Candy Cain Kills, page 1
Advanced Praise for Candy Cain Kills
"Hark! Hear Brian McAuley sing! Glory to his newborn slasher’s swing! Peace on earth and mercy have gone away, 'cause Candy Cain is here to slay!"
Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Ghost Eaters
“While I’m not saying that enjoying this blood-soaked book will land you on Santa’s naughty list, I am saying that reading Candy Cain Kills is absolutely worth the lump of coal you’ll find in your stocking. McAuley’s ability to craft a page-turner is unrivalled. I have no doubt that reading this book will quickly become every horror fan’s favourite Christmas tradition.”
Caitlin Marceau, award-winning author of This Is Where We Talk Things Out
"Brian McAuley has quickly earned a spot on my Must-Read list. His fiction has a cinematic quality, and you're guaranteed a good time!"
Brian Keene
Praise for Curse of the Reaper
"McAuley excels at balancing the psychological against the supernatural, but he’s even better at satirizing the Hollywood machine. Curse of the Reaper is a very funny book… but when McAuley turns to horror in earnest, he goes hard.”
Esquire’s Best Horror Books of 2022
"At times deliriously fun and delightfully gory. Its blood-filled heart, however, is its main characters and their personal struggles… This book is a must for fans of the slasher genre.”
Library Journal
“Curse of the Reaper is sinister in execution, creeping through each chapter until the sharp blade of carefully revealed plot twists cuts deep into our psyche… it pulls the reader in and doesn’t let go until it consumes them.”
Scream Magazine
Candy Cain Kills
Killer VHS Series
Book 2
Brian McAuley
Shortwave
Candy Cain Kills is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are creations of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Brian McAuley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Marc Vuletich and Alan Lastufka.
Interior design by Alan Lastufka.
First Edition published November 2023.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-959565-19-2 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-959565-20-8 (eBook)
For the naughty ones.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Note from Shortwave Publishing
December 20th, 2005
Looks a lot less haunted now.
That’s Rick’s first thought as he drives up to the gray stone cottage in the middle of the dense woods. He’s proud of the restoration he pulled off, despite the quick timeline and tight funding.
Of course, most of the work he did was on the inside, but Lynette was right about putting that white trellis next to the new front porch. It added some welcome charm, even if the pink bougainvillea he snaked through the wood was going to be dead within a week from the bitter cold. She said it was all about first impressions, and Rick understands that now as he pulls his truck around to the back of the house.
He’s been a handyman for years, but he’s never spearheaded his own renovation project, handling every little detail himself. If Lynette had paid him enough, he probably would’ve hired a team, done things a bit more up-to-code. The most he could afford to outsource on this job was getting his pal Ned to help with the plumbing in exchange for a case of beer. Other than that, it was Rick who took that heap of a Thornton place and turned it into a rentable property from the abandoned shell it once was.
Not just abandoned. Haunted.
Rick puts the brakes on the H-word again, throwing the shifter into Park beside the basement bulkhead. No way he had the scratch to replace those rusty storm doors, but Lynette said the back of the house wasn’t a priority. Fixing up the cellar on the other side of those doors was more important, and that’s where Rick’s work would finally come to an end.
He needs the strength of both arms just to pull one of those heavy suckers open on its creaky hinges. When he does, a stench comes rolling out to greet him, and he nearly coughs up his morning coffee. More than likely a critter snuck in and died down there in the earthy tomb of the root cellar.
Rick drags his toolbox from the truck bed, clicks his flashlight on, and takes the stony steps one at a time. The ceiling must be just under six feet high because at six one, he has to keep his shoulders hunched and his head down as he navigates the space.
He shines his light through the blackness of the cellar, which runs the entirety of the floor space above with a handful of stone support beams keeping the place from falling in on itself. It still feels like that could happen at a moment’s notice, and Rick really wishes he didn’t have to spend three days working in this death trap.
But Lynette has been very clear. Because the cottage is so “cozy” (real estate talk for “cramped”), she wants this basement to be finished and converted into a storage space for any potential long-term renters. Rick figures at the very least he can lay down some loose boards over the dirt and make it feel a little less like a grave. He doesn’t have time for much else, but he can see some storage shelves already lining the far wall, packed with boxes and cans and Mason jars. Maybe it’s the grub gone bad giving off that rotten smell. If he clears the shelves and tosses the food, that’s two birds with one stone: making some space and killing the stink.
He lowers his metal toolbox to the floor and starts toward the rickety wooden staircase that leads back up into the house. A quick inspection of the steps shows the wood is rotting to hell, but there’s no sign of termites. He should be able to get away with not replacing the whole damn thing, which is great, because he definitely doesn’t have time for that. Then again, if some renter’s rug rat comes running down the steps and breaks their leg through a busted board, Lynette will have Rick’s ass. He tests his full weight on each step until he arrives safely at the top, deciding it’s probably safe to leave them be.
The basement door opens out into the living room, which feels bright and airy now with white walls and exposed beams in the ceiling above. This had definitely been the hardest space to renovate.
This is where the fire happened.
Rick was expecting more structural damage when he first started the job, but these old stone houses were built tough. He did have to pry up all those blackened floorboards, and it was hard not to notice the spots where the bodies had left behind a sticky tar-like residue. But after he replaced those hardwoods and fixed up the scorched walls and ceiling, you’d never know what happened here ten years ago.
Rick grew up thirty miles east of Nodland, but he remembers hearing the legend as a teenager.
The story of a family who died on Christmas morning, leaving this burned-out heap in their wake. But if the tales were true, it wasn’t the tree fire that killed them. They were stone-cold murdered by. . .
Rick shivers, not letting the name light up his brain for fear of summoning a ghost.
He’d spent the last few months keeping the gruesome legend at bay, knowing that if he thought for one full minute about what happened here, he’d be too damned spooked to get the job done. He’s too close to the end to cave now.
In the kitchen, every cabinet had been stripped and stained, all the old appliances refurbished back into working shape.
“Shabby chic,” Lynette kept saying. Rick didn’t know what that meant until he watched her swoop in to decorate each room in his wake. As far as he could tell, “shabby chic” was code for “make cheap look antique so we can charge more.”
He grabs a can of beer from the six pack he placed in the “vintage” fridge yesterday, cracks the tab and takes a swig.
Once he’s done here today, he’ll head over to the diner for a hot meal and more cold beers. Grace will be working tonight, like most nights.
“The usual, Rick?” she’ll ask. He loves that, being a regular; but he thinks, he hopes, maybe it’s more than that. Maybe there’s something real there.
It started with small talk, like with any other waitress, but there were some nights when Grace would prop her elbows up on that counter and share every thought in her head with Rick. He’d listen and share right back, things he’d never talked about with anybody. Turns out they both had dreams of moving to Los Angeles, but both were just too scared to make a go of it alone. They’d get lost in conversation, building their hypothetical lives side by side, until Grace’s boss would remind her there were other customers in need of service.
Clang.
The sound echoes up from the open basement door.
Better not be those brand-new pipes or Ned’s gonna owe him more than a case of beer.
Rick brings his half-empty can down the steps, back into the dank cellar. He clicks his flashlight on and moves it over the dark. Scanning those support beams sends tall shadows across the dirt.
One shadow separates from another and darts toward him.
He stumbles back, but the raccoon just squeals as it runs up the stone steps, back out of the storm door Rick had left open. He finally catches his breath and laughs. When he pulls the metal door closed, he’s extra careful not to let the weight of it come crashing down on his head.
Man, he’s extra spooked today. Motivation to work twice as fast so he can get the hell out of here and on that stool in front of sweet Grace and her pretty face.
Hey, that rhymes. Maybe he’ll write a song about her someday. Get guitar lessons in Los Angeles.
Rick looks down at his toolbox and notices the metal lid is swung open.
That was the sound he heard; he’s sure of it now.
Could a raccoon have done that? They’re notorious with trash can lids, but it’s hard to imagine those little mitts navigating the latch on his toolbox.
He takes a knee to inspect the contents and senses right away that something is wrong. He knows every single tool in this box because they’d all been handed down by his father, who handed them down from his father.
“If you take good care of your tools, you’ll never need to replace them,” father told son, who told son.
That’s how Rick knows that his claw hammer is gone; and he sure as hell didn’t see the tool clutched in that raccoon’s paw as it ran up the steps.
No, that hammer is currently in the grip of a hand, extending from a tall shape that’s bleeding out of the darkness behind Rick now. Before he has a chance to turn and face the tool thief, a piercing cold explodes at the back of his skull.
The dark room flashes blinding white, and Rick collapses forward on top of his toolbox.
He reaches back to touch the crown of his head, which feels like a hardboiled egg that’s been cracked against a countertop. Bits of wet eggshell peel away against his fingertips. When he moves his hand back in front of his eyes to see the bloody white flakes, his battered brain suddenly kicks in:
Not eggshell, numbnuts. Skull bone.
A gushing warmth flows down the back of his neck, cold awareness washing over him.
I’m bleeding. Someone hit me.
He reaches below his belly for a weapon from the toolbox, pulling a wrench and swiping it backwards through the air. A human-sized shadow dodges the clumsy swing, ducking behind one of those stone pillars with an awful sound.
Laughter.
Raccoons don’t laugh.
Rick pushes up to his feet, turns and falls back to his knees. He stumbles once more, but a wire must’ve popped loose in that exposed brain of his because his body won’t do what he tells it to. The best he can manage is an army crawl toward those rickety stairs.
More clangs of metal on metal, followed by a raspy voice.
“Presents.”
The hammer-wielder must be rummaging through the toolbox again, but Rick’s already clawed himself halfway up the wooden steps. Splinters slide under his fingernails, but he can’t let that stop him.
His left calf feels it first, the cold metal piercing through flesh. Either the Phillips-head or the flathead, he figures. It doesn’t really matter which one, because the other screwdriver sinks straight through his right leg next, completing the pair. The sheer force of that second blow snaps the rotten wood plank beneath, which means he probably should have replaced the staircase after all.
Rick really is proud of all the work he did to bring this house back to life. He likes to think his dad would be proud too, and his dad’s dad before him. He’ll take that pride to his grave, and maybe see them both beyond. He’ll also take with him the silent knowledge that the Thornton place really is haunted after all.
The legend is true.
Pain pulses from his leg up to his head and back down his other leg in an endless electrical circuit; but the worst sensation of all is the presence hovering over him. Breathing behind his ear to whisper in the dark.
“Nice boy.”
A hand strokes Rick’s blood-soaked hair.
He can’t help thinking about that poor family coming to spend Christmas here. He wishes he could warn them, but the black paint of eternal dark is already dripping over his vision.
The claw end of the hammer arcs down and finds a home in Rick’s fractured skull, punctuating the final thought in his punctured brain.
Candy Cain is real.
December 24th, 2005
“Austin, help your sister.”
His parents’ favorite refrain. Austin’s heard it a million times a day, ever since Fiona was born twelve years ago. This time, Mom is saying it over her shoulder from the passenger seat of the family station wagon. Dad’s busy double-checking the printed MapQuest directions from behind the wheel while they’re parked at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
Austin glances across the back seat to see Fiona already opening the car door, trying to get her cane out onto the pavement so she can lean her weight on it.
“I don’t need help,” she says. Her favorite refrain.
Austin sighs, climbing out and moving around the back of the station wagon. The boxy trunk is packed to the brim, but it’s his bag that’s being crushed under all the others. Typical.
Fiona nearly tumbles across the pavement just as Austin rushes up; but she catches herself, stabilizing with the cane in one hand while waving her brother away with the other.
“I’m good,” she says, gripping the black cane handle. “Just messing with you.”
“Yeah, right.” Austin watches his sister slowly cane her way under the rusty overhang toward the restroom door.
After a jiggle of the handle, Fiona reads the little sign aloud. “Ask attendant for key.”
She’s about to start the long journey toward the convenience store when Austin puts up an open palm. “Just chill. I’ll get it.”
Inside he finds a grizzled man in a camouflage cap watching a small television set behind the counter.
“Excuse me?” Austin asks over the sounds of desert warfare blaring from the small speakers. “May I have the key to the restroom?”
The man doesn’t look Austin in the eye, keeps his gaze glued to the televised carnage as he reaches beneath the counter. For a shotgun? No, just a wooden block with a key dangling off the end.
“Read it,” the gas man grunts, tossing the key-block over the counter.
Austin catches it, looks at the message scrawled in Sharpie across the wood.
DON’T LOCK KEY IN SHITHOUSE, SHITHEAD.
He stifles a laugh, walking back outside to his sister.
“I could’ve gotten it,” she says.
“Well, I’d like to get where we’re going sometime before Christmas.”
Fiona rolls her eyes as she grabs the key and disappears into the bathroom.
Austin leans his back against the gas station wall and looks up at the big pine trees towering overhead. He isn’t used to seeing this terrain so close to home. Dad said the drive would only take a couple of hours, but constant rest stops for pee breaks and map checks have slowed them down. They’re only a few miles into the San Bernardino mountains, but it’s already a solid ten degrees colder than Los Angeles, and Austin misses that warmth.
