I know! I know! It sounds like a cop out, but I can assure you it’s not. I received two entries into this latest contest and they are both so, so good that I couldn’t choose, so, co-winners who each win the prize.

I’m including both stories here for your enjoyment, so stop grumbling that I chose co-winners and read them both. You’ll see why I deem them both winners.

So, Don McCann and Lavone Holeva, great job! Your stories were arguably the best ones I’ve received in contests thus far. I’ll get cracking on your prizes.

Without further ado… Here are two amazing stories. (they are one after the other)

Christmas Angel from Hell by Don McCann

The Time is Write Holiday Horror Contest

Prompt, “The grinning face stared at me from the darkness beyond my bedroom window. I live on the 14th floor.”

Just my luck.  After searching for ‘the right one’ all my adult life, the girl I finally fall in love with is a vampire.  Or a succubus.  Or a witch.  Or a lamia.  Or a serial killer.  Heck, I guess any and all of those names apply.  Since she’s over 3000 years old, she can call herself whatever she wants.

You might be wondering how a successful, intelligent, reasonably attractive man would find himself in such a situation.  Well, it was a dark and stormy night (no, really, it was) . . .

The boom/crash of thunder and fitful bursts of lightning were oddly appropriate, given that my life was crashing down around me yet again.  Ok, so it wasn’t all that serious.  I mean, girls break up with guys all the time, right?  I guess the fact that it was the tenth one in two years made it a little harder for me.  At least I was driving this time and wouldn’t have to walk home in this deluge.

As Beth mouthed some inane, probably sincere platitude, I stared out the windshield, silently accepting my fate, wondering, yet again, if I should just give up and remain single.  There are worse things, I reasoned.  Getting dumped, for example.

“So, um . . . you take care, ok?”

The door slammed and she skipped up the stairs and out of my life.  Still, like the perfect gentleman I always try to be, I sat and watched until the light came on in her apartment.

What are you doing, I chastised myself?  She just bounced.  Why are you still trying to act like you care?

Oh, shut up, I answered.

Yes, I talk to myself.  You can probably tell, by this point, I spend a lot of time alone.

Anyway, after another month of promising myself a year of solitude before even considering dating again, it was Thanksgiving and time for the Company Holiday Party.  There I was, standing there with a cup of Susan’s Holiday Grog when she walked in.

Priscilla.  The words “Christmas Angel” don’t seem cliché at all when describing her.

Golden brown hair, tinted with streaks of honey and sunlight, blazing hazel eyes, burgundy shaded lips plump with promise.  And curves.  I bet, when she undressed, her clothes wept at being separated from her.  Speaking of dress, the one she was barely wearing accented all the wrong places in all the right ways.  As those luminous eyes met mine across the room, alarm bells went off in my head—or, was it lower?  Whatever.  If they were warning bells, I ignored them.

And thus began the most wonderful, glorious, happiest, terrible, horrifying, soul-destroying month of my life.  Every night I’d fall into those loving arms and enjoy heights of rapture no mortal was ever meant to experience.  Every day, I’d wake filled with love and joy, and breeze through my day at work, wanting nothing more than to return to the love of my life.  Every night, better than the one before.  Every day, a dream filled with visions of My Beautiful.

Every night and every day, dying a little more.  But, not caring.

See, here’s the thing.  While keeping me happy, keeping me intoxicated, keeping me living in the dream that was her, she was feeding off me.  Literally.  I didn’t care, though.  You ask why I didn’t do anything.  Why would I?  I was happy.  Happy, I tell you!  Unless you’ve felt it—or, felt something even close—you have no idea.  You couldn’t!  Who wouldn’t give a piece of their soul—all of their soul—to be this enraptured every day?  To be this happy all the time.  To be needed.  To be adored.  To be worshipped.  All by someone who walked full-blown from your deepest fantasy.  The perfect woman of your dreams.  My dreams.

Of course, that comes with a price.  A price I was more than willing to pay.

She told me all about it.  In those heady, afterglow moments, she loved to talk to me, to tell me about herself, where she came from, the lives she’d led, her . . . experiences.  She seduced Noah’s youngest son after the flood.  She dined on the last breath from Ramses’ father.  Alexander the great dedicated all his victories to her.  She told me how she knew Napoleon was not a small man at all.  She lost count of the Caesars in Rome’s blood-soaked history.  Rasputin, Mussolini, Churchill, Stalin, on and on and on.  Men of great power, leaders of millions, all beholden to her, smitten by her, enchanted by her . . . enslaved by her.  They lived or died at her whim.

And her, filled to bursting with their power, their energies, their life force, the very blood in their veins.  Finally, after thousands of years of feeding on the rich, the powerful, the gods among men, she began to question her existence.  To wonder if there wasn’t something—anything—more.

So, she stopped.

She left the halls of fame, the ruling circles, the lofty seats of power.  She found she no longer desired—no longer needed—any of that.  She had more money than she could spend in a thousand lifetimes, and a thousand lifetimes to spend it.  She began to simply . . . roam.  She drove, she flew, and sometimes, she just walked.  She was searching, but had no idea for what.  Until she walked into my Holiday Party.  She smelled it on me immediately, she said.

Innocence.

She thought it strange that, in all her lifetimes, she had never known that.  Then again, she said, casting her mind back all those centuries, she said she had truly never known something—someone—like me.  And, now that she had me, I was exactly what she’d been searching for.

And, she told me something else.  Something she didn’t think I’d remember.  Something she thought I was too besotted, too enraptured, too in love to care about.

Every three days, I died.

As enslaved as I was by her, she was becoming a slave herself.  Enslaved to her own addiction.  Me.  In order to keep up the high she craved (that’s how she described it), she had to have a certain . . . amount of me.  She would gently sip my essence for two days until, on the third day, she could no longer hold back, and would completely drain me.  If I thought I was in heaven being with her, it was nothing compared to what she got from being with me.

She had to show me, of course.  In that brief glimpse of her inner being, I had what I can only describe as an overdose.  In those thirty seconds I actually experienced so much pleasure, it literally killed me.  She said, if she hadn’t fed me from her own essence, I would have never returned.  Of course, I was immediately begging for more, so she had to make me forget.  Even now, just the memory of it gives me chills.  It’s ok that I don’t remember, though.  It’s enough that she’s happy.

And, there it is.  She has me so bent that trying to make her happy is now my only reason for existence.  And, in doing that, I’m rewarded with . . . well, you get the idea.  A vicious circle, if there ever was one.  But, like I said, I didn’t care.

Until last night.

She told me that our time together has been great, but she’s ready to get back her old life.  She’s beginning to miss the halls of power, the rush of bending great men to her will, blah, blah, blah.  Honestly, I stopped listening after she said she’d be leaving me.  As enthralled as I was, something bubbled up from deep inside me.  The thought of losing her began to break through my euphoria and make me . . . desperate.  Really desperate.  More desperate than I’d ever been for anything in my life.  Somehow, I knew losing her would destroy me.  As much as I was dying already, I knew I would never return from this.

I also knew I couldn’t stop her.

So, I wouldn’t try.  If I couldn’t have her, I’d rather just die.  Life was meaningless, otherwise.  In my few lucid moments, instead of dwelling on the night that had just passed, or fantasizing of the night to come, I started thinking about how I could kill myself.  But, here’s the twisted part.  I still wanted to please her.  Still wanted to give myself to her.  So I thought, maybe if I could die with her, that would still make her happy.  She’d still be able to feed on my essence, even as it was leaving my body.

Love, am I right?

There was this thing she liked to do.  She would float outside my window (didn’t I mention she could fly?) and call to me.  And me, like a good little slave, would open the balcony window and walk out to her.  Not just to the balcony, no.  I’d get up on the railing and . . . well, fall.  She’d always catch me, of course, and we’d fly around for a bit, but it was just another game to her.  Me, giving her that level of trust was one of the ways she fed on me.

So, my love-addled mind hatched a plan.

Normally, I hated that I lived in the fourteenth floor.  The building was old and the elevators worked only half the time, so you can imagine the adventure it made out of grocery shopping.  Also, my apartment hung right out over a park where, you guessed it:  happy, shiny people gathered around a big Christmas tree to sing carols.  Loud carols.  The tree was nothing special, just a twenty-foot evergreen they swiped from some forest every year and propped up with a steel rod.  Yawn.  But, it fit neatly into my plan.

Honestly, in my state, I’m still shocked I was able to come up with a plan at all, much less follow through with it.  But, I’m here to tell the tale, so it must have worked out, right?

Anyway, all the carolers had gone home and, I was dead to the world, sleeping the sleep of the unjust, when I heard a familiar voice slithering into my dreams.  My eyes creaked open and slid to the window.  Sure enough, there she was.  My love, my vampire, my lamia, my succubus, my murderer.  Just like every time, I shuffled across the room and slid open the glass.  And just like every time, she’s smiling sweetly enough to bring down the moon.  And, just like every other time, I stepped out and onto the railing.  And fell.

Just like every other time, she laughed her tinkling, trilling laugh that never failed to thrill me to the core.  And, just like every other time, she swooped down to catch me for our wingless flight through the moon-soaked night.  And, I clung to her in desperate fear, just like every other time.

Except this time, I let go.

So intent on feeding on my terror, she didn’t even notice for a few moments.  As I plummeted alone through the sky, I saw her radiant face change when she noticed I was no longer in her arms.  In an eerie twist, I got to see her face transfixed in fear.  It was not a good look.  My Priscilla was now the one deathly afraid.  You see—and I don’t pretend to know how this works—if I die and she’s not the one who kills me, she can’t bring me back.  So, if I died now, I’d be lost to her forever and, apparently, that struck some chord of terror in her.

I don’t think I’d ever seen her move so fast.

She caught up to me just before I would have struck the Christmas tree.  Which is exactly what I was hoping for.  As soon as she was within reach, I snatched her to me and gave a violent twist, so suddenly I was on top.  As we continued to fall, her face relaxed, thinking I was panicking and she would be able to save me.  In fact, in that moment, I felt our speed begin to decrease.  In that moment, she almost did save us.

Almost.

You see, my plan—if such a harebrained scheme can be called that—was to die and hopefully take her with me.  I would splat onto the ground and she, being fooled by my genius plan, would be too late to save herself and splat right there with me.  But, as luck, fate, karma, the good God above would have it, that’s not what happened.

She didn’t slow us enough to save us because, before that could happen, the steel rod holding up the tree speared through her back and straight through her coal-black heart.  And me?  I was in the midst of my desperate twist, which put her below me, so the rod missed my heart by several miraculous inches.  Not that I escaped unscathed.  No, I lost a good hunk of skin from my right side to that tree.  But, as the love of my life was skewered on that rod, I—minus that hunk of skin—tumbled through the branches of the Christmas tree hard enough to crack a couple of ribs; but soft enough to survive, landing in the needles, blankets and empty gift boxes at the bottom.  And, I’ll tell you one thing: I may never know exactly what she was but, whatever it was, it had more blood in it than anything I’d ever seen.  You know, those bad action/horror movies, where the victims get shot, stabbed or splattered by a train and just explode like a blood-filled balloon?  Yeah, it was like that.  Her black blood rained down for a good two minutes until it all slowly turned to greasy ash and then . . . nothing.

Oh, and before I forget, the steel rod wouldn’t have killed her on its own.  No, that was one of the ‘secrets’ she told me.  Like a true vampire (well, ‘true’ as any of the stories can be), only a wooden stake through the heart would destroy her.  Or, pine boughs wrapped around a steel rod.

Anyway, when I woke up in the hospital, a week later, most of that enchanting, erotic, terrifying nightmare had faded.  I could remember just enough to know that it was the best month of my life . . . and that I never wanted to go through anything like that ever again.  Lying there in that bed, healing from something I never should have been able to escape, I swore off dating for two years this time.

So, here I am, a year later.  Here’s one memory I was able to keep.  I really did think I was going to die that night.  But, one of those lucid thoughts I had—if that was the price of ridding the world of such a creature, I could live (ha) with it.

So, even though it’s only been a year, I figured I was safe to at least show up at the Company Holiday Party.  As I sipped Susan’s Holiday Grog though, I figured I shouldn’t push my luck.  I was just turning to leave when—

“Hey Mike!  You’re looking all satisfied.  What, did you get your Christmas bonus already?  Anyway, this is Margaret.  Don’t ask me why, but she asked if I could introduce you.”

I looked up from my Grog, about to give a polite refusal, when all the air suddenly went out of the room.  Curly red hair, brilliant green eyes, full, scarlet lips and more curves than a circle.

Christmas bonus, indeed . . .

The voice in Margaret’s head spoke in a rasping hiss, “Is it true?  Is that him?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Good!  Bring him to us!”

“There’s no hurry, is there?  He’s not going anywhere.”

She could feel the grin, even in her head, “Ahhhh, I see.  Take your time, then.  Bring us what’s left.”

Margaret smiled in her head, and at Mike, “I . . . hope you don’t think me too forward.  I’ve heard so much about you, I just had to meet you . . .”

Tis the Season by Lavone Holeva

Prompt: I noticed the grinning face that stared at me from the darkness beyond my bedroom window. I live on the 14th floor.

Christmas was my favorite time of the year. I would wait for Santa year after year by an open window, not too much, enough to hear the jingle of his sleigh. Catching a glimpse of his reindeer would have been the best.

 “Will Santa be coming in all this snow?” I asked

 “No gifts for you, you’re on his naughty list.” Replied my brother.

 “Your such a baby; still believe in Santa,” He skipped out of my room like a five-year-old singing, “baby, baby…”

“Shut up, I wish.. ugh!” I said

Hearing my brother laugh nauseated me. Most eleven-year-old girls I knew still believed. Well, what did he know, being a year older than me didn’t make him smarter. Besides, he was the one on the Naughty list. He kicked the neighbor’s cat once or twice. Threw my barbie off the balcony and it was never seen again. He had a long list of venomous pranks. Oh, how I hated when he startled me when I wasn’t paying attention.

 I searched for St. Nick between disarrayed snowflakes; the brisk air made my cheeks red. I noticed the grinning face that stared at me from the darkness beyond my bedroom window. I palmed my mouth and my eyes widened. My scream died in my throat. I lived on the 14th floor, so it wasn’t possible. I remained paralyzed for a second then pulled back the curtain again. Jagged teeth peered out from a blood-drenched beard. A creature stood tall inside a floating coffin. Three hyped-up horses pulled the strange sleigh. Its hands were large and nails like daggers that dripped blood. Heads of children protruded from a sack; their cries dug deep in my gut. 

I bolted across the carpet and called for my mom, but my brother came in with a raised voice, 

“Be quiet, what are you screaming about?” 

He won’t believe me, he never did. No time for him to make fun. I gave him a quick shove to the side and heard him stumble. I didn’t care to look back at why he screamed. I barged into my mom’s room without knocking only to find her sound asleep.

 “Mom, wake up,” her body was frigid and quiet. She wouldn’t wake up no matter how hard I tried. I must be dreaming this isn’t real. I rushed to the living room to look for my dad, and he too was asleep in his chair.

“Jimmy, Mom and dad won’t wake up, come quick.”

He didn’t answer which meant he was up to no good, it wasn’t the time for jokes, something was outside, and it wasn’t Santa.

  My shoulders sunk an inch. My brother and I were the only ones awake. I eased steps back to my bedroom door. I hesitated before looking back into my room. Waited for that moment my brother would jump out at me. A chilled breeze filled my room, the wind howled through the open window. My brother had vanished.

Snow-covered books and my dolls. Beheaded dolls, of course, my brother never stopped. I peeked under my bed to see if he was there, only to find his slipper. Where was my brother? He wasn’t in his room or the bathroom. I called out for him again, no answer. I attempted to wake my parents again. They both were in a trance, who sleeps this hard?

 Blood crashed through my veins and my stomach twisted. Something terrible happened to my brother— I sensed it. I replayed the last time I saw him. I couldn’t think of where he would hide for that long. He lacked patience when playing hide and seek. An evil laugh and horses neighed filled with distress rumbled the dining room walls. I whipped the curtains open.

 “Ho Ho Ho, Merry bloody Christmas to you Madeline.” The creature said through the glass.

I sank beneath the windowsill; my throat filled with vomit. What have I wished for, did the creature take my brother? My bones were heavy as I sat empty. Jingles from the living room snapped me back to attention, I bent over to lurk under the dining table. Black boots shuffled in front of the Christmas tree and left wrapped boxes soaked in goo. Little elf-like feet scampered throughout the house. A symphony of shattered glass echoed in the kitchen. Our cat, Sissy, hissed and screeched.

One of the elves grabbed my leg and scratched me as I yanked and kicked. It had blood dripping from its fangs. I crawled as fast as I could into the kitchen. I slipped on intestines and fur that scattered the floor. My insides turned inside out when I smeared the stench on my pajamas.

 “Mom, Dad, please help me,” no one answered except mocking little beasts. 

I scurried toward Santa and grabbed his leg, begging for help. He sat me on his knee.

 “Ho Ho Ho, Madeline why are you not asleep?”

 I held tight; wishing to wake up from the nightmare. Santa expressed his sincere apologies as his face changed. His eyes seethed in black. The beard foamed in red. 

“You’re not the real Santa,” I said

 “Oh, dear Madeline my sweet girl, No.”  

He squinted an eye, grinned his broken teeth, and stood up. He gripped my hips and with a flick of a wand, we both vanished from the house. We materialized in his morbid chariot. Retched scent boiled from a sack filled with muffled moans. Choked sorrow spewed from my heart. 

I bent my head over the coffin sleigh—I hoped to have seen someone on the street. 

“Jimmy!”

 I saw my brother, lifeless on the cement. A dark puddle surrounded him. My throat gulped in a large knot that held my breath captive.  

“Why did you kill my brother?” 

“I didn’t kill him, dear Madeline, you pushed him out the window. He was mine to take.” The creature continued with a growl.

 “I’m taking you sweet evil one, you shall take your brother’s place”