Nick Holleran, private detective, thought he had life figured out. Until the day he died. Holleran woke to the horrifying truth. Hell is Earth, and the demons live among us. Taking the cases others won’t, Holleran is plunged into an investigation that forces him to confront his past.
A serial killer is on the loose. Again. Fifteen years after Mr Hangman last wreaked revenge on the perpetrators of Stampton, bodies have started to show up bearing the same modus operandi as before.
She made a deal with Santa.
It was uncommon, but she had been very good, while others had been very bad.
So bad that they’d driven her best friend to suicide with cruel taunts and ceaseless torments.
Coal just wouldn’t cut it.
But now, she’d be punishing those naughty-listers. Just her, them, a toolbox full of sharpened candy canes, a sturdy hammer, some Christmas lights, and maybe some black ops elves to help…
After this, she’d never be on the nice list again.
She was fine with that.
And when she was done, she’d have some gloriously screaming Christmas displays.
Les Talma
Les Talma likes atmospheric horror movies, amusingly strange TV shows, comic books, fairy tales that are dark and delicious, and pixie dream girls that go on bizarre blood lust frenzies. He scribbles down things in notebooks, sometimes they end up as finished works.
‘Tis goodwill season and the Devil’s fuming.
Despite different addresses (one red-hot, another ice cold), post destined for the pole keeps appearing. Incorrect grammar’s the reason: lists from mixed-up kids who can’t spell S-A-N-T-A. Both wear red, keep company with knee-high entities, but there the similarities end.
Sickened, Old Nick’s quick to teach Saint Nick a lesson: Christmas isn’t white, but crimson.
Come the twenty-fifth, he’s found the sleigh, sniggering, “Naughty or nice, everyone’s due a surprise. Something shocking in their stocking—not Jingle bells, but Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!”
Hidden in Santa’s bed—nine severed reindeer heads.
Steven Holding
Steven Holding lives in the United Kingdom. Most recently, his work has appeared in HENSHAW FOUR from Henshawpress and HALLOWEEN FRIGHTS from Black Ink Fiction. You can follow his work at www.stevenholding.co.uk
The note, propped up against a plate of cookies, read: For Santa. No persuasion was required—St Nick had come to expect such delicacies. After washing down the treats with a tall glass of milk, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He considered the remaining crumbs but doubled over in agony, as a searing pain tore through his abdomen. A foul stench erupted from him and he projectile vomited, covering himself and the floor in Christmas red. Behind the chair, the young girl smiled as “I Caught Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” played softly in the background.
Blaise Langlois
Emerging author, Blaise Langlois, will never turn down the chance to tell a creepy story. You are sure to find her writing in between teaching and raising four beautiful children, or feverishly scratching out ideas (which to the chagrin of her supportive husband, usually occurs just after midnight).
She licks her lips and surveys his upside-down, unconscious face. Sugarplum eyes to shuck, button nose to bite off, and bowed lips that will twist and stretch with each procedure, his Ho-Ho-Ows bouncing off the decorated walls.
She pauses and frowns. Is the prey too easy? Her smirk returns. Nah! Serves the fat bastard right for rushing headlong down her chimney.
The laws of physics warned him that he’d get stuck eventually. But the man in red thought the rules didn’t apply to him. And it’s fate, not physics, that trapped him here.
Santa’s delivered his last piece of coal.
Lindsey Harrington
Lindsey Harrington is a writer on the east coast of Canada. She loves writing dark stories, including those from the villain’s perspective. She is currently pitching a short story collection, Coming Apart, to publishers. Follow her writing journey at
Instagram: @
Germans herald the Holy Child with breads, pickles and wurst. “Yummy,” decrees my mother-in-law from Dusseldorf each year; I call it “Spam Christmas.”
She takes umbrage; injects politics, money, my drinking every time. Holidays thus ratchet our rivalry.
But this year I’ve set the menu. I’ll mince garlic till our kitchen stinks, baste fatty shoulder (two) and slather on the Morton’s Tender Quick. Voila, Spam Christmas!
“Mum woulda loved this,” mein liebster will gush. “Sad she stayed home.”
I’ll confess on Boxing Day how, after much badgering, his mother had graced our yuletide table—rendered, uncharacteristically silent, and tastefully dressed.
W. Ed George
The author is a recovering journalist based in California. He caught the fiction bug during the pandemic.
Christmas tomorrow, we need to make space for the family. They had planned a move to Australia; I blamed our son, Mary blamed the daughter-in-law. We would never see the grandchildren again. It wasn’t fair. We’d be just another lonely, miserable old couple despite all our years of help and support.
It’s funny how if you think about something long enough, anything is possible. So we prepared, went on an adult education course, “Taxidermy for the Family”. Anyway, I think we should get them out early this year, so they are sitting round the table when we get up tomorrow.
Simon Clarke
Simon Clarke lives and writes in Norfolk, United Kingdom. He enjoys writing poetry and fiction and has been published by Hedgehog Press, Black Hare Press, Fifty Word Stories and Breaking Rules Publishing. He regularly submits to UK and international publications and enjoys reading poetry at open mic events.
Facebook: @
GRIMDARK THEME – 500 WORD FICTION
“What do you think, Stephen? Have we been good this year?”
“For his sake,” he said, “let’s hope so.”
Santa lay spread eagle atop a pile of coal, held in place by candy canes that were shoved through his forearms, his one remaining eye still twinkling.
Walter scanned both lists, then shook his head sadly. “Another year, another Christmas on the naughty list. Care to guess what we won?”
He grabbed Santa’s sack and shook another pound of coal onto the pile.
“Such a shame,” said Stephen, pouring lighting fluid over the pyre and striking a match. “Maybe next year?”
Sophie Wagner
Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at Black Ink Fiction, The Macabre Ladies and For Women Who Roar. She hopes you have a horror filled day!