Christmas Eve Dinner

The black limousine pulled up outside his battered tenement building.

Harold saw it from the dingy window, and as he turned to shamble towards the door, he coughed wetly into his elbow. His stomach lurched, and he felt that he would undoubtedly fill his pants. Harold was old, fifty-eight in March, and in his time, Harold had done many great deeds. He had served in the army during World War two in his youth, fighting for his country and earning great honor on the battlefield. That was the only way a Squiresdale boy escaped this rusty trap in those days, and Harold had returned with a purple heart and the respect of his neighbors and friends. He had shaken the hand of Wilbur Wilmington, the bloody king of Squiresdale in those days, as Wilbur told him how proud he was of his sacrifice. His rat-faced son had glowered from the row of folding chairs as the town clapped for the four men who had been drafted into the war and returned home. It had felt odd standing up there where he had stood with thirty men only five years before, and the ones who'd come back were less and more than they had been. That day, those four men, Harold included, had been the talk of the town, and the Wilmington's had tipped their heads to those heroes for that day.

Harold had gone on to run the town hardware store until his health had gotten too bad to do even that, and his son had run the store for the last ten years.

At least until he'd taken his life last year around Christmas.

Exactly one year ago today, actually.

There was a knock at the door, and Harold steeled himself as he solidified his bowls. He had a job to do tonight. Harold had one last good service for this town, and he wouldn't fail this close to the end. He was an old man, but maybe an old man was just what was needed for this last piece of work. Harold plucked an envelope from the mantelpiece, sliding it neatly into his pocket, and went to answer the door.

A tall man in a black suit was waiting for him. He seemed almost bored with the task before him, his smile the perfunctory mask of a servant doing a job. Harold nodded to him and let himself be led to the limousine as the faces of his neighbors watched like silent parishioners in some macabre ritual. In many ways, it was a ritual. The ritual had been carried out since the city's founding, and Harold was just one more sacrifice before the altar of tradition.

Harold stared out the window as the limousine carried him away from a home he'd never see again.

One way or another, this would be his last Christmas Eve.

The Wilmington Family owned Squiresdale.

I don't just mean that they owned the land, they did, but it's more important that you understand how the Wilmington Family owned the town. The Wilmington Family had owned Squiresdale since its founding in the same way that their forefathers had owned slaves. They owned everything inside the town, people included by way of owning every loan and mortgage given out by the bank, and everyone knew it. They hovered over the city like a vampire bat, their palatial estate sitting on Wilmington Hill, which overlooked the whole valley. All one had to do was look up to remember their presence. Jacob Wilmington, Clara Wilmington, and their two children, Barbara and Zachary, would occasionally come down to mingle with the commoners. Their visits were usually treated like a visit from a foreign dignitary; or the arrival of a plague victim.

The Wilmingtons only came into the town for one reason.

They came to choose who would be their guest for Christmas Eve dinner.

The snow fell softly on the sidewalks, and pitter patted lightly on the asphalt as the limousine sped through the town. On the sidewalks and in the shops, the people went about their daily lives, shopping for last-minute Christmas gifts or sharing a moment with those they loved. As the limousine rolled by, they all looked up from what they were doing, like frightened rabbits marking the passing of some predator. They all knew they would never see its passenger again, and they were of two minds about it. They silently hated the Wilmington Family as they watched the black limousine roll by, but they were also thankful, which shamed them greatly. They couldn't help it, though. Men and women are always thankful when the blood on the floor isn't theirs. Thankful it isn't their neck in the noose this time.

Thankful it wasn't someone they loved.

Harold watched the faces go by in silence. Friends, longtime customers, and people he'd thought of as family rolled by like mournful spirits in the wake of the tinted windows. Now they were nothing but hollow ghosts that marked his transition as they might mark the scuttling of a bug. He had ceased to be a person to them, whether they would admit it to themselves or not. He was just meat. He was a means to an end, a sacrifice that must be paid lest their way of life might be impacted. They would thank him in their secret hearts once he was gone, but, for now, they only marked his passing and were glad it wasn't them.

Harold looked nervously around for Sophie and was glad when he didn't see her. This was no place for a child. He didn't want her to remember him as a face staring out a window as he cruised by, either. Harold wanted her to remember him a little better than that. He wanted her to remember her grandpa as he smiled on birthdays or laughed warmly as they sat together. Not like this and certainly not as the phantom he would become later.

When she thought of her grandfather after he was gone, he wanted her to feel pride in what he had done.

The limousine passed the last of the main street storefronts then he was on his way up. The car took a significant upward turn as they began to climb Wilmington Hill. The hill, which might as well have been Wilmington's driveway, went up and up, circling around as they went to the very top. Harold sat like a gargoyle in the back seat, watching the town grow smaller and smaller as the limo climbed. He would soon be there. No backing out now. Whatever would be, would be.

The limousine paused before the wrought iron gate that marked the beginning of the Wilmington Estate. The heavy iron monstrosity was needless, of course. No one would have dared try to enter the Wilmington Estates, and the few who had were never heard from again. But such a gate and the miles of fence around the estate were just another part of appearances.

The driver pressed a button on the sun visor, and the gate slid open to admit them.

The Wilmingtons had kept up the tradition of "Christmas Eve Dinner" since the town's founding.

On Christmas Eve, they would choose one resident to be their guest at the spacious manor for the evening. At first, it had been an honor to take the wagon up to the old manor house. The citizens believed their benefactors were giving their guests jobs or even letting them stay inside the palatial house as guests. This theory lasted a few years before the truth became known one Christmas Eve night.

No one left the mansion once they were invited.

Not after the incident.

The trees slid by on either side as the limousine cut through the surrounding forest like a black serpent. Harold took it all in apathetically, wondering if Johnathan Harker looked at the forest around Dracula's castle in much the same way. He was traveling through the domain of a monster, and the picturesque forest and falling snow could do little to blunt that understanding. Harold was going to his death. Everyone knew it, but perhaps it wouldn't be in vain. At least he had saved Sophie, that much he had done.

They had been walking together when the black limousine crawled into town. Sophie lived with her aunt now, but Harold still took her on little trips now and then. Trips to the toy store, trips to the park, or just trips around the town so the two could see the leaves change or the snowfall. Sophie loved the trips out with her Grandpa, and Harold looked forward to spending time with his only grandchild.

Lisa hadn't wanted him to take Sophie into town that day, "You know this is the time of year when they come to choose their guest for Christmas Eve."

Harold knew that, how could he forget, but he had begged her to let his granddaughter go Christmas shopping with him.

"We might get some flowers for her mother and father's grave," he had said, and finally, Lisa had relented.

They had been walking towards the flower shop when he had seen it. The limousine came rolling around the corner like a big black bat, and Harold's actions had been purely reflexive. He had pushed Sophie behind him when the limousine rolled by but not fast enough.

Jacob Wilmington, the son of the rat-faced Carver Wilmington who'd sneered at Harold as Mr. Wilmington Senior had admonished him, rolled down the window. He had pointed at the little girl, and his smile was dazzling. It was the smile of a senator trying for re-election or an undertaker trying to sell a new coffin, and he'd pointed at her and asked her to come closer. She'd shaken behind her grandfather like an autumn leaf preparing to fall, but Harold had already made up his mind. He'd pushed her behind some nearby cans, and the crowd had pressed close to hide her from view. Sophie had remained unseen, and he'd stepped forward instead. Mr. Wilmington had looked puzzled, unsure of what had happened, but he'd smiled all the same and told Harold how he'd be honored if he would join their family for Christmas Eve dinner this year.

"I can promise it will be an evening you'll never forget," he'd said, and as the limousine rolled along, Harold watched his doom roll with it.

And, just maybe, thought of a plan to make this a Christmas Eve they'd never forget.

Kind of like that one Christmas Eve, the one people talked about in hushed tones.

The Christmas Eve when the whole show became this new macabre ritual.

It was Christmas Eve, 1937, and the town was just settling down for bed when the scream echoed through the town.

Terry Hatchet had been that year's honorary guest, and when the town car had come to get him, he'd worn his finest suit and a pair of loafers he'd bought from the General Store. That was when Harold's father owned the General Store, and the shoes had come all the way from Germany in a special box. He'd left the town looking his best, a fine representation of what Squiresdale had to offer.

Harold's father had been closing up shop, preparing to go upstairs for his own Christmas, when the Hatchet boy had come running down the street in a froth. Terry had been excited to be chosen. He'd told everyone that he'd see the people who'd gone before him, all eight years of guests, and he'd tell them how proud everyone in town was of them. Until that night, they'd all thought it was a great honor to be asked up to the hill to work for the Wilmingtons.

What else could they be going up there for after all?

Harold had come to the window, just a boy of thirteen, and saw Terry running flat out with his feet crunching in the snow. Terry's coat was gone, his pants were in tatters, and his arms were bloody ribbons of ripped flesh. He looked like he'd seen a monster, a ghost, and Harold saw the terrifying desperation on his face as he glanced at him on his way by. He never forgot that. The look of exquisite terror that fell about him like a long cloak. As a boy, he would often dream about Terry's face and wake up screaming. As a man, he would see that same look on the faces of men who were about to die from the bullets of the Germans and came to realize why Terry had looked so scared.

Terry was running for his life.

Behind him came a pack of baying hounds and a group of men armed with rifles. One of them shot at Terry as he ran past, and Harold had seen the bright flower of blood that splattered on the snow. Terry had fallen in the snow, painting it red. As he crawled up the snow-covered street, the men had come to collect him. Harold's father had gone out, lots of people had gone out, and as one of the men pulled down his scarf, they saw it was Mr. Wilmington senior. Mr. Wilmington offered no excuses, offered no apologies. He just looked at the gathered people in a daring way and threw the body over his shoulder.

He had said more with that look than his words ever could.

"This is my town, and I do as I like." that look said.

He'd hauled Terry back up to the house, and no one saw him again after that.

The thing Harold hated the most was that no one had done anything. No one had fought. No one had left. There had been no outrage, nothing was done, and nothing was said. The people went back to their homes, and life went on. People kept going up to the house for Christmas Eve. They didn't really have much choice, and the few who resisted were taken quietly in the night.

The town kept the secret.

The town kept quiet.

The town kept living.

"Sir, we've arrived."

Harold shook himself out of his daze and looked up the winding steps of Wilmington Manor. The palatial home was a sprawling granite edifice of columns and windows. From the outside, it looked cheery and picturesque. As he stepped from the limousine, Harold's feet crunching in the snow, he had to remind himself that this place was a haunted house, a place of horrors. Hopefully, Harold would be the last spook to take up residents there. As he went up the steps, he was wracked by coughing again and pulled his hand away bloody when his coughing subsided. He glanced back at the driver to see if he'd noticed, but that worthy hadn't even offered to help him up the stairs.

He was just as arrogant as his masters, precisely as Harold counted on.

Jacob Wilmington opened the front door as Harold came to the top of the stairs and the air that poured out was like a furnace.

"Harold Straub, come in, come in. We've been expecting you."

His voice was rich, like a game show host trying to get you to solve a puzzle. He put an arm around Harold as he came in, and Harold tried not to flinch. He was in the trap now and now was his opportunity not to tip his hand. He needed them to take the bait and take it all in one bite.

Mr. Wilmington took him through an elegant entryway and towards a grand living area larger than Harold's entire apartment. At the last minute, however, he steered him through a small door and into a modest sitting room, at least by their standards. Harold was seated in a big wing-backed chair as Mr. Wilmington sat across from him on a cream-colored sofa that had likely cost more than the rent on Harold's apartment. He smiled that senators smile at him as the two sat alone in the shadowy little room, neither of them sure what to say to the other. It was plain that Harold wouldn't beg for his life or shout at him like so many others had, but his silent acceptance was clearly off-putting to the man. When a man in a suit brought in drinks, Mr. Wilmington seemed relieved for the distraction. He offered one to Harold, who took it and swirled the liquid around in the crystal tumbler. It was bourbon, he could tell by the smell, and as Mr. Wilmington lifted a glass to him, Harold raised his own with none of the shakes he had expected. Mr. Wilmington offered a toast to Harold's good health, and Harold offered one to his host's good taste. The two drank; Harold shuddering as he felt fire enter his stomach.

He wondered if Catherine had been offered a drink too before they killed her.

"Oh, before I forget," Harold said, sliding a shaky hand into his coat pocket, "I brought a little something for your family."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that." Mr. Wilmington said, sounding touched by the gesture. The good nature didn't go past his lying lips and certainly didn't come close to his eyes. The man was amused more than touched, amused in the way you might be amused when a dog brings you the ball on the first throw.

Ultimate, that's all Harold was to these people.

A momentary entertainment for people with nothing better to do.

"I just wanted you to know how much this means to me to be able to pay you back for even a fraction of what you've done for this town," Harold said as he lay the envelope on the table. His hands shook as he did so, and his fingers released the envelope as it still hung over the surface of the antique table. His glass tumbled to the floor too but didn't break as it spilled its contents onto the rich carpet. His words came out furry, muzzy, and his tongue felt like it was getting heavy already.

Mr. Wilmington looked at the envelope, puzzled, for a fraction of a second, but then the sitting-room door opened, and his wife and two children entered. They were all dressed in their best, the son in a black suit like his father's and the little girl in a sparkly gown like her mother. As the four arrayed before him, he could see the hands held guiltily behind their backs. Harold felt woozy. Sedatives had a way of doing that, Harold thought. As he began to settle into paralysis, Harold thought of Catherine again. She had probably sat in this same chair as she waited for her own death to come.

Catherine.

Catherine had been a rare flower growing in this dung heap. For Catherine and his son, it had been love at first sight. They'd been together since the first day of kindergarten, her hand in his when she got scared. Duncan had never balked her with the usual little boy superstitions about cooties or girls being gross. He had loved Catherine and had always been there to protect her. When they officially began dating in Highschool, their love was only a secret to the two of them. Catherine, however, had other suitors who would have loved nothing more than to see Duncan gone. Chief among them was Jacob Wilmington. He had seen her in town, visited the coffee shop she worked at every day just to pass a few words with her, and eventually tried to court her in his rich and less than subtle way. Many women would have been swayed by the pull of the Wilmington fortune. To Catherine's credit, she had eyes only for Duncan. Catherine had been the kindest woman Harold had ever known. Harold's wife had passed away when Duncan was barely out of diapers, and he thought of Catherine as the woman his son had been waiting for since then. They'd had ten wonderful years together, and Harold had always been welcome in their home. When Sophie had been born, their family seemed complete.

The shadow of Jacob Wilmington, however, never quite left their home.

Jacob had been furious when she declined his proposal, days after Duncan had given her his ring. He'd sworn it would be the last mistake she'd ever make. Harold was sure that Jacob had wanted to choose Catherine that very year, but his father forbade it. Carver Wilmington, the rat-faced man on the bandstand, had said such an act would be as spiteful as it would be shameful. He'd said it loud enough for the commons to hear one December when he refused to stop for Catherine as she stood by the corner on her way home and chided his son for thinking such a thing was proper.

"Such as you would tarnish our traditions. I weep for the day you take my place as head of this household."

But, Harold supposed, Jacob had his revenge now, didn't he?

When Carver passed two years ago, Jacob had made his choice clear.

His children were the same age as Sophie, but it seemed that time hadn't softened Jacob's grudge. He'd come to the house that year, showed up on their doorstep, and personally invited Catherine to Christmas Eve dinner. She'd declined, thinking she had some choice in the matter, but she had over-estimated Jacob's love for her. Sitting in their living room with Sophie, Harold had known she had no such option and had heard clearly Jacob's veiled threats. Duncan had come out then, railing and threatening, but Jacob had made it very clear that his invitation was not negotiable.

"Either you join my family for Christmas Eve dinner, Catherine, or your whole family does."

She'd gone meekly when the time came, and she'd never been seen again.

Duncan had hung himself six days later, on New Year's Eve, and sealed the desolation of his family.

Harold had often had doubts about that. The Wilmington's had proven that they could snatch people in the night over years of Christmas Eve snatchings. How hard would it have been to make his son's death look like a suicide? Harold had watched the same monster that sat across from him now sit across from Duncan and accept all his verbal abuse with a smile on his face. How much rage had swam beneath that mask, though?

A hard slap rocked his head, and he momentarily came out of his daze.

Jacob Wilmington's grin was less senatorial than it had been. Now it looked like something on a mental patient at a sanitarium as he crouched over Harold's chest with a knife in his hand. It was a big silver butcher knife, its handle inlaid with gold and runes, and Jacob probably thought it symbolic or something. Maybe his father had even used it, and his father's father, but to Harold, it was just another knife suitable for only one job.

Killing.

"We didn't want you to miss the party, old man. We wanted you awake for the last few moments of your life."

The children, in their haste, were cutting his arms to the bone and looked up at him gleefully as they did so. Their cherubic smiles and polite town manners were cast aside. Now they stood as grinning imps who knew only how to cut and torture. Jacob Wilmington slid the knife along Harold's cheek, and though he couldn't scream, he could feel every cut as it ground against him. Mrs. Wilmington cowered behind them, however, unsure of her place. The others barely noticed, though. Mrs. Wilmington had been from some old money elsewhere, likely elsewhere where these sorts of things are still considered barbaric instead of traditional. A white-hot pain lanced across his face as one eye went dark forever. Jacob, the bastard, had wrenched it out with his hands, and now he threw it into the fireplace as Harold watched with his dying breaths.

"Don't worry, Harold, we'll get your granddaughter next year. Then both your line and hers will be extinguished from this town forever. What do you say to that, Harold?" he asked as he dragged the knife over the old man's throat. Harold watched the blood patter onto Jacob's upturned face, and with his dying breath, he whispered his final words into that lunatic grin.

"I doubt it."

Then everything went blissfully black, and Harold went to whatever fate awaits us all.

* * * * *

The Wilmingtons pushed back from the table, and Jacob dabbed at his mouth with clear satisfaction. It was one of the best Christmas Dinners he'd ever eaten, better by far because it had come at the life of an enemy. The Straubs had taken something from him, and Jacob had sworn that he would never forgive and never forget. Catherine should have been his! Had been his at the end, hadn't she? And for Duncan Straub to take his own life and steal the pleasure away from Jacob was...unthinkably selfish. Duncan had been his to end, his greatest enemy, and then for Harold Straub to take away the privilege of killing his last blood descendant…

Harold had needed to pay too.

And now he had.

He looked across at Clara and saw that she hadn't eaten her dinner. Her salad, yes, her soup, yes, but her meat sat untouched. She had always been like this. Father indulged her, "If she doesn't want to participate, Jacob, then she doesn't have to. This is a Wilmington Tradition after all", but Jacob would hear none of it. He'd forced her to eat some of Catherine, hadn't he? Now she turned her nose up at the rituals of his family again.

"Clara, you haven't touched your meal," he said icily.

Zachary yawned, his plate clean, but Jacob ignored him as he wiped a piece of bread around to get the last of his dinner.

Clara jumped, taken out of whatever silent thoughts she'd been thinking, and looked at him with real fear, "I... wasn't hungry," she blurted, "you know the ritual always turns my stomach, dear. I can't stand the blood." she said, wrinkling her nose at the thought.

An excuse, but an excuse that he would let her keep until they were alone.

He knew better than his father; she would eat her dinner.

"Well, since you're not hungry," he flicked the letter at her, "why don't you see what old Harold brought us for Christmas."

Barbara was fidgeting in her seat, making small unhappy noises as she clutched her stomach. Zachary had bent over the table and was quietly snoring in a pool of gravy he had spilled. Jacob felt his own stomach do a little flop, but that was normal. Human stomachs were not used to such rich meat as this, and he knew it would pass after his bowel movement later tonight. Clara picked up the letter, stained a little where it had fallen onto her plate, and opened it with shaky hands. The letter was large, three pages, and she read it aloud in her trained and cultured voice.

"Last Christmas, you took my son and my daughter-in-law from me. More than that, you took away the love of a family, something I will never see again. So this year I bring a gift to you, a gift you can share with the whole town. I bring to you," she paused and looked up at Jacob, unsure whether she should read the next part or not.

"Well?" her husband prompted.

"I bring to you... the fall of the Wilmingtons."

She paused again but then read on, unable to stop herself.

"When I was in the war, we were stationed in a part of Germany known as Das Alte Land. It was called so because they kept the old ways and the old gods that were as strange to us as they were to many of the Nazi forces. You see, there were cannibals in the woods, old hill people who would come out and attack towns so they could take meat back in worship of their dark gods. They would eat the townspeople, crack their bones and drink their marrow, but only in the winter months. If this sounds familiar, it's because your family is likely a branch of that particular tree. You do not do it out of respect for the old ways, though. You do it because you have always done it. You do it because you are greedy and like the power it gives you over Squiredale.

But the people of one small town knew of a way to stop you; a punishment that certainly fits the crime."

Jacob was cold as she read it, and for the first time in his life, he felt real fear course through him. Zachary grunted in his sleep, but Jacob thought it might be a little watery for his liking. As he looked over at his only son, he saw the table cloth stained with long runners of red liquid that leaked from Zachary's mouth. Barbara was crying now, big silent tears, and as she wiped at them, her arms came away streaked with red in long crimson tracks. He touched his own eye as something slid from it, and his finger came away wet and red.

"They chose one person, Das Edle Opfer, and sent them from the village when they knew the cannibals were coming. The person would usually volunteer, and often it was someone old or sick who knew they wouldn't survive the winter anyway. They made a sacrifice for the good of the community, Jacob. Something as foreign to you as the idea of mercy. The cannibals would find and devour the person, but as they ate the flesh, the trap would be sprung. When they consumed the meat, they took a concoction of many different poisons inside them. I won't bore you with its mixing in your last few moments of life, but it's quite hard to get all these ingredients in the states and very costly to the mixer. I acquired the necessary ingredients after you invited me to dinner, and the concoction was brewed and drank not an hour before I finished writing this letter."

Barbara had stopped crying now. Her head was face down on the table, and as her mother had been reading, Jacob had received a front-row seat to his own fate. She had bled from the eyes, from the ears, her tongue had swollen in her mouth, choking her, and her last few cries had been gurgles of sheer terror. Zachary had stopped breathing before his sister and now lay in a puddle of his own blood. Jacob wondered how long he had before his blood came oozing out. He could already feel the red tears begin to slide down his face, but he was powerless to stop his wife from finishing.

"You see, it has to be timed just right. Otherwise, the poison will eat its way through the stomach of the drinker and kill them most painfully. The eating of the stomach lining, however, is what brings it into the blood, which ensures that it will taint the meat and be ingested by the target. I have only guessed that you eat those you invite to your home, but seeing what I saw in the war, I am very sure of my guess. I would wish you one final hope as you likely lay dying"

Jacob pitched forward, convulsing a little as his eyes ran with blood. He vomited then, expectorating thick red fluid that swam with undigested dinner. His tongue swelled up to block the rest of the spew as it came up, and the rest flowed into his lungs as Jacob choked on his dinner. As he fell into a pool of his own sick, twitching in his death throws, his wife finished the last of the letter.

"I pray I made for a Christmas Eve Dinner you will never forget."

And that was how, on December 24th, at 10:07 pm, Mrs. Clara Wilmington reported the death of her husband, Jacob Wilmington, and their two children, Zachary and Barbara Wilmington. She told the state police about the years of torture, the years of murders, the years of cannibalism, and the sacrifice of Harold Straub.

And you, constant reader, can be sure that it was a Christmas Eve that no one in Squiresdale ever forgot.