Silent Night

Christmas Eve, it’s always Christmas Eve.

Bare winter trees dotted about the town square glow with
festive colour while a trail of small lanterns light the way
from the square to the old church up on the hill inviting one
and all to join the midnight mass later that evening.
A lonely figure, lost and forgotten wanders through the
crowd. No one pays him any attention or even notices him.
Yet he’d been coming here for years, too many to
remember. He’s no longer warmed by the sweet scents of
mulled wine and roast chestnuts drifting over the crowd of
carol singers. He always stays close to the caroller’s
because they remind him of the life he once had and yet
could never have again.
It would be wise for him to leave now before it’s too late but
as always something distracts him. With a sentimental
fondness he watches a young girl aged about five or six
years as she stares up into the night sky trying to glimpse
Santa’s sleigh. Then he smiles broadly at her squeal of joy
as the first flakes of snow begin to tumble to down, dusting
everything with a soft magical powder. Her parents shiver
and wrap their scarfs tighter around their faces while
clutching song sheets in their gloved hands, determined not
to let he chilly weather deter them from this annual
traditional.
In the far corner of the square standing before a flood-lit
nativity scene stands a man dressed in a Father Christmas
costume. He announces the next carol to be sung and Away
in a Manger rises from the assembled choir. It must be
early, the figure notes, because the townsfolk still seem a
little self-conscious about singing in public.
The figure knew he should enjoy these quiet moments and
make the most of his temporary respite but he never could.
The peace he feels standing amid the jolly crowd is never
tangible because he knows it won’t last. There’s just never
enough time he laments. It’s nearly always the same;
different faces and occasionally different decorations but
the task is never complete and soon he’d find himself alone
again, desperate and scared.
The final notes of the carol fade away and the pretend
Father Christmas heralds the next yuletide hymn: Silent
Night .
So soon ?
The figure braced himself and took an involuntary step
backwards towards the edge of the crowd. He wanted to get
away from the nativity scene for he knows what stirs within
the make-shift cattle shed.
The carol begins:
Silent Night, holy Night.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child…
At that point the town square changed and the people
abruptly vanished. He felt a moment of disorientation as if
waking from a dream and finding the marketplace deserted
except for him. There were no footprints left in the snow;
nothing to indicate anyone else had been here tonight. It
always happened this way; hours had just passed in the
blink of an eye. All around the square the colourful lights
had gone dark, returning the trees to eerie spectres, their
spidery branches silhouetted against the pale ghostly
streetlights. All was still and all was quiet as the world slept,
unaware of his lonely plight.
The figure turned to face the shadowy nativity scene. The
floodlights were gone but amid the shades of darkness he
could see two yellow eyes watching him intently. A low
throaty growl rumbled across the empty town square and
the figure took another tentative step backwards. His foot
brushed past something and he looked down to see the
brown sack at his feet bulging with unknown items. He
never saw the sack arrive; it just appeared when the
townsfolk left and when Black Peter woke up.
The huge black wolf lopped out from the nativity scene. His
head low and teeth bared, saliva swung from his vicious
jaws. Black Peter issued another challenging growl and
slunk eagerly towards the figure. Seized by fear and pure
instinct the lonely figure grabbed the parcels and stumbled
backwards. He swung the heavy sack over his shoulder,
turned and fled the square while the wolf’s howl echoed
down the deserted winding high-street.
As the road gently curved to the right the figure spotted a
dark hump in the middle of the street. His first thought was
that Black Peter had somehow overtaken him and for one
terrifying moment he thought it was all over. Then he
realised the beast wasn’t moving. A broken antler came into
view, pointing out of the snow like a miniature bony tree.
The reindeer’s elegant neck and shoulder were glistening in
the moonlight while a scarlet a puddle bled out onto the
virgin snow beneath.
He often saw these majestic creatures during the night but
he’d never seen one killed by Black Peter before. Still, there
was nothing he could do for the animal. He couldn’t allow
himself to feel any sorrow. It simply hadn’t been quick
enough this time and he had to ensure he didn’t meet the
same fate.
The dark shop-fronts lining the high-street felt alien now,
sinister even: Ghostly white snowmen leered out from
behind the frosted glass along with lifeless Father
Christmas mannequins. Without the colours and the warmth
of the friendly shopkeepers and bustling customers the
hollow commercialism of the season was starkly revealed.
He remembered a time when it had been different, but that
had been a long time ago.
Eventually the quaint row of shops ended and he hurried on
through the town. He risked a quick glance over his
shoulder down the sleeping high-street but nothing stirred.
Straining his ears he couldn’t hear the growls or panting of
the devil-wolf and for the moment the night appeared
empty. Black Peter couldn’t be far away though; there was
no way he could lose him this quickly but thankfully there
was no immediate danger as he approached the first house
on the list.
It was the list that guided him. He had no idea where it came
from or who wrote it. All he knew was that he had to deliver
the parcels to certain houses before the sun rose one
Christmas morning.
The rustic entrance to the cottage was decorated with a
luxurious holly wreath complete with berries. As always, the
door to every home was unlocked to him and he quietly
slipped inside. The fresh scent of pine greeted him as he
stole into the living room. All was dark inside, save for the
Christmas tree that sparked in the silvery light from outside.
There was no need to creep about in here because the
family were fast asleep upstairs and would never hear him.
He’d tried waking waking them before, shouting for help,
shaking them but there was nothing he could do to rouse
them.
A scraping sound caught his attention and his eyes darted
about, alert for danger. A gold bauble slowly turned on the
Christmas tree making gold diamond shapes rotate along
the far wall. Nothing else moved but a tightening in his
stomach told the figure that he wasn’t alone. The sound was
repeated and he realised with a start that it came from the
fireplace.
His heart pounded as he tossed the parcel towards the
glittering tree and bolted for the door. Behind him the
scratching grew louder. Black Peter, aware that he’d been
detected, abandoned stealth in exchange for speed as he
scrabbled down the chimney and onto the cold hearth in a
sooty cloud, only to find the prey was gone.
Outside the snowflakes were falling thicker and faster.
Flurries swirled in all directions making it hard to see far
ahead. The figure was on the other side of the road when he
heard Black Peter’s howl of frustration and he rushed to the
next house on the list, anxious to be indoors before the
devil-wolf saw him again.
The night passed quickly and the snow became heavier,
making it easier to move unseen. He dodged from one
house to the next, always looking behind him, always wary
of the beast in pursuit. Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of it
between the houses but other times there was no sign of it.
He hadn’t seen Black Peter for some time now and he was
nearing the end of the list. He had made his way into the
countryside to an isolated farmhouse surrounded by a
patchwork of white fields that glistened in the starry ice. He
was only half way down the garden path, however, when the
devil-wolf appeared before him.
A blur of motion burst from the hedgerow and sprang
forward blocking his route. Black Peter growled savagely,
confident that he’d finally caught the prey that had eluded
him for so long. The figure was exposed out in the open with
nowhere to hide and no chance of running before the wolf
over-powered him.
Head down and razor sharp fangs bared Black Peter
prepared to pounce.
It was all over.
The sack slipped from his numb fingers. He stumbled
backwards, slipped and fell heavily onto the frozen path.
With lightening reflexes the beast saw his chance and leapt.
The devil-wolf landed hard on his chest, forcing the air from
his lungs. He tried to inhale but instead got a mouth full of
the wolf’s rancid breath. The animal snarled dripping warm
saliva onto his cheek. The figure closed his eyes as Black
Peter went to tear open his throat. But the killing bite never
came.
Cautiously he opened his eyes again and saw the wolf
looking up at the dark grey sky where the stars were
beginning to fade. The beast cocked its shaggy head on one
side and turned to the nearest hedgerow as if listening or
perhaps sensing something beyond human perception.
Then the great devil-wolf turned and silently slunk off back
into the shadow of the hedge without looking back.
The figure pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared
after Black Peter but there was no sign of the beast. Its paw
prints ended at the hedgerow but there was no rustle of
branches or snapping of twigs. He had simply vanished.
Overhead a robin circled the garden in the colourless pre-
dawn gloom and landed on a snowy wooden bird table
nearby. The prone figure remained still in case he frightened
the little bird away. The robin made him smile as it chirped
and pecked at the breadcrumbs someone had kindly left out
for it. The snow had stopped and all around him a dull haze
was slowly spreading over the distant fields. Dawn was
approaching and he realised with familiar resignation that it
was Christmas morning and the world was starting to wake
up.
The early morning sky was growing brighter and a light
flickered on in the cottage before him. An excited young
face beamed out of a bedroom window as the first rays of
sun touched the wintery garden. Although he was just below
her window the little girl in the farmhouse wouldn’t see him
down here. No one ever saw him; they wouldn’t even know
he’d been. He was more of a make-believe character now
than a real person; just a figment in the collective memory of
the world.
He watched the first glimmers of sunlight reach towards
him, accepting that once again he’d failed to deliver all the
presents in a single night, but he knew it wasn’t over. At
that moment the sun’s the pale rays touched the tips of his
shiny black boots the world instantly changed …
Another year passed in the space of a single heartbeat and
the figure found himself back on his feet. It was dark but as
always the town square shone brightly in the reflected glitter
of colourful lights. Rosy-cheeked children laughed merrily
while a chorus of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer filled the
crisp night air. Someone nearby was smoking a cigar and
the luxurious aroma mingled about the festive crowd
conjuring warm memories of Christmases past. The lonely
figure embraced the joyful scene but he knew the peace was
only fleeting: Black Peter was always out there somewhere
in the everlasting silent night.
Bio: Andy loves writing short stories with a horror /
supernatural flavour. Andy has had his stories published on
other websites and local magazines in the New Forest, UK,
where he lives with his beautiful wife and two amazing kids.
Please visit blackcattales.weebly.com to see more of his
work.