Three Holiday Horrors

Litmora Literary Magazine/January 2024

Tradition

We arrived by carriage late afternoon Christmas Eve. I followed Beatrice to the living room where her parents and younger sister sat before the fire. 

“Hughe!” They all stood at once, bestowing a torrent of warm greetings, pats on the back, and offers of food and drink. 

That night, Bea and her father sang in duet, “Good King Wenceslas,” their voices smooth and delicious, like the toffee candies her mother had made. 

“Next year you can sing my part!” Bea’s father winked. 

Christmas day passed dreamily, as I sipped on the many drinks they offered, and I fell in and out of sleep while enjoying the scent and presence of the woman I loved. 

Late in the day, Bea’s father pulled me aside and said, “It’s time for men’s work.”

I obediently followed him out the back door where he pointed to a horse-drawn sleigh. He cracked a whip and we glided through the snowy acres of their farm to a clearing in the woods. 

“Now you’ll slaughter the pig.”

A pig meandered into view, nosing along the pristine patch of snow. 

I started to run but he grabbed me from the back, put the knife in my hands. 

“You will do this now. You must.”

I returned to the house covered in pig’s blood, disoriented and crying. 

The women encircled me, held me. 

“You’ve slayed the pig! You’ve slayed the pig!” they sang softly.

Bea led me upstairs, undressed and bathed me, caressing my shuddering body. 

She performed this impropriety without flinching. 

“I want to go home,” I said wearily. 

“You are home,” she said, drying my tears. “You’re part of this now, forever.” 

She held my wet head to her bosom and did not let go.