular chest, strong arms and a slim waist. His exclusive membership to the gym that he attended five times a week saw that he was in peak physical condition. He had the job – a businessman who bought, sold and rented real estate for a private firm. He liked to consider himself as ruthless as could be, often joking that he made Alan Sugar look like a teddy bear, a resemblance that he had proven recently whilst serving eviction notices to three of the families on his books. He had heard all the excuses going; dim-witted single mothers spending the rent arrears, claiming that they refused for their kids to wake up on Christmas day with no presents.

  Now they were likely to wake up on Christmas day in a cardboard box.

  It was harsh, he understood that, but he was the top dog within his company; his proven track record had led to him earning the highest levels of commission every month, which, in turn, helped provide the luxury lifestyle to which he was accustomed. Jack was a loner, he considered his lack of friends and blamed it on his aggressive business manner, claiming that he didn’t need personal company. He was happy to womanise and have a continual string of one night stands, never settling down into any type of stable relationship.

  Jack stared down at the dregs of the amber liquid in the bottom of his tumbler. He swished the alcohol around the glass. With the sticky contents coating the sides, he took a deep swig, downing the contents in one. He grimaced as the drink burned his throat.