The Twelve Nightmares of the Holidays: To All a Good Night by J.M. Brannyk
In 2020, Haunted MTL brought you the 13 Days of Krampus. Now we offer another exclusive series of holiday horror stories: The Twelve Nightmares of the Holidays. It’s day (coughcoughcough) of 12 Nightmares of the Holidays. If you missed it, check out the others so far: here for Jen’s, here for Nicole’s and here for Phil’s.
This story takes place in the same universe as my other story, Meat Cute, but with new characters. I hope you enjoy.
Rude hated this time of year and also, hypocritically, loved it. He grew up loving it. The snow. The cold. The silence. The dark. The peaceful blinking of lights on pure, fresh mounds of snow. The way that blood would steam in the cold air, just like breath.
Christmas is a magical time.
It’s also the time where he feels the loneliest.
He really isn’t like these other two-bit serials out here on MONSTR – the dating app for the vile, the diabolic, and the creatures who go hump and bump in the night. And sure, he even had dated a few killer Kringles over the years.
But they were so egotistical and never had room or time on their slay-sleighs for Rude.
Rude was on his own.
Two weeks ago he had a horrible Yeti date that ended with a broken table, a few normies 6-feet under and a lifetime ban at Bennigans. It stung his pride, especially when the Yeti roared it should have eaten him for dinner instead of the overcooked steak, if he wasn’t such a freak.
Rude sighs, looking through the dating app. The people who are trying to get with him are abysmal. Bottom of the barrel. All Santas at the end of their rope or looking for an ironic kill.
Except one.
Not even a holiday-themed date.
A mothman.
Rude pauses. He’s into Yeti, sure. They have a lot of bulk, lots of fur. Even though the Santa body-type does drive him a bit wild, especially with a real beard to pull- hoo, boy.
But the profile seems a bit mysterious and Rude is starting his descent into desperation.
Finally he replies to the mothman.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to get a response back.
Rude reaches up to touch a pointed antler on his head in thought. He’s not sure. Sounds pretty hippy-dippy. Pretty pathetic. Chewing on a carrot, he considers his next steps, but then another ping alerts him.
Shifting uncomfortably, he types back.
It sounds…weird. Rude checks the clock. 8 P.M. on Christmas eve. And he’s alone.
His nose does that weird thing it does when he’s worried or excited, that flutter of life. Red and jittery like Morse code.
Fuck it. Life’s too short to be moping, right?
Directions were promptly sent.
***
The mothman is huge. Much bigger than Rude imagined. And built. Like, must do bench presses and sit ups every day – completely shredded.
And at first, Rude can’t help but be a bit disappointed by that. He likes, well, bellies that wiggle like a bowl full of jelly. He likes red and white – mothman is a deep black. He likes soft and round – mothman is sleek and gaunt. He likes a gay little twinkle and a loud, “Ho, ho, ho, you’ve been a very bad boy this year!”
Mothman is quiet, stoic. Still and solid like a wall, keeping the cold breeze off of Rude.
But the way mothman’s eyes glow red, hypnotic almost, like dual hearts beating in the empty sockets of his eyes…well, it’s a bit endearing, Rude admits.
They sit together in the woods.
Rude has no clue what’s going on.
He looks around for victims to kill, like maybe there’s a trap somewhere close by, but it seems like it’s just them. Them, the snow, the woods, the wind…and the moon.
A buttery, full moon which makes everything look pallid and sharp.
“You…are human?” Mothman asks, in very slow rumbling words.
“Oh.” Rude pauses. He usually doesn’t get this question from Santas. They understand it. Or maybe not. Maybe just act like they do. Maybe don’t care enough to understand it. “I was part of a genetic experiment. I was human. But now, I’m…not. I’m a freak hybrid.”
Mothman reacts in surprise. “No…you are you.”
“Oh, like, I meant that as a ‘let the freak flag fly, man.’ I don’t mind. In fact, I kind of signed up for it. I always wanted to be a part of Christmas, part of the whole naughty and nice. Who lives and who dies kind of thing. I just got the reindeer genetics, not the jolly fat man genetics. The down side, not the upside.”
Mothman tilts his head, a little like a dog trying to understand. “I don’t think Christmas…is about death…?”
Rude chuckles. “You’re grossly misinformed then. It’s all about life and death. About baby murder and the baby that was going to be murdered later on…plus, you know, my own folks. It just happens.”
He shrugs and his nose does the nervous flutter. It does that whenever he thinks about his parents, murdered on this very night, so many years ago.
“Oh, nose!” Mothman is transfixed.
“Yeah, that’s a side effect from the mutations, unfortunately. Weird glowing nose.” Rude is starting to realize it’s easy to talk to the mothman. He seems mellow. Live and let live, which is unusual for a monster. Usually Rude’s used to monsters like the Yetis, who yell and throw their weight and power around. But here’s the mothman, sitting beside him on a fallen tree, hunched over to be closer to Rude. Sheltering him from the cold like a gentleman.
“Nice…nose glow.” Mothman quietly murmurs and Rude’s nose shines brighter from that.
“Ha, ha, um…yeah. So, you like to kill for sport, leisure, pleasure?” He tries to change the subject, very aware of his nose now.
“I eat…nothing more…Blood comes from Earth…becomes Earth again. No more.” Mothman says quietly, and the rumble of his voice sounds like the movement of snow under your boots. Soft and constant. Lulling.
“Ah, yeah…” Rude says awkwardly, usually excited for the thrill of the hunt with other serials. But. But maybe this is fine, too.
He looks up at the moon, his breath curling into a mist. He’s never had a Christmas like this – slow, quiet, and thoughtful. The last few were an utter bloodbath of rage and testosterone. Of trying to find himself into places he didn’t fit and into relationships where he didn’t belong.
“I think I was angry for a while,” he offers, “Maybe I still am. I’m angry a lot at other people. How they can put away their serial clothes and be normal people. How monsters have their own community. I don’t have that. I just have myself, you know?
“And this time of year is always hard. I just keep looking for something, you know? When does Rudolph get his Christmas? When does he get to say, ‘I told you assholes so’? When do I get to be happy when everyone does it so easily-”
He doesn’t even realize Mothman creeping closer and closer until there he is, right there – one claw held up. And very carefully, with that outstretched claw, Mothman takes it and gently pokes the glowing red nose on Rude’s face. A soft, unexpected boop.
It’s such a silly and random gesture, Rude’s besides himself. Wide-eyed, he looks to the mothman, utterly bewildered. “The hell?”
“Nice…shiny nose.” Mothman murmurs softly. Shyly.
Oh…maybe…maybe Mothmen are drawn to lights?
Rudolph can’t help but laugh, the noise gliding over the bare trees and smooth snow of the forest. The mothman tilts his head again at the sound and he doesn’t smile, perhaps can’t, but there’s warmth there.
A warmth Rude hasn’t felt for…maybe most of his life.
“Hey,” he says with a chuckle, ”after we howl into the darkness, you want to get some hot chocolate and you can teach me Parcheesi?”
Very gently, the mothman touched his frozen claws to the warm human hand besides him and nodded slowly. His red eyes avoiding Rude’s gaze shyly.
And that Christmas, there were no missing children (although perhaps a few missing stray animals because one must eat), but a bond was formed. And hot chocolate was drunk. And Parcheesi was played poorly by two unlikely monsters on what started out as a lonely evening for both of them.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
You’ve seen me as Theda Bara, a Witch, and a Necromancer already (as well as Cleopatra, Elvis, and Andy Warhol) but here are some more fun costumes I’ve worn while figure modeling for the Friday morning art group at Hutchinson Art Center. The group is switching to Saturdays but hopefully I’ll still be able to make it in from time to time… Life’s a circus, or maybe a magic act in a shamanic ritual with Holly Hobbie… At any rate – beam me up Scotty, I have your missing spaceship part…
Yeah yeah, so none of that was really all that terrifying. Just another time warp in all honesty. At least there’s still some residual Rocky Horror vibes to be found, but then again, there usually are with me when I get into the identity based costumes.
But in follow up and in the spirit of so much of my other randomness, here’s a music video for Everything Changes by Eytan and The Embassy. Check it out if you want to see some more fun costumes in an immersive homage montage experience unlike any other. (If the video doesn’t load, just follow the link here.) See how many artists you can recognize in this quick change setup. Ready… Set… Go!
Here’s another view of Heaven in this twisted little afterlife story from Jennifer Weigel, titled All That Remains. Trigger warning: religious themes, suggestions of rape & murder.
I didn’t remember dying. I only vaguely remembered the thread of my life being weighed at the pearly gates. And now, here I was, in awe of the splendor of it all. I looked at the Heaven all around me. Everything was light and love. The sunlight sparkled off of the hills and valleys of the clouds, casting everything in a gossamer glow. Angelic faces shone with mirth and merriment from their depths. It was the most beautiful visage I had ever seen.
Until he showed up.
“Hey there, glad to see you made it,” Sebastian said. His words slithered off his tongue, just as they had during the trial. “I’m here to serve as your guide, to show you around Eternity.”
“But…” I stammered, looking at my feet. I still felt repulsed by him, couldn’t stand to look him in the eye. I wanted to strangle him, but I managed to tamp that feeling down by averting his gaze. “How did you get here?”
“I accepted Christ into my heart, just as you did. Isn’t it beautiful?” He grinned. His red hair bobbed up and down as he nodded. “Forgiveness is a blessing.”
“One you didn’t deserve,” I muttered under my breath, unsure of the proper etiquette or protocol for engaging with others in this place, or just how and why he would ever have been forgiven for his sins. “Where is my daughter?”
Sebastian frowned. “I’m sorry to say she never accepted Christ into her heart, and so she isn’t here,” he answered.
“What?” I seethed, anger bubbling from where it had roiled just below the surface. “How can this be?”
“Look, I don’t make the rules,” Sebastian spoke.
“But you’re here. And she’s not. No thanks to you!” My voice trembled as it rose.
“I understand your frustration. But it is what it is,” he replied.
“You’re the one who killed her!” I yelled, no longer able to contain my fury. No one else seemed to notice, too wrapped up in their own afterlives to care.
“Yes, but that was before. And I paid for that with my own life. In the electric chair. Your justice was served,” Sebastian said.
“I know, but…” I sighed. “Why isn’t Julianne here?”
“Like I said, she didn’t accept Christ into her heart as we did. It’s that simple,” Sebastian reiterated. “We just went through this.”
“Don’t you regret that?” I asked.
“Regret what? That she hadn’t accepted Christ? How would I have known? And it wouldn’t have mattered at that time, anyway – I was a different person then. Regret is an interesting concept; I never really did get it.” Sebastian pondered aloud. “Even after I became a Christian. I suppose I knew I’d done wrong as far as anyone else was concerned, that I acted from a place of selfishness when I raped and killed those girls… Inner turmoil. Let’s call it inner turmoil. But that was in the past.”
I began to hyperventilate. This just couldn’t be happening. My beautiful daughter, her golden blonde hair and blue eyes forever etched into my memory. My baby girl, so sweet and innocent and naïve. She never should have hitchhiked that ride. If only I’d known what she was up to… She hadn’t even seen her sweet sixteen, she was only fifteen and a half at the time of the assault.
“It doesn’t matter now. Had Julianne accepted Christ into her heart, she’d be here with us now. She did nothing else wrong,” he continued, interrupting my reverie. “I suppose then I’d have done her a favor.”
“Wait. What?!” I asked, obviously fuming.
“I know now that she hadn’t. But I would have had no way of knowing that then. And it was before I converted,” he went on. “If I regret anything, it’s the two that came after.”
“After what?” I harped at him. “After my daughter! You killed four more girls since then.”
“No,” he whispered. “After I accepted Christ. I slipped up. I tried; I really did. But my needs weren’t being met and I found ways to justify it at the time.”
“You disgust me,” I spat. “How can you even consider yourself a Christian?”
“I am no less so than you at this point, considering where we are,” he replied. “We are both here now, are we not?”
“I suppose, but still…” I answered, taking inventory of my surroundings. I was sure I’d been granted admittance into Heaven, that I passed the test. I vaguely remembered having done so, and walking through the pearly gates. Was this all an illusion?
“I am a true Christian, as you are,” Sebastian continued. “Just as I’m still a Scotsman no matter how I take my tea. Shall we begin our tour?”
He reached out to me, palm extended in a gesture of grace. I wasn’t wholly sure of where I was, which version of Eternity I’d landed in. Everything about this place was still so glorious, peaceful and serene. And yet…
If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to check out Heaven (based on the Talking Heads song) and Angels Meeting in the Hallways. And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
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Jennifer Weigel
December 18, 2022 at 8:58 pm
I love this series. I love how it speaks to longing and how the monsters are more human than we ourselves are at times.