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at zola.com. That's zola.com. These

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aren't the stories your mother told you. No,

2:21

these are the other stories. What

2:44

a series of disturbing yet exceptionally

2:46

well produced short narrative dreams. Now

2:49

I see that Christmas isn't only a time for

2:51

merriment at all, it's a time for scares,

2:55

tragedy, misfortune and

2:57

malcontent. I have

2:59

a Christmas story. But Christmas? Am I too

3:02

late? Have I missed it? You

3:10

there! I say, boy, what day is it

3:12

today? Begging your pardon, sir?

3:15

Today, boy, what day is it

3:17

today? Why, today, sir, is

3:19

Christmas Day. I haven't missed

3:21

it. There's still time. Hang on. Why

3:24

do you produce that extra other than Ed Duncan? Is that

3:26

you? Yes, sir, it is. It's

3:28

a proud family tradition of mine to walk the streets

3:30

of town on a Christmas morning

3:32

in the event that any writers, having

3:35

had a supernatural epiphany, need any emergency

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editing done. A clever

3:40

lad indeed. Know you of a recording

3:42

space or studio in a location a

3:44

chance I allow for a beer of

3:47

festive doxing? Aye, sir. Well,

3:49

go a-knock for them while I get this

3:51

story typed up. We'll darken their Christmas

3:54

podcast feeds yet, I swear it. And

4:02

I, Luke Condor, was as good as my

4:04

word. I became a

4:06

swifter writer, a decisive editor, and

4:08

as darkly festive as any podcast

4:10

had known, and as I read

4:12

to you now, the Ghost of Christmas Never. I

4:15

leave you with thanks for listening along with us

4:17

for another year, for the writing submission scares and

4:20

the social media shares. No rich

4:22

gods, blesses. Everyone. Either

4:30

I wake up pissing or it's the pissing that wakes

4:32

me. The golden warmth isn't dripping

4:34

down my leg but upwards, soaking

4:37

through my hair and leaping clumsily from

4:39

the crown of my head, splashing somewhere

4:41

below. It

4:43

takes me three goldfish-mouthed blinks before I realise

4:45

that I must be upside down. Upside

4:48

down and in some sort of cocoon,

4:51

grey dark and shadow blue. It's

4:54

cold past the point of shivering, so cold

4:56

that when I finish urinating I mist the

4:58

heat. I try and fail to

5:00

squeeze out a little more. I

5:02

shouldn't have squeezed. The pain

5:04

is sudden and loud. I

5:07

scream. I

5:09

try to scream. Not much comes out

5:11

of the mist and rusty flavoured spit

5:13

and something that tastes like burnt stone.

5:16

Okay, I tell myself. This

5:18

is fine. I've been in worse

5:20

situations than this before. What

5:22

happened? I really haven't. The

5:25

closest I can think is the time I got my head stuck in

5:27

a fence. But this is... This

5:30

is next level stuck. I'm lodged

5:32

in like some wadded up tissue paper stuffed into

5:34

a drinking straw. What chest is it

5:36

the worst? It's like I'm a

5:38

roll of bubble wrap, scrunched up between two giant

5:41

hands. Unseen pockets of

5:43

air, fluid and perhaps my soul, all

5:45

threatening to pop at any moment. My

5:49

right shoulder is up against my cheek, smushing my

5:51

ear against the wall. My

5:53

left shoulder is drawn back, too far back,

5:55

almost certainly torn from the socket. I can't

5:58

feel it. Maybe

8:00

younger, shouting only the word

8:02

YES over and over.

8:05

He jumps up and down on the

8:07

spot. He drums his hands against the

8:09

wall, slams the door, stomps his feet.

8:11

More sun tumbles down, and I gag

8:13

as their excited rabbit steps foot down

8:16

the stairs. Two sets, bouncing and gleeful.

8:19

Then there is the dad. Merry Christmas!

8:22

He booms from somewhere beyond the walls. And

8:25

then the mum. Has Santa been? She

8:28

calls out. Still a little drunk on her sleep.

8:31

The door opens. It's louder.

8:33

Closer. A light switch clicks

8:35

and incandescent yellow light spills from somewhere

8:38

below into my chimney. My

8:40

vision readjusts once more as what

8:42

sounds like two insane elves explode

8:44

the squeals that Santa's been. Santa's

8:46

been. Santa's been. Santa's

8:49

been. Santa's been. Santa's

8:51

been. Santa has been. Santa

8:53

has been. Santa has been. I

8:56

can almost feel the Christmas excitement

8:58

blowing through the open fireplace, billowing

9:00

upwards in glittery gingerbread mist. It

9:02

makes my heart ache. Though that could

9:04

be the broken ribs of which I'm sure there are many. I

9:07

picture the presents. The heaps of shiny boxes

9:10

spreading out from beneath the tree like some

9:12

kind of yuletide mould. I

9:14

don't know why but the thought of it makes me angry. Guilty

9:17

and angry like, how

9:19

dare they make me feel this sad. On

9:21

Christmas day. A man stuck

9:24

in a chimney dying probably. Selfish

9:26

is what it is. Not very Christmasy. I

9:29

hope they get coal. Nothing

9:31

but a big lump of coal. I

9:34

try to shout this but barely a breath escapes

9:36

my teeth and there's no way I'll be heard

9:38

over the sweet maniacs below. I

9:41

open my mouth but. I

9:44

tell myself to wait. When

9:46

the dad would come. The mother. And

9:49

I will save up my breath. My spit. My

9:51

resolve. And I will call to them. The

9:54

adults will know what to do. They

9:56

could. I don't know. Get a

9:58

ladder. Perhaps some butter. So

10:02

I wait. But the parents don't

10:04

go downstairs, not immediately. I hear

10:06

them. More than I hear the kids

10:08

themselves. Muffled, sure, but closer,

10:10

as if they're talking through the wall

10:13

right next to where my head is

10:15

trapped, as if I'm included in their

10:17

secret conversation. Help, I

10:19

want to say. Fucking help

10:22

me. The words won't come,

10:24

though. I am less than a ghost to

10:26

them. And not even the kind

10:28

of ghost who can impart wisdom, prophecy,

10:30

or good cheer, not a ghost of

10:32

past, present, or future. I am nothing.

10:34

I am the ghost of Christmas, never.

10:37

I listen, but their words are clipped and

10:40

finished. Get through

10:44

days. Bone. Ruin.

10:47

The last. Family. Before.

10:50

Leave. Please think

10:53

of the... children,

10:55

I think. But I slip. Only

10:58

a little, about an inch. My

11:00

left shoulder drags against the brick. The entire

11:02

arm is beginning to feel like a snooker

11:04

ball in a sock made of skin,

11:06

the frat's scratching and tearing. I

11:09

decide to black out for a second. Against

11:12

my will, I mean. The pain

11:14

is... not quite real. It's

11:16

not that it's unreal, because let me tell

11:18

you, it sure as shit feels real, but

11:20

it's... overworldly. Beyond what I thought

11:23

pain could be. When I

11:25

finally unclench my teeth, I breathe and I

11:27

realize I have more room

11:29

now. I can breathe. I can

11:31

breathe, which means I can talk. So I

11:35

gather some air. I moisten my

11:37

lips, my tongue. The plan

11:39

is simple. I'm going

11:41

to scream. I'm going to scream like

11:43

I've never screamed before, because I

11:45

know now that if somebody doesn't find me soon, then

11:47

I will die in a chimney on

11:50

Christmas morning. I

11:52

open my mouth and I... not

11:54

yet. Not yet. The

11:56

parents, now finished with their discussion, are

11:59

heading downstairs. I wait for them to enter

12:01

the living room. No offence to the

12:03

kids, but they might not be best suited for pulling a

12:05

crippled man out of a chimney. So

12:07

I ready myself. And

12:09

just as I hear the floorboards creak beneath

12:12

what sounds like adult feet, I

12:14

open my mouth and I give it everything I have.

12:17

Nobody hears me though, because at that same

12:19

moment both children break into an ear piercing

12:21

rendition of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

12:25

I wait patiently and

12:27

painfully for them to finish all the

12:29

verses and all the choruses. And

12:31

then when they're done both the mum and dad

12:34

cheer, well done, well done, that was beautiful. Did

12:36

you practice that? Yeah, fuck off. And

12:39

all the while I feel my shoulder bone pulling

12:41

loose. I feel each piano

12:43

string twang as I shift, the

12:45

strange inner fibres fraying like twine.

12:48

More dust tumbles down, more ash,

12:50

more blood. When they're

12:53

finished there is a blissful silence, which

12:56

I attempt to split into with my biggest

12:58

scream yet. This time

13:00

as I wail though, somebody clicks on a

13:02

stereo and all I want for Christmas explodes

13:04

into life. Mariah Carey

13:06

hits her famous whistle notes and my

13:08

pained screams hit a major third harmony.

13:11

Wow! I think through my blood-stained tears.

13:14

That sounded pretty good. Another switch

13:16

is flicked and the chimney fills with twirling

13:18

Christmas lights. Mariah Carey finishes up and I

13:20

slip another inch and now it feels like

13:23

my arm is supposed to come off. Like

13:25

the leg of a cooked Christmas turkey. That's

13:28

my favourite. Christmas turkey. I

13:31

think I was going to eat that today with my

13:33

own family. Oh

13:35

yeah. Shame washes

13:37

over me as I half remember the drink now,

13:40

the stink and sin of it. I

13:42

recall the stumble home, the

13:45

living room window and I... Can

13:47

we open the presents now, Daddy? says the

13:49

little girl. Not

13:52

just yet, we've got to get everything perfect. Honey,

13:55

can you grab me the lighter from the kitchen? Yes.

13:58

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