A Cenobite Christmas by Liam Hogan

The house is quiet now.

The dining table’s suspended mid-clearance. Father, having cut out his eyes with the carving knife, can’t see the mess of blood and guts congealing around him.

In the kitchen, Mother slumps half in, half out of the half-loaded dishwasher, apron strings wrapped around the rotor and her neck.

Older sister: her brand-new makeup applied on the back of razor blades.

Little Timmy hangs where the wreath used to be, the hook jaunty through his throat.

In the lounge, buried beneath discarded, blood-soaked wrapping paper, there’s an antique puzzle cube, freshly opened, awaiting your next move.