Hello from the unseasonably warm Midwest. We’ve reached that perfect tipping point where you can identify which areas of the yard get shade all day because those are the only areas that still have snow on them.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ll be doing some driving over the next few days and I much prefer this to blizzard conditions.

<checks the weather app to make sure he didn’t jinx himself>

I’m writing this a day early because I’m not sure how busy tomorrow will be. I don’t expect to have to do anything, but one never knows when one will get a text saying “We forgot to get something for…”

I should also note that this is the first thing that I am writing with my new glasses with the progressive lenses. I picked them up earlier today. Looking at distances is no problem, and looking down to read is a breeze. It’s that middle area that has me feeling like I opened my eyes underwater. Hopefully I will get used to these soon.

There are two trees up in the house and both of them are decorated. In fact, the house looks downright festive—on the inside. The only decorations visible from the outside are the wreathes I’ve hung. There won’t be any outdoor lights this year; I just don’t have it in me. Some of the days are OK and some are awful. There is always this dull ache of missing Tesla. I managed to get most of the way through decorating the big tree without any problem. Then I came across the paw prints with the angel wings for Kai, Dervish, and Titus and totally lost it. Yes, I stopped decorating to order one with Tesla’s name on it.

It’s funny what will set me off. I got really sad doing laundry when I noticed the almost total absence of dog hair in the drier’s lint trap.

Oh, and I feel I should make a note about something in last week’s post. When I stated that we had “taken down the decorations” I meant that we had removed the Christmas ornaments from the attic. I didn’t want anyone thinking that I still had Halloween stuff up. I mean, other than the stuff that it always up.

In unrelated to anything news, I rented a pair of ramps from Home Depot so I could get the generator into my car and drop it off for repair. The people there were absolutely delightful. Mentioning that the gennie was a Westinghouse lead to a discussion of Westinghouse as a person, which lead to talking about Nikola Tesla, and then this exchange:

Home Depot Guy: Yeah, Tesla never got the kind of recognition he deserved. Nothing like what Edison got.

Me: Fuck Edison.

HDG: I try to just educate people and let them come to their own conclusions, but I agree. Fuck Edison.

Meanwhile, the other worker was filling out the forms on the computer. After I signed for the ramps (the kind one would use to put an off road vehicle on to a truck bed), he said “just make sure you return them with a full tank of gas and check the blinker fluid.”

These two gentlemen really made my day.

Listening To: Holiday music, believe it or not. Of course, my playlist includes Christopher Lee’s metal albums and the Reverend Horton Heat.

Currently Reading: I’m somewhere between 2/3 and 3/4 of the way through King Sorrow. Still loving it.

Current Obsession: We finished our rewatch of Castle. Man, the last two seasons were rough. We started It: Welcome to Derry. Not sure how I feel about that yet.

Nothing new on the publishing front. We expect to do a total inventory recount and reorder in the next few days to make sure that we are all ready for 2026.

We are pleased to announce that the audiobook version of The Pleasure in Pain were sent out to the Kickstarter backers. That should close down all of our previous campaigns.

We have a possible sponsorship opportunity for next year which we can’t wait to announce. Further updates and new warrants.

There is a long standing tradition of telling ghost stories during the long dark nights of winter. This year I will share with you one of my own ghost stories, one which happens to have a holiday setting.

This was originally written for and performed live at an evening of ghost stories which was put together by the Flint Monster Society. It also appears in my second collection of short fiction Seeing Through Skull Shaped Eyes (available from Dragon’s Roost Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.).

The New Girl

“So, what type of things are we talking about?”

“All kinds of things.”

The living room, not big to begin with, made even smaller by the addition of the sparse holiday decorations, was positively cramped with all the people occupying it. Truth be told the Huxley household, an unassuming ranch, was all together rather smallish and definitely in need of a paint job. The once white porch rails were a mixture of dirty gray and flaking rust. There was a crack in the concrete of the porch where the bent gutter allowed the water to pour directly on to visitors.

All in all, it was not the type of place one would expect to find a camera crew, unless said camera crew was following a couple of police officers in another Cops remake.

Not that that would have been a bad thing.

“What, precisely, happened, once she arrived. Did you, perhaps, hear things at night? Did some rooms, or even specific spots, seem cold? Were there strange odors?”

A chorus of quiet giggles erupted from the couch. It was funny or would have been if not so sad.

Given the time of year, one would have expected there to have been some decorations outside—a wreath, perhaps some garland. Lights, maybe. Anything to liven up the dreary dullness of the place. Not here. Not at the Huxley domicile.

“Shit started happening the day she arrived.” Brennan glared at the girl sitting by herself. “I knew she was going to be trouble as soon as she got here.”

“That’s not quite true,” his wife said. The camera swung over to focus on her, completely missing the dumbfounded look on her husband’s face and the shocked looks of the children.

Cecilia went on, ignoring the daggers from her husband.

“And there were definitely noises. All that scratching. Fit to drive us all crazy. I thought for sure that we had rats in the walls or something. We set out traps, but never caught nothing.”

Brennan’s eyes narrowed. It seemed like the temperature of the room dropped, but not in the way that the interviewer was trying to get at. Everyone, even the members of the crew, noticed the change in the room’s attitude. The interior of the house became as quiet as the snow stilled streets outside.

In terms of decor and general upkeep, the inside of the home was little better than the outside. There had at least been an attempt at festivity. A sad little Charlie Brown reject of a tree stood in one corner, the whole thing made even more pathetic by the fact that it was artificial. Handmade ornaments dotted the tree: glitter covered pine cones, egg carton bells, close pin reindeer. These were augmented with a few store-bought balls and a string of lights which may have had a flicker setting, but which probably suffered from a short in the wiring. All of it was covered with enough tinsel to strangle a litter of puppies. Fortunately, no pets were in evidence.

Unless, of course, you counted the gaggle of small children clutching each other on the couch. At first it was difficult to tell how many there were. It was just a teeming mass of limbs and holiday jumpers. However, if you stood back and counted heads you would eventually conclude that there were four children on the couch, snuggled in upon each other out of a desire for warmth or due to fear. There was straight blonde hair, curly red, even a pair of afro puffs. The girls took up one half of the couch. The other half was occupied by the haggard looking woman who had spoken earlier. She realized the mistake she had made when she voiced her opinion and dropped her gaze to her lap. She ignored the children. She ignored the camera crew that had invaded her house and the person that they were talking to. She didn’t even steal a glance at the mournful excuse for a Christmas tree.

“Why don’t you tell them about the missing stuff.”

Brennan Huxley’s words seemed encouraging, but they were more of a trap than the peanut butter baited snap traps which had been placed on nearly every flat surface.

“No, you tell it dear. You tell it much better.”

“But it happened to you. Go ahead.”

Cecilia glanced at her husband, then back down again. The cameraman swung the camera back to her, but she did not seem to notice. She stared at the small wooden rocking chair by the door and its tiny occupant.

Katja Huxley.

* * *

“I don’t have time for this!”

It was bad enough that the kitchen furniture had been rearranged again. Between the lack of sleep, those damn mice or rats or whatever scratching all night long, Brennan’s increasingly odd behavior, and now the kids pulling pranks? It was just all too much.

Cecilia glared at Katja. There was no doubt that she was behind everything. Well, probably not physically behind everything. She was far too slight to have been able to move the kitchen table against the wall without making some kind of noise. But she was definitely the instigator.

She had to be the disrupting factor. The kids had been quiet and well behaved. Things weren’t like this before she arrived.

Well, Brennan, but that had been different. Lesser. Now he was staying up to all hours, sleeping in his work room. Had he become even more secretive about that basement space? Surely that was tied to Katja’s arrival somehow as well.

The girls weren’t even trying to help her look. They were all crowded around the table, scarfing down their breakfasts before heading off to school. Cozy. Conspirators.

Katja reached poured milk into a bowl, then reached for the cereal. See? She was odd. Who did that? She started to pour the bland, off brand corn flakes, but stopped when something heavy clanked into her bowl. Milk splashed on to the table and Gabrielle shrieked, scraping her chair back to avoid the spill.

Cecilia looked down at the mess, one more thing she would have to deal with before going to work. Her lip curled into a sneer. There, half submerged among milk and corn flakes, were her car keys.

She grabbed Katja’s arm, enticing a small squeal from the slip of a girl.

“Do you think that this is funny? Do you know what happens if I’m late? Do you know what happens if I get fired? No house, no clothes, and no food for you lot, that’s what!”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Cecilia lifted the girl by her arm. The squeal turned into a sob.

“I don’t have time for this.”

The cereal bowl rocketed across the room, smashing into the far wall. A sharp, acrid smell filled the room—cigar smoke and wet hair. Cecilia and the girls all watched as the milk/cereal glop started to bubble. Within seconds it was baked on to the wall. Pieces of the broken bowl hung in the congealed mess.

Cecilia released Katja’s arm. She straightened to her full height.

“I don’t have time for this,” she repeated, much quieter than before. She repeated this mantra as she strode over to what now looked like a modern art piece designed by a demented sculptor. She pulled her keys free, which took a bit of effort. She ignored the bits that still clung to the key ring.

Still whispering “I don’t have time for this,” she walked out of the room, out of the house, and to her waiting car.

* * *

“Of course, I started to feel bad as soon as I got to work,” Cecilia said to the interviewer by way of the camera. “I called my husband and apologized. He...he didn’t answer the phone, so I left a message. I told him I would clean it all up when I got off work.

“I thought about it all day. In fact, I was more than half waiting for a phone call from Brennan.”

She glanced at her husband, still sitting and glaring at her. He had remained silent throughout her confession.

“I thought he would be mad at me. Rightly so, rightly so, mind you. I shouldn’t have left that kind of waste, but I was already late. When I got home, I ran right to the kitchen, didn’t even change out of my work clothes. The table and chairs were back where they belonged, there was no mess on the wall or the floor. I assumed that he had the girls clean everything and put it right before they went to school.”

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Brennan said, finally breaking his silence. “I never saw any of this, never got any message. Nothing of the sort.”

The light over the camera brightened and then went out with a loud pop. The cameraman swore quietly. Two of the crew shared a look.

“All right,” said the main investigator. “Let’s take a moment while Dale resets everything.”

“That happens a lot.”

“What?” The interviewer turned to look at the girls sitting on the couch.

“That happens a lot,” said one of the blonde twins. He was not sure if it was Bonnie or Betty. “Lightbulbs go crazy and burn out.”

“Sometimes they blow up,” said the other twin.

“Yeah, pop!”

The other two crew, who had introduced themselves as the psychic and the sensitive earlier, knelt in front of the girls seated on the couch.

“What other things have you seen?”

“Oh, all kind of things.”

“Like cold spots? Places where it is so cold you can see your breath?”

“Leading the witness,” whispered the psychic. The sensitive hissed for quiet.

“Yes, sometimes it is cold in the hallway,” said Gabrielle. He little afro puffs bobbed as she inclined her head towards the door which lead to the basement.

Had there been a skeptic along, this is when he or she would have chimed in and pointed out that it was almost always colder by the basement. Neither of the people in attendance, however, felt the need to mention this.

“Did you ever see things levitate?” asked the psychic.

“That means float in the air,” added the sensitive. Both twins nodded.

“Apports and Disapports? When things disappear and then reappear out of nowhere?”

More nodding, this time from all three. The only one who remained silent was Christine. The older girl had settled herself at the far end of the couch, away from the tree and the chair where Brennan Huxley sat. He stared with disapproval at the other girls. Occasionally her eyes slid sympathetically to where Katja sent alone.

“Do you think that Katja does this? Is she the one that makes things float in the air?”

“Now who is leading the witness?”

There were shrugs and non-comital noises. The expectant looks on the faces of the investigators fell. Each was hoping for validation for their own pet theory—supernatural entity versus adolescent onset telepathy and other psychic abilities.

“I think it’s the Shadow Man.”

Although Bonnie’s voice was barely above a whisper, everyone could tell that the words had been imbued with the kind of import designated by capital letters.

There was a lot of squirming on the couch, a sharp cry of pain. Someone had elbowed Bonnie in the ribs—her sister? Christine was firing death glares at the younger child.

“What is the Shadow Man?”

“There is no Shadow Man.” Christine’s words were clipped, angry. She said this to the interviewers but maintained her death glare at the other girls on the couch.

“Right, we’re up again.”

The light over the camera flicked back on. The camera swung over the group, pausing on the girls. The interviewer, the face of the show, slicked his hair back down as he returned from the kitchen.

“What’s going on over here?”

The sensitive jumped to her feet, striding across the room to meet the interviewer. Meanwhile the psychic motioned for the cameraman to keep the lens pointed at the girls.

“Ben, we may have an apparition—one of the girls mentioned a dark entity.” She spoke in a stage whisper, making sure her words were loud enough to carry to the camera’s imbedded mic. They would add things later in post, but this was the kind of thing which could be good enough for the promos.

“They said no such thing,” Brennan Huxley bellowed. “You know how girls are. They see a coat draped over a chair and think it’s the boogeyman.”

“Which is it? Did they see a coat-chair boogeyman or nothing?”

Brennan’s face lit up as the camera swung over to him. The beads of sweat on his forehead stood out in sharp relief.

“Nothing. They didn’t see anything. And if they did see something, it was nothing.”

“They also mentioned cold spots down the hall.”

Ben, ever the voice of reason (when it suited his goals), turned to the solo child in the rocking chair.

“Why don’t we ask the one person who hasn’t spoken yet?” He knelt beside the girl. “Katja? What do you think? Do you think that there are ghosts here?”

Katja continued to rock the chair, her eyes locked on her feet.

“How about this, did you hear the scratching in the night?”

She nodded.

“Do you think it was mice?”

She shook her head, eyes still avoiding the man looming in front of her.

“Why not?”

“Mice can’t speak,” she said so quietly it was almost inaudible. Ben turned to look at the camera. Dale nodded, fairly certain it had picked up the girl’s answer.

“Do you hear words? What do they say?”

There was a long silence. Ben was about to start again when Katja answered.

“Bad things. It says bad things.”

Ben nodded. His voice low, encouraging, he continued his interview.

“What about the keys? Do you remember that?”

Katja nodded.

“Did you do that? Did you hide the keys? Did you move the furniture?”

“Did you make the cereal bowl fly?” The psychic’s voice was shrill. Ben stared at her, lips pursed.

Katja just shook her head, left, right, center.

“What about the...what did you call it?”

Ben turned to the girls on the couch. Despite warning looks from Christine and Brennan, both Bonnie and Betty answered, in unison.

“The Shadow Man.”

“Have you seen the Shadow Man?”

Katja nodded, tears flowing down her face. Christine moved to reach out to her, but their foster mother slapped her hand away. The crew looked at her stunned.

“I didn’t want her to interrupt the shot,” she stammered.

“Katja, honey, why are you crying?”

The little girl sniffled, wiped at her face.

“There is a bad place. Bad things happen there.”

“Bad things happened there? When? A long time ago?”

The sensitive screamed before Katja could correct him. Dale swung the camera around. The view dropped for a moment, then whipped back to the older woman. Her gray braid, which normally hung halfway down her back, was floating in mid-air, parallel to the ground. As Dale zoomed in, it jerked, once, twice. The sensitive’s head snapped each time as something yanked her hair in the direction of the hallway.

Ben abandoned Katja and the others to run to his team-mate. He stole a glance at Dale.

“Are you getting this?”

A thumbs up.

“Something dark,” the sensitive said, pulling her hair back into place. “The little girl is right. There’s something bad here.”

The psychic nodded. Whether or not she sensed something or just didn’t want to be left out, she pointed.

“That way. Down the hall.”

The team began to troop towards the hallway. Brennan stood to block their path.

“Now look here, we agreed to be interviewed, but no one said anything about you traipsing all over the house.”

“It’s in the paperwork you signed,” Ben replied, starting to push past. Brennan held out a hand, then leapt to one side as a Christmas ornament launched itself from the tree, narrowly missing his head. A barrage of cheap tin and glass balls fired themselves at the head of the household. Glass shattered. Brennan doubled over to avoid getting hit in the face.

The sensitive and the psychic had already pushed past and were walking quickly down the darkened hallway. Ben stared at the camera, at Brennan, down the hall. He was torn between the footage they were getting and the potential footage available. His mind was made up when one of the pair hollered.

“Jesus, it’s freezing over here. I can see my breath.”

Ben and Dale sprinted down the hall. The girls tried to follow, only to be corralled by Cecilia. Brennan crawled to his feet in pursuit.

In the harsh glare of the spotlight, the breath of the three people was clearly visible. They could have been standing outside. There were numerous doors, presumably leading to bedrooms, bathrooms. One stood by itself at the end of the corridor.

Frost crawled up the woodwork around the door. Ben grabbed the handle and yanked it open, just as Brennan reached them. He pushed the people out of the way. The psychic and the sensitive went down in a tangle of limbs. Dale bounced off the wall and went to one knee, but kept the camera focused on the altercation before him.

“Stop! That’s my private study. You have no business going in there.”

“Mr. Huxley, please stand aside.”

The larger man wedged himself in the doorway. He stood there for a moment, his expression reading you’ll have to go through me first.

Then he was tossed into the air.

Brennan wailed as he crashed upwards, into the ceiling. He dropped back to the floor, not so much falling, but having been thrown. His shirt and belt tented as if he was being lifted, then he slid back down the hall and into the living room. A crash followed by the sound of more broken glass signaled the attack by the tree which fell and pinned him to the floor.

Ben walked through the now empty doorway, followed closely by Dale.

They stood for a moment, trying to take in what they had found. Neither had known what to expect, but it was not the tableau which faced them. A room full of bones, a Satanic star on the floor, the opening to a previously unknown crawlspace; any of these would have been ratings gold. An embalming room like the Amityville house would have been spectacular.

However, a tiny bed surrounded by video equipment—not what they had hoped for. There was a closet without a door. The items there were evenly split between little girl’s outfits and adult leatherwear. Rows and rows of video tapes lined the wall. In one corner, a computer sat, screen thankfully off.

Ben turned and gave an order he had never given in his entire television career.

“Shut it off.”