HE'S THE FRIGHT BEFORE Christmas

He breaks into your house.

With malice aforethought

Toward you and your spouse.

He’s stuffed Santa’s corpse

In the chimney, no care

The fire beneath, roasts it medium rare

The children are screaming

They’re trussed to their beds

Their scalps are exposed

Their eyes filled with dread.

Your spouse is stripped naked

In a chair you are strapped.

The fright is gifting you

A final dirt nap.

He dumps out his sack

Bloody knives go a clatter.

You scream and you scream,

But it just doesn’t matter.

He’s laughing and grinning

He approaches your wife,

Her flesh is aquiver

Awaiting the knife.

The lights on the tree

Atwinkling so bright

Are suddenly obscured

In the flash of the knife.

He’s slit one of her cheeks

How the blood does fly

He then sets his sights

On her left eye.

He’s picked up an ice pick

All rusty and red.

He shoves it in slowly

As she thrashes her head.

The eye explodes like a bubble,

He pulls it out of her head.

Her screams just get louder,

And so does his laugh.

I beg, plead, and threaten,

He pulls out a gaff.

It’s thrust through my tongue,

And with one twisting yank,

My tongue is removed,

My hopes were just sank.

I watch as he turns

His attention back to my wife.

He picks up a spike,

And laughs at her efforts

To beg for her life.

He spreads her legs wide

Her pussy exposed

He inserts the spike

And it curls all her toes.

He shoves it in deeper,

I struggle and weep.

My wife gasps and whimpers,

At the hands of this creep.

He leaves it inserted,

As he picks up a mallet.

He taps and then hammers

Like he’s dissembling a pallet.

The spike disappears

Deep inside my poor wife

She’s stopped begging and pleading

It’s near the end of her life.

But the Fright isn’t done,

Oh no, not by a mile.

He pulls down Santa’s body,

And says with a smile.

“Your dinner is ready,

Roasted just right to a turn.

And now it is time,

For a lesson to learn.”

“I’m the spirit of Christmas,

You made me this way.

Excluding, ignoring, and now you’re my prey.

You’ve grown fat on the lies

That society flaunts

But what you’ve forgotten

Are who those lies haunt.”

“Not Santa, not Krampus, not Rudolph, or the Grinch

Not Charlie Brown, Frosty, the Misers, or Pinch

You’ve all just been so naughty,

It can’t be ignored.

Your debt is just something,

That you can’t afford.

So now you must pay,

It’s more than you owe.

Your consumption of Santa,

Will be the final blow.

So open wide and get ready,

Cause dinner is ready, you know.

She can start on his penis,

I’ll sever it now,

Open up for your serving,

You miserable cow.

He shoves in the organ,

All flaccid and gray

My wife chews and swallows

It’s the only way.

The fright cuts off more chunks from the roast.

And takes them to my children

And yells in a boast.

“They’re eating with relish,

Like candy, I see.

Soon it’ll be your turn,

Then the end it will be.”

He re-enters laughing, and lops off a hunk

Of the dead Santa’s backside,

I can smell the stank funk

Of hours of sitting in a sleigh full of toys

Expecting to deliver the anticipated joys.

But he met up with the Fright,

On this cold, snowy night

As the Fright shoves it in, he dissolves from my sight.

But his last words echo, as out goes the light.

“Scary Christmas Wishes,

Yours Truly, The Fright”

About the Author:
J. Rocky Colavito (aka Dr. Damned) writes horror of many types as he transitions into retired life after forty-plus years of college teaching. In addition to short stories appearing in collections and magazines—Grindhouse Resurrection, The Sirens Call, Madame Gray’s Poe-Pourri of Terror, The Horror Zine, the inaugural issue of Carnage House, and a host of others—he is the creator of Buck Neighkyd, former porn star turned occult investigator. Buck’s adventures can be followed in serial form in Caveman Magazine, and his origin story, Creative Control, is available from Quest Omnimedia/The Caveman Adventure Library.