M nine Story Studios giving story a voice. Hello, and welcome to the
Christmas Eve edition of Gifts for the Wicked. Today, I'm presenting two short
tales that were a bit too long to be drabbles. The idea was to
give you all a daily tale in the tradition of advent calendars, where each
day between Thanksgiving and Christmas had a small treat leading up to the big day.
I'm guessing most of you know a drabble is a complete story in a
hundred words, and I hope you enjoyed the daily tales. If you'd like
a video version of this episode, check out our YouTube channel. Sincere thank
you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without you, this
show would not be possible. Our authors and everyone else involved in making the
show. Thank you for your support of this show and of independent horror fiction.
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others find the show. Thank you too, Jesse Hawk for the amazing cover
art feature throughout the series, and without further ado, please enjoy your Christmas
Eve with two dark tails Jessica mccughs Do You See What I See? Scored
by Nico Vitanze and My Tale You'll Tied Ride Do You See What I See?
By Jessica mckugh. She died alone in a house full of people,
while music and laughter swelled like cigar smoke, and the other rooms of the
Blackwood Home, mariez room was silent. Even the snow on her empty window
box fell louder than her final breath, and she was glad of it.
Snow had such a short time to tell its story, and she'd had plenty.
She'd lived as an ornament, glittering like a snowflake and frozen lace,
and it hadn't served her well. The time had come to melt. The
annual Blackwood Christmas party stretched on, with no one wondering what became of Marie,
and why would they. She'd baked cookies and hung stockings, She'd set
out the gilded crystal punch bowl. What else could she do but fade into
the background. The kids rarely thought of anyone but themselves, and Jerome was
only attentive when he had something to hide, which he usually did with cocktails
fueling the festivities. The family's blind spots bled through them, like the feathered
ink on a blank check. That's where Marie hid to make her preparations.
She wasn't hasty, and the weeks before the party she waved red flags like
a matador, inviting someone to change her mind, but her efforts went largely
unnoticed. Jerome thanked her for the lack of gift debris that year, but
didn't connect the lack of debris to the lack of gifts. The kids expressed
gratitude that she wasn't nagging them about watering the Christmas tree, but no one
noticed it was dead by the morning of the party. Brown needles littered the
tree skirt, which was just one piece of holiday to core she used to
cover the tubes running from the gas guzzling beasts in the garage and throughout the
Blackwood Home tinsel Marie discovered hit a multitude of sins alcohol two, though she
didn't drink that day. The Blackwoods would blame the cocktails for every blush and
dizzy spell, if only to explain their own those spirits were involved. The
pinholes and the tubing were harder at work. As Marie Wooseley made her way
into the bedroom to the drowsy end. The family remained blissfully ignorant to her
plan her death and to the first three Missus Blackwoods watching them choke on air.
The title of Missus Blackwood was ephemeral as snow, and just as burdened
by beauty that dazzled and warmed and unmade itself within a season. And like
snow, what they left behind was drastically different from what they'd been at their
peaks. Something once so lovely and unique became filthy slush, more cursed than
memory, more stained than ghost. The Blackwood Home was rife with stains.
Jerome and the kids were too conceited to see in life, and had followed
them into death. They couldn't see the police who discovered their bodies two days
later, nor the former matriarchs that conspired against them. They couldn't even see
each other as they walked from room to room. They'd woken alone in a
house full of people, and they would never know. You'll tide, ride
by, Daniel Voytek. Lock your doors, it doesn't matter. Hide the
children, it doesn't matter. I am coming. Now is the time of
the long dark nights of winter, when spirits howl at your windows. In
the chill air, you feel the cold and the dark. Deep inside you
feel the primal fear. Trim your trees, light your candles, sing your
songs, pretend to feel safe. I am coming. My minions have finished
their long work. I watch as they fill my dark carriage with sack upon
sack of gifts. I dance as they tacked my great beasts with leather and
bridle and reins. I laugh as the beast snorked and snicker, and prance
in place, Gather for protection, Laugh to cover your fear, Drink to
break and sleep, pray against the night. I am coming Now. My
pire burns laden with halfer and fear and missile. The holy smoke rises,
and I call to the ancient ones who sired me. The sky ribbles and
glows with ethereal light. The barrier thins, and I prepare for my entry
into your realm. I come now from the great North. I arrived through
the dark night. I soar. I come hunting as you sleep into your
homes. I am here you sleep, you are children sleep? Did you
leave offerings? The Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios LLLC. All
rights reserved. Merry Christmas and to all a dark night.