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Welcome to a Tremorphonic Christmas special. Today's horror story, Satan's Claws, is a Christmas

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themed horror story. As always, it was written as a project of passion and is free to listen to.

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Please visit Tremorphonic.com, follow our @Tremorphonic social media and podcast

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accounts, and share our posts and stories to a wider audience. This is Satan's Claws.

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It's often been wondered why the small Yorkshire village of Penningham has

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suffered such high rates of infant mortality. Over the course of history many have put it

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down to something in the water or something in the soil of the surrounding hills that has

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affected the babies themselves or in some way influenced the mothers to be neglectful.

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In more recent years the blame has moved on to 'those damned phone masts' and their 'deadly signals.'

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However, these theories have been widely disproven. The neighboring communities, whose

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water is supplied from the same reservoir, have no similar issues of sudden infant death syndrome,

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and the nearest phone mast is in fact in one of the unaffected neighboring villages.

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Strange too is the frequency with which buildings of law and order suffer fire damage in Penningham.

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In the last hundred years alone the town has seen three magistrates' courts and five

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police stations burned to the ground with fire departments helpless to stop the blaze.

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But nobody is willing to believe the history of the place,

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a story from around 1500 years ago which many have dismissed as a corrupted fairy tale.

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But the reason so many fairy tales tend to be so dark is to act as warnings to future

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generations to remind them of life lessons learned long ago, which still apply today.

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Many of the stories are just that, fables of fanciful adventures but some... some are true.

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In the first half of the first millennium the village of Penningham (then named Poena-Inga-Ham)

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already existed: a prime location near the river on a fertile valley floor where crops would grow.

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At the time its status was more than the village is today. It was the local market town, a central

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point for trade for the whole valley. As a result the town grew and grew, the residents spent their

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plentiful income frivolously, that was until one year the crops were affected by disease.

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A disease that grew worse the next year and began to drive away the visiting trade

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leaving many of the townsfolk with nothing; no money, no food, and no way to make a living.

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Upon the hill behind the village next to a vast willow tree sat a rundown shack.

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Rumors in the town spoke of the old miser that used to live there who never showed his face and

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never spent a penny on local trade. He was said to have died 20 years ago, alone, and his property

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had been left to rot by his estranged family. Part of this was true - the owner of the house had indeed

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been a lonely hermit, estranged from his family, who saved every penny he could and spent very little.

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He was hoping to move his life to a larger town where he could make a fresh start,

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however, he had not died. He had simply lived within his means, farming crops

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and chickens in his secluded garden. He had no desire to be around people.

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Once per week, on market day, he ventured into town to sell his excess produce, but nobody

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knew him. Everyone assumed he was just another traveling salesman from a neighboring settlement.

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But when he heard of the town's struggle with disease and poverty

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he realized that his frivolous saving could be their salvation.

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From his humble sales of his own produce he had saved more than enough money to make his move away

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from the town, but had grown a distaste for human company and had decided to stay put in Penningham.

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The hermit had amassed a sack full of gold coins, a sack so heavy it had to be supported on his back,

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and it was this sack that he hoped to use to save the village from famine.

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With just one gold coin a family could travel to a neighboring valley's market and stock themselves

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with food to last a winter. The hermit, though, wished to remain unknown. The last thing he wanted

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was people knocking down his door in hope of more handouts, so he devised a plan. On Christmas Eve

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he would dress in green, paint his face in mud and wind ivy around his body - his plan was to blend in

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with every bush and tree he passed so nobody would spot him. He would take his sack and creep to each

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house where he'd climbed the thatch upon their roof to the one space he could deliver a gift from -

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the chimney, or hole that let the fire's smoke escape the dwelling. From there he would drop each family

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a single gold coin into their fireplace to be found upon the embers in the morning.

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And so, when Christmas Eve came, he enacted his plan,

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creeping unnoticed from rooftop to rooftop, sharing his wealth with his community.

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When he reached the town square, where rooftops were tiled, his disguise served him less well.

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Indeed, the tiles gave no purchase or handhold, and were slippery underfoot. One tile was loose and slid

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from under him, but while he caught himself from falling he had no way to stop the tile. The Roman

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road below was cobbled and the tile shattered upon impact. A nearby night-watchman startled and turned.

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As he realized what had shattered he looked up to see a dark green suspicious figure upon the roof

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of the home of one of the wealthiest families in the town. Immediately he cried out 'Thief!'

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The watchmen turned and stumbled on the cobbles as he ran towards the town's assembly bell

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in the middle of the town square. 'Thief!' he shouted again as curtains began to

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twitch and lanterns began to alight in the surrounding windows. The hermit froze. This

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was the opposite of his intention but how would he convince the people of his altruistic intent?

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He just wanted to give. His instinct kicked in and he began to run back across the rooftops

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as he heard the Bell start ringing behind him. As he jumped from tile to thatch he lost his footing

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and slid down to where the sloping roof met the ground, but now he was in the street. His sack of

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coins... where was it now? He looked up to see its shadow upon the tiled roof he'd slipped upon,

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there was no fetching it now, that would have to wait. So he turned to run when... thud. All went black.

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All went silent. The hermit soon came round but when he did he could hear clamoring shouts from the

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townsfolk. His limbs were tied and a bag covered his head, so while he could not see the faces of

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his accusers he could hear every dirty word they called him. The townsfolk were accusing him of

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trying to steal Christmas, taking from the families who already suffered with little to no possessions.

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When finally the sack was removed from his head he found that he was staged above them looking

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up at him. But when he looked down to his feet he realized that it was no stage he stood upon,

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but a pyre of broken wood, and his limbs were bound to a stake behind his back.

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'Let me speak!' he shouted to little avail. The townspeople were too angry to listen and continued

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their tumultuous cries of rage. 'Let me speak!' The watchman heard and raised a hand to the

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crowd, at which their noise fell to a murmur. 'Let's hear him before we lay final judgment.'

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The watchman said as if generously giving the hermit a chance.

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'My name is Nicholas, I live at the house under the willow tree. I wanted to save your Christmas!'

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The watchman leant in, 'Nicholas is dead! He's been gone 20 years. How dare you pretend to be one of

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us! We don't know you.' 'Remove the mud from my face, I sell at the market every week, you'll know me!'

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But by this time the clamor of the crowd had grown again and nobody could hear.

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Three men In black cloaks carried burning torches to different sides of the pyre

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and set the kindling alight. 'I'm one of you, I was trying to help, I have money to help you all!'

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But it was too late. Nobody listened. The flames crept higher and higher, licking at Nicholas' feet

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As his toes and heels began to singe his cries of agony filled the town

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but the crowd got louder still with cheers of self-congratulation.

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Nicholas could barely breathe in enough flesh-flavored smoke to let out his cries of pain

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and despair. His clothes had melted to his skin and charred chunks of flesh fell away underneath

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him. He thought his legs might have become free, but no, they simply had ceased to be under him. As his

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hair and beard singed and caught ablaze he found himself inhaling flames in his attempt to breathe.

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With his head tilted skyward, and every inch of skin blackened and ablaze, he gave in to his fate

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and breathed no more. His frozen screaming pose lasted seconds before his body crumbled to ash.

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The cheers had climaxed, the crowd grew quieter, but then... they were silent. The watchman looking

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out at the crowd paused his grins of glory as they were replaced by a look of silent confusion.

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Every face in the crowd was looking up above the pyre into the thick billowing plume of smoke.

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As rain started to fall A deep, booming voice spoke, 'No good deed goes unpunished.'

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The Watchman turned and peered through the thick black soot in front of him. There was nobody there, but when he stepped back

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a humanoid shape had formed from the blackened cloud, but this was no human.

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'Your ignorance and desperation led you to burn an innocent, your friend and neighbor,

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a man who was trying to help this town out of its depression. All of you allowed this

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to happen with your inability to see the good in this world amongst the bad.

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I have watched this town for a long time, longer than any of you could know,

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but this is far from the first time that judgment has been passed on the innocent without fair trial.

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But this instance is such an insult to the good people of your world. For that this town shall be

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cursed. Whenever there is a supposed transgression in this town, if any member of a family misjudge

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the nice to be naughty, their last born child shall be collected on this night, Christmas Eve,

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and that child's pure soul shall be mine to punish for their families misdeeds.'

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With that the creature in the Smoke reached out a huge, scaly, three-fingered hand towards the crowd.

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As the hand hovered overhead, the three fingers each pointed to one of the only three children

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that were present. 'I shall start tonight.' Each of the creature's fingertips opened

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slightly as razor sharp claws extended so suddenly the movement was barely perceptible.

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But in that instant the claws, four feet in length, impaled those children from head to toe.

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Many in the crowd tried to scream but found themselves unable, as if some force prevented them.

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'Shh, quiet now. Your Christmas night should now be a silent time of reflection...

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and collection.' The creature withdrew its vast hand taking with it each child's limp

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and lifeless body, hanging from the claws. They disappeared into the smoke and then

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the creature was gone. The fire still raged but the townsfolk looked at each other in disbelief.

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Without a word, and with no cries, every person turned and walked towards their home. And there

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the story ends... at least, the fairy tale. But every year since the creature collects on his promise,

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come to judge those who feel they have the right to declare the difference between the good and

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the bad in society. Records don't exist dating back to those times, but as soon as population records

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began in the 12th century it was already apparent that the young were not safe in Penningham.

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Nobody knows for sure where legends are born from

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but be certain to remember the 'Naughty or Nice' list is not for you to write.

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Thank you for listening to Satan's Claws, a Christmas special from Tremorphonic.

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Satan's Claws was written, performed, recorded, and edited by Richard Wilson, with music samples from

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Fesliyan Studios and Pixabay don't forget to follow Tremorphonic on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram,

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YouTube and tremophonic.com and keep an eye on podcast channels for our upcoming stories.

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As a self-funded project we would appreciate any support you might be

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willing to give us on www.patreon.com/tremorphonic. Thank you for listening.