Bad Christmas

The name evoked memories. Bad memories. That time of year intended by everyone to be so joyous, so happy, so incredibly wonderful had, for once, been destroyed by what had happened.

As I drove along the winding country road on that evil November evening, the sight of the faded rotten signpost dragged my mind out of autopilot - that mysterious condition that affects me whenever I drive long distances. The ability to drive along in full control of a car for four, five hours, and remember next to nothing about the journey. Suddenly, there it was. Half falling, half leaning against a bramble bush on the brow of a hill. The sign read, ‘Bad Christmas’.

‘Damn silly name for a place’ was my immediate reaction. But the shock of the sight lingered, and I found myself fighting the urge to turn around and forget the party, forgot that I was already late, and just go to see, just to look at what sort of a place could be named in such a way.

But conscience got the better of me and I soon found myself laughing and drinking, doing the usual sorts of things that are done on these occasions. Still, in the back of my mind I was obsessed with that name. My intrigue became even more acute when I uttered the name of the place to my host. The room seemed to stand still at its mention….

‘No-one mentions that name around here’ came a voice from amongst the throng of silent places. ‘You’ll do well to forget you ever saw it - mark my words.’

The party soon got back to life, and I tried to enjoy myself, but his words kept me captivated, kept me nervous and yet somehow excited. I went into the empty kitchen to refill my glass from the large, round punchbowl, and was followed by a young girl. A girl with the blackest hair, bluest eyes and smoothest skin I had ever seen. She looked at me strangely, a certain fascination in her eyes. ‘I know what you’re thinking’ she said, holding me spellbound. ‘I too have felt the same way for a long time. That name, that place, I can’t get them out of my thoughts. I can tell you fell the same way. Let’s go. Now. To see for ourselves. Let’s go. Please?’

At once I knew I had to go there, had to be there to see if all the warnings were mere superstition, or whether the place would live up to its reputation. The punch bowl must have clouded my judgment, and we rushed out of the party as quickly as we could, out into the meadows surrounding the house. My companion said here name was Laura, and that she had only lived in the village for a few months. She too had experienced the way the name of Bad Christmas was mentioned in hushed, almost terrified tones, if at all.

In our excitement we had forgotten to collect coats, and soon the November mist swirled around us, licking at our heels and chilling our insides. We hurried onwards and soon we could see the brow of the hill ahead.

Around the corner we hurried, past THAT signpost, our hearts pounding as we grew more and more excited and yet more and more tense. The mist thickened and grew colder, and we huddled together for warmth as we scurried onwards. Along we went until we could see no further than our fingers, and the fog threatened to eat away at our very bones. Suddenly, a tall, dark shape loomed up in the night ahead of us. A church seemed to appear from the ground, and to our right we could barely make out the entrance to the churchyard. Then, Laura spoke.