The Yuletide Horror

He sat, smoking a cigarette, staring into the fire. He was young, maybe thirty at the outside, but he
looked far older, with his shoulders hunched and his face haggard and gray.
His hands trembled as if he had suffered a stroke and his eyes were dull. He smoked the cigarette
down to the filter and casually tossed the butt into the flames of the fireplace, watching it melt and burn.
He cleared his throat once and then regarded me as if for the first time. I had known him, ten years ago,
when we were in college, but if I had passed him on the street now, I would not have recognized him.
"God how I loathe the winter," he began, and his tale unfolded:
God how I loath the winter and dread the passing of Thanksgiving. I fear the approach of the New Year
and the coming winter. I am scared of the fading of the bright autumn leaves, as they wither and fall,
blowing away to reveal the skeletal trees beneath, soon to be buried like the dead things they resemble
under the snow.
You remember Pamela, that sweet girl I once dated? Yeah, I see you do. You fancied her I believe, not
that it matters now, because she’s dead. You look shocked, and I guess you should, I only heard about
it from the newspaper. She committed suicide, cut her own damned throat with a shard from a drinking
glass. She did it two years back, the day after Thanksgiving. She always loved the Macy’s Parade, guess
she wanted to see it before she left.
He chuckled, and removed his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. He may have
laughed, but it was an ironic, nervous laugh, like those you hear at a funeral.
Did you know she was in Spring Grove, the hospital ? Aye, her father committed her after the police
had finished with the two of us. She was quite crazy you know. Driven insane.
Now, don’t go thinking I hate the winter because of her, nothing of the sort. I hate the winter for the
same reason she cut her throat, because of what we knew, and now I alone know.
He leaned toward me, conspiratorially.
You want to know what killed her? What keeps me in this house until the spring comes? I can see you
do. Sit, grab yourself a beer and I’ll tell you. Go on, it’s in the fridge. I can wait, I’m not going anywhere
until March.
He pulled out another cigarette and lit it while I went to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and
gawked at how full it was, of beer and soda and condiments. I quickly opened the freezer and found it
equally stocked with frozen goods. I knew he had another freezer chest in the cellar and was willing to bet
it too was filled to brimming with food. He definitely did not intend to leave the house for a long time.
I returned to the living room and settled myself on the sofa to listen to whatever story he was going to
tell. Indeed it was worth the wait.
He waited for me to open my beer, and once I was comfortable he continued the tale he had started:
After we graduated the two of us started living together. We did not intend to get married right away, but
wanted, instead, to sort of test the waters. She moved in and we were happy enough. I was making some
money writing and she had a job down at the Shop-n-Go, until she had finished her student teaching.
Things were going along quite well. She worked weekends and a few nights and student taught during
The Yuletide Horror 2

the day. I would sleep most days, staying up late into the night, writing. You know I got a few stories
published? I did, and it was enough to keep us afloat, just.
Well, she was really close to her family, one of those big old families you only get in the country, with
cousins and aunts and uncles and all. They called Thanksgiving Day, 1988, I think, and invited us to
come up for Christmas. It was her father that called. He lived up in Massachusetts, in a small town just
outside of Salem, on the coast.
I was not much for big family get togethers, but I always wanted to visit New England in the winter,
and figured this would be a good chance, so I agreed and we set a date for the day before Christmas to
arrive. She was all excited, and as Christmas week approached she began packing and put in for time off.
I never saw her so happy.
We drove out of here on December 21st, intending to take our time heading up there, since I wanted
to stop along the way, and wanted to stay for a day in Salem itself.
The weather was good and cold, and by the time we got into New York there were flurries swirling down
out of the gray sky. I have to admit, it was really quite pretty, Christmasy if you know what I mean.
We tooled on up there, passing through some of the quaintest towns I’ve ever seen, with their streets
bedecked with real pine garlands and red ribbons hanging on front doors. We came up through Allentown
and Scranton, avoiding the big cities and staying on the smaller roads so we could actually enjoy the
scenery.
When we got into the Catskills we passed through every god forsaken village we could, and loved
every one of them. There was one, I remember, Roxbury, which we stopped in. Beautiful place, all white
clapboard and slate roofs. It looked like something right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. We stopped
there for lunch, and ate in a little diner right out of American Graffiti.
In front of their town hall was a beautiful tree, covered in white lights and red balls. It was truly a great
place to be at this time of the year.
Well we drove out of Roxbury and stopped the night in Albany, in a little bed and breakfast we had
reserved then drove out the next morning, bright and early. I guess it was the morning of the 24th.
We weren’t expected until late that night, so we were able to take our time on the drive across into
Massachusetts.
We stopped in a little town called Exham, just on the eastern edge of Quabbin Reservoir, at the base
of a big, oddly artificial looking hill called Goats Hill. We were in a bit of a hurry at this point because we
had dawdled too long on our trip, but when we pulled into the little place I had to stop. They were having
some sort of parade when we pulled into town. It was just starting, and so I begged Pamela if we could
stay and watch, promising to drive through the night, if I had to, to make it to her family’s place before
Christmas morning. Begrudgingly she agreed. If only she hadn’t, she would be alive and I wouldn’t be so
scared of the winter months.
I guess most of the town’s residents were Irish or Scottish or something, because most of the names
on the shop fronts were Mc-this or O’-that. It was a small place, like I said, and it was in the middle
of nowhere, surrounded by pine and oak forests in every direction. I guess they weren’t used to having
visitors this time of year, what with everybody staying home or with family during Christmas.
I say this because, what happened to us happened completely in the open. There was little secrecy
involved in any of it, which, if you ask me, makes it all the worse. Why ? Because I know the people
involved weren’t just a few twisted individuals, but a whole community, three or four hundred people !
The parade started with an odd little ceremony. We hung at the back of the crowd and were pretty much
unnoticed by the population in general. The parade leader started with a little speech, which I remember
quite well. I remember the whole affair all too well.
"The season of winter is upon us. And the time for the Christian holiday of Christmas is here, but as
you all well know, this day is far older than Christmas, stretching back, through the centuries to before
The Yuletide Horror 3

the Christians came to the British Isles, to before the coming of their savior. It is indeed a holiday of
rebirth, but not of an Israelite child, but of the world. For today marks the beginning of the worlds return
to life, to the rebirth of the world. We celebrate this rebirth, in the woodlands and fields of our town, this
is the day, cold as it may feel, which we choose to remember the old gods, the ones who truly formed the
world, and gave us life."
He was dressed in a white robe, with what looked like a green shawl of some sort of rough material
draped across his shoulders. He spoke on for a while longer, speaking of fecundity and children, and the
growth of the wild places and of nature. Finally, he broke into prayer, in what I guess was Gaelic mixed
with English so the people could understand it, though I wouldn’t have recognized it if it weren’t.
"Ia ! Ia ! Shubgurath, Ia ! Ia ! Shubgurath,
Mother of Earth and Life,
Ia ! Ia ! Herne, Ia ! Ia ! Herne,
Father and consort to the Mother,
Horned Ones, cthwaglithan nigara,
Mother come, father come,
Shubgurath talg gwarath, mol,
Herne talg gwarath, mola,
Ia ! Ia ! Shubgurath del anda domus
Mundi domus Shubgurath !" As he finished his prayer the snow began to fall again, harder, in large fluffy
flakes, which swirled in the air and began to settle of the cold ground. A gasp went up from the townsfolk
of Exham as if this were a sign. At that moment I had to admit it was indeed quite thrilling.
Dressed in his robes, which I took to be druidic in origin the leader began to walk through the crowd.
He carried what appeared to be a small staff or scepter made from a sheaf of wheat, bundled tightly
together. The crowd parted as he passed among them, and from somewhere strange high piping began,
the reedy sound filtering through the air.
As he passed us, the leader or priest gave us a broad friendly smile and he linked arms with Pamela
and I and led us away from the crowds. I looked behind us, and noted the people following behind. We
were at the head of this parade, as if we were honored guests ! Many of the townsfolk had donned masks
and were carrying torches. I saw bears and mice and goats among the crowd, and many were wearing
horns, beautiful spirally affairs.
We walked along the main street of the town, which was apparently deserted, all of the inhabitants
behind us. The pipers were never seen, they must have lingered near the back of the throng, though the
music carried clearly through the winter snow.
The music rose and fell, following a rhythm which I could not quite follow, and the towns folk, clad in
their animalian masks twirled and spiraled and danced to it. Pamela got caught up in the music and the
priest let go of her as she spiraled and danced like the rest of the procession. I too was caught up in it,
though as I said, I felt as if my feet never were able to keep the rhythm. The priest still waked stoically
forward, the townsfolk following behind as they danced. I watched the group behind me with a pleasant
smile, enjoying the festivities of the day, caught up in the ancient pagan feel of the whole affair.
The snow was beginning to lay on the ground, falling quickly and already an inch deep as we passed
the last buildings of the town proper and entered into the wooded hills beyond.
From the stands of trees on either side I could hear more music coming, more pipers joining the frolic.
I could almost hear the animals of the forest themselves, joining in with the strange pagan animal headed
people of Exham.
Here I began to grow uncomfortable, for as I looked back through the snow and trees at the gathered
towns people, I saw something I could not quite explain. The masks seemed a part of them, no longer
things of paper-maché, but actual animal heads, so I thought.
The Yuletide Horror 4

Here and there I could see revelers lost in the bacchanalia, spinning and dancing, an exposed breast
here, a bare-chested man there. I am not prudish, but was not quite sure how to react to what I was
seeing.
The dance, as we progressed through the wood grew wilder, Pamela becoming lost in the insane music
which seemed to fill the forest. I looked back occasionally only to see more bodies, naked or partially so,
the dancers acting out sexual acts, pantomiming the rutting of the animals which they were dressed as.
I followed now, only because there was no where else to go, the woods thick on either side of us and the
path we followed filled with the dancing, frolicking towns people.
We emerged from the forest, at the base of the strange tumulus shaped hill, Goat’s Hill on maps of the
area. The snow had accumulated to three or four inches by the time we emerged from the oaks and pines.
Still it fell in thick heavy flakes. The priest lead the procession up the hill, which was crowned by a huge
oak, its branches spreading to cover the entire upper third of the hill.
I was surprised by its presence, not having noted it as we drove past the hill on our way into Exham.
When we had passed it I had thought it totally devoid of any vegetation except grass. I had even commented
that it looked out of place rising out of the woods like a bald head.
The music grew truly insane and feverish as we neared the top of the hill and passed under the
branches of the tree. Looking back I saw, spread along the base of the hill, a number of the towns folk
rolling in the snow, naked except for their masks, rutting like wild animals.
Pamela for her part was quite lost in the festivities. She was dancing, though thankfully still dressed
and untouched by the dancers. Her face was rapturous, and truly beautiful. I felt the urge to grab her
and join the townsfolk in their fervor. I even stepped forward, to do so, my senses sharp, sexual energy
coursing through me.
Then the music stopped.
In the sudden and complete silence I looked around, my momentary entrancement gone. The townsfolk
too, I saw stopped their dancing and rutting and turned to face the priest as he stood beneath the boughs
of the great oak tree. Pamela looked confused, and she came and curled herself around my arm to watch
the priest and see what was to happen next.
"Children of Exham, Children of Shubgurath, we have come to pay homage to the Mother, to she who
has sired a thousand young. We gather here, as we do every year to offer her ourselves, to give to her our
energy so she may again bring life back to the world.
Ia ! Ia ! Shubgurath,
Ia ! Ia ! Shubgurath,
Awaken from thy winter’s slumber and take these people,
as our offering to you,
Nwala gorath, fthwagl neres golm
Sigla manas fwillagat." Then, as we stood there, we felt a tremor run through the ground and the town’s
folk muttered as a group a response to the priest words. The priest motioned to the people and we, Pamela
and I, were grabbed and roughly brought to stand in front of the priest where we were released. I turned
and looked at the wolf-headed man who had held me, and the horned person who had Pamela as they
retreated to the throng.
The people moved nervously, as if awaiting something, then one cheered. The group turned to look at
the cheerer then returned to gaze at us and the priest behind us.
The snow was still swirling and I could see little of the forest at the base of the hill and nothing of the
town. I felt as if we were in some great void, a mini-world if you will, which was composed of just the hill
and it’s crowning tree.
Pamela and I turned and looked at the priest. He smiled at us and whispered, "Thank you." With that
he walked away. We watched him go then looked at each other. We felt strangely conspicuous, standing
The Yuletide Horror 5

before the collected town’s folk, at a loss of what to do next. The priest joined the crowd who watched us
expectantly, donning a mask like the head of a goat. I had the vague fear of something satanic, though I
know that paganism and Satanism are two different entities completely.
Then the piping started again. The crowd was silent in front of us, as seemed the whole world. Where
before it was wild and driving, it was now weak and pleading, as if the thin high whines of the pipes
were supplicating to some being. I heard the leaves of the great oak rustle and looked up. The boughs
were bending downward, towards us. Pamela had turned at the sound of the rustling and looked at the
vast round trunk of the tree and I followed her gaze. Her mouth worked soundlessly, as if she wanted to
scream but was unable.
The huge gnarled trunk seemed to shift, a huge seam in its bark splitting to reveal teeth, ivory and
sharp. The scent, which issued forth, was like that of fresh wood or newly cut grass. Sap, golden and
thick ran down the ivory teeth and dripped like saliva.
Behind us the people began to chant, "Shubgurath, Shubgurath," in a monotonous voice. I stared,
hypnotized by the ever-widening mouth, which was forming, opening in the trunk of the tree. Then, deep
in the cavernous opening I saw a smooth glistening tongue, mahogany in color, slowly sliding forward,
beckoning and beguiling. I stepped forward, entranced by the slowly moving tongue, and was grabbed by
Pamela. She spun me around and I looked down into her pleading face.
I looked back at the maw of the thing I had mistaken for a tree, into the maw of what I now assumed
was Shubgurath. Pamela touched my face and turned it toward her so again I looked down at her, with
her wide green eyes as she stared up at me terrified. She slapped me then and the spell was broken. I
looked at the tree again and saw it for what it was, hungry.
We ran then, and branches came swinging down to swipe at us, to herd us into the mouth that now
sent out it’s smooth slithering tongue in pursuit of us. I luckily skipped past a branch and dragged Pamela
through the grasping branches, scratching her face. Then I noticed the roots, which spread far from the
tree were writhing. I tripped and Pamela pulled me to my feet as she pressed on, away from the huge tree
with its tentacle-like branches.
The towns folk moved forward as we made to escape, intending to circle us in, but their numbers
hindered them as they tried to move. From under the snow the searching roots sprang up and tried
to grasp at anything within their reach. Many of the town’s people were dragged down and then pulled
relentlessly into the shadow of the tree.
Pamela and I, unhindered by bodies pressing in ducked "behind" the writhing tree, and struck off down
the hill. Speed carried us clear of the branches and the snow helped and roots tugged at us. I fell and
thankfully slid down the slope of the hill. I believe a similar thing happened to Pamela for when I reached
the bottom I found her lying near me, covered in snow and mud.
We looked back, a few straggling towns people were running from the great tree, which the priest had
called Shubgurath. Most were gone, lost under the shadow of the lowering branches.
We ran, trying to beat the few surviving town’s folk to the path. As we ducked into the woods I glanced
back, and to this day am not positive of what I saw. I could swear I saw the tree still clutching at scurrying
people, heave itself off the ground and slowly move down the hill.
I do know, as we ran down that path, I heard a great scream go up, as if the forest itself suffered some
agony. It sounded like the collected scream of every bird, every animal and every tree screamed in agony
or anger.
Blindly we ran through the snow, slipping and sliding, passing into the town. We found our car, parked
in front of the local bar, The Green Man, and climbed into it. Blindly we drove away, taking what seemed
to be the most expedient route away from that damnable place. Exham fell behind us.
The roads were treacherous, and in my panic I failed to make a turn, the car skidding off the road. It
tumbled down an embankment and ended up on its roof. I don’t remember much after that, until we woke
The Yuletide Horror 6

up in Boston General. Pamela had awakened before me and had been sedated, raving about the forest
coming alive.
I was asked about what had happened and chose to simply say we had wrecked as we drove out of the
town of Exham, on our way to Salem to visit relatives for Christmas.
The police officer looked at me with a queer expression, as if perplexed.
"Exham?" he asked and I nodded.
"But Exham was burned to the ground thirty years ago, back when we had a forest fire, in the summer
of ’68. Are you sure?" he asked.
"Maybe not. Perhaps I was mistaken. I don’t know, it’s all sort of jumbled." With that I asked if I could
sleep. And sleep I did.

The End
Todd Shearer