Read Online The Undead That Saved Christmas Vol. 2 by ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics
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was closing the curtains in Tiny Mikey's room after tucking him in. He looked out at the rows of houses along the street, and frowned. He found Catherine in the sitting room, sewing a large 'M' onto a giant red sock with gold piping.
“You know,” he said, sitting down and taking up a string of lights to unravel, “why we have the best tree in town, the brightest lights, the biggest turkey, the most presents?”
“Hmmm,” Catherine mused, not taking her eyes from her project. “Why?”
“Because everybody else seems to have forgotten about Christmas.”
She looked up now, one eyebrow raised in a simple invitation – 'do go on Dear.'
“Every house on the street is in darkness. Not one silhouette, not one fairy light.” Harry threw up his hands in indignation, as if it was beyond his comprehension. “Not one have I seen bring in a tree, or even a ladder to get decorations from the attic.”
Catherine shrugged. “Everyone has been sick, maybe it has set them back. Besides,” she paused and stretched out the stocking, admiring her handiwork, “what does it matter? We will have Christmas, and it will be the best.”
* * *
December twenty-second. Harry was struggling into the yard, lugging his own weight in holly. It was the most verdant holly, with the thickest, brightest clusters of berries. He was passing the greenhouse when Whiskers, Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door's cat, suddenly leapt up on the fence.
Harry shooed it and waved whatever free fingers he had to try and startle it. They couldn't have her digging up the fake poinsettia or scratching at the outdoor Christmas tree. Not when it was so close to the big day. He craned his neck, trying to see around his load, almost tripping on the trailing branches.
The cat ignored him. Well, she ignored his order, at least. She hissed at him, her kitty spittle spraying. Her back was arched, the hair standing up on it, reminding him of one of those crazy hairdo's you see on kids in the city.
He stopped, a little wary of the animal. It was skinny. Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door probably hadn't been looking after it properly, in her convalescence. Harry kicked the foot of the fence below where Whiskers was perched.
“Get lost you mangy article,” he muttered.
The cat leapt at him, hissing through the air. She landed on the back of his head, digging her claws in to cling on. Harry roared. The cat hissed. She kicked with her back legs, the nails dragging deep chunks out of his neck. He dropped the holly and grabbed her. He pulled, she clung on, yanking his skin along with her. She hoisted herself on top of his head, using his scalp as leverage.
Harry batted at her paws, trying to keep them away from his eyes. Her forepaws latched onto his cheeks and she pulled herself down, clamping her jaws around the tip of his nose. He screamed and caught her by the neck. Her hisses turned to gurgles and her claws instinctively relaxed; not much, but enough for him to tear her off and fling her over the fence.
He stood in the garden, panting. His pile of holly surrounded his feet, as though he sprouted from it. Some of the lovely berries had gotten squashed in the struggle and he felt a tang of regret.
When he came into the kitchen, all scratched up and bleeding, Catherine yelped and sat him down. While he explained, she mopped and patched. He felt ridiculous with a large swaddling of gauze covering his nose.
“The poor thing was probably starving,” she said when she had done what she could. “Perhaps I should go and check on Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door.”
Harry slapped the table. “To hell with Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door!” he barked. “I've just been attacked.”
Catherine smiled, but it looked forced. Her eyes warned him – 'we do not shout at Christmas.'
“The cut on your nose looks nasty, but you'll live.” She put on her coat and went to the door. “Now go deck the halls. It's only three days until Christmas.”
When she came back
“You know,” he said, sitting down and taking up a string of lights to unravel, “why we have the best tree in town, the brightest lights, the biggest turkey, the most presents?”
“Hmmm,” Catherine mused, not taking her eyes from her project. “Why?”
“Because everybody else seems to have forgotten about Christmas.”
She looked up now, one eyebrow raised in a simple invitation – 'do go on Dear.'
“Every house on the street is in darkness. Not one silhouette, not one fairy light.” Harry threw up his hands in indignation, as if it was beyond his comprehension. “Not one have I seen bring in a tree, or even a ladder to get decorations from the attic.”
Catherine shrugged. “Everyone has been sick, maybe it has set them back. Besides,” she paused and stretched out the stocking, admiring her handiwork, “what does it matter? We will have Christmas, and it will be the best.”
* * *
December twenty-second. Harry was struggling into the yard, lugging his own weight in holly. It was the most verdant holly, with the thickest, brightest clusters of berries. He was passing the greenhouse when Whiskers, Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door's cat, suddenly leapt up on the fence.
Harry shooed it and waved whatever free fingers he had to try and startle it. They couldn't have her digging up the fake poinsettia or scratching at the outdoor Christmas tree. Not when it was so close to the big day. He craned his neck, trying to see around his load, almost tripping on the trailing branches.
The cat ignored him. Well, she ignored his order, at least. She hissed at him, her kitty spittle spraying. Her back was arched, the hair standing up on it, reminding him of one of those crazy hairdo's you see on kids in the city.
He stopped, a little wary of the animal. It was skinny. Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door probably hadn't been looking after it properly, in her convalescence. Harry kicked the foot of the fence below where Whiskers was perched.
“Get lost you mangy article,” he muttered.
The cat leapt at him, hissing through the air. She landed on the back of his head, digging her claws in to cling on. Harry roared. The cat hissed. She kicked with her back legs, the nails dragging deep chunks out of his neck. He dropped the holly and grabbed her. He pulled, she clung on, yanking his skin along with her. She hoisted herself on top of his head, using his scalp as leverage.
Harry batted at her paws, trying to keep them away from his eyes. Her forepaws latched onto his cheeks and she pulled herself down, clamping her jaws around the tip of his nose. He screamed and caught her by the neck. Her hisses turned to gurgles and her claws instinctively relaxed; not much, but enough for him to tear her off and fling her over the fence.
He stood in the garden, panting. His pile of holly surrounded his feet, as though he sprouted from it. Some of the lovely berries had gotten squashed in the struggle and he felt a tang of regret.
When he came into the kitchen, all scratched up and bleeding, Catherine yelped and sat him down. While he explained, she mopped and patched. He felt ridiculous with a large swaddling of gauze covering his nose.
“The poor thing was probably starving,” she said when she had done what she could. “Perhaps I should go and check on Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door.”
Harry slapped the table. “To hell with Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door!” he barked. “I've just been attacked.”
Catherine smiled, but it looked forced. Her eyes warned him – 'we do not shout at Christmas.'
“The cut on your nose looks nasty, but you'll live.” She put on her coat and went to the door. “Now go deck the halls. It's only three days until Christmas.”
When she came back
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