(A Graham Luis Story)
————Authors Note————-
When it comes to writing, there is often a character that we create and find immense joy in bringing to life. For me, that character is Graham Luis. I first introduced Graham during a high school writing assignment, my teacher, who I based a lot of Graham on, loved him. From there, his supernatural adventures took flight. Throughout his journey, Graham has faced yetis, skinwalkers, the occasional vampire, and a myriad of other extraordinary creatures. What sets Graham apart is his relatability as an ordinary individual, he has not training or combat skills, he is also an artistic person, a writer. Most of his escapades begin with his simple desire to navigate through life and embrace normalcy. However, fate always seems to place him in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In this particular story, I have crafted an introduction to Graham, allowing readers to get acquainted with his character for the very first time. And what better setting than a Christmas-themed tale? So, sit back, prepare a steaming cup of hot cocoa, and immerse yourself in a holiday tale of horror that I affectionately call…
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NightShift Noel
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“You mustn’t leave the store for any reason once you are in, that’s important”, Graham found himself puzzled by this statement. Sitting across from the manager of Baddano-Mart, he felt like this was less of an interview and more of a court briefing.
During the festive Christmas week, Baddano-Mart, a local store, had an unexpected vacancy for a maintenance position. Though the job description on their website seemed more akin to janitorial work, Graham eagerly seized the opportunity, hoping for a chance to earn some extra holiday cash. Now, he found himself in a dimly lit, shabby office tucked away at the rear of the store. Seated across the worn desk was a portly, goateed man whose teeth bore the sickly hue of yellow.
As Graham nodded, the manager’s eyes darted around the room, as if ensuring no one else was listening. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “You see, there’s something… sinister about this place. Strange things, disappearances.”Graham’s curiosity and worry heightened.
Noticing Graham’s growing unease, the manager swiftly changed his tone. “Not inside the store, of course. Heavens, no. This area can be quite rough, and we can’t guarantee your safety outside, especially with the presence of some troublesome individuals around here,” the manager explained, his words tinged with a hint of prejudice. Graham swallowed hard, the lump of nervousness settling heavily in his throat. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to find some semblance of comfort. “So, I’ll be locked in here?” he asked, his voice wavering. The manager’s smile widened, but there was an unsettling glint in his eyes. “Well, at least until morning, my boy. Then I’ll be here to unlock the doors,” he said, his use of the word “boy” sending a shiver down Graham’s spine. He couldn’t help but wonder if this man’s prejudice extended beyond his words, if he would subject him to further demeaning treatment.
Graham, feeling uncomfortably familiar with the subtle racial tension, sadly acknowledged this twisted undercurrent. Coming from a small town, he had learned to decipher the coded language — the random “bless your hearts,” the excessive “my besties are black,” and other unnecessary statements that attempted to acknowledge his racial identity. “Well, considering the pay, I guess it’s alright. Anything else I should know?” Graham asked, determined to brush off the manager’s blatant bias. “Just watch out for the troublemakers, they seem to gather more around Christmas break, when the schools are closed” the manager replied, giving Graham a side-eye filled with disdain. “Troublemakers?” Graham questioned, his voice tinged with caution. “Yeah, the rowdy bunch,” the manager sneered, dragging out the word “rowdy” as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“The youth, you see, they possess an absence of fear,” the manager declared, a moment of realization widening his eyes, followed by the return of his unsettling, yellow-toothed smile within the confines of his goateed mouth. “But that shouldn’t be a concern, as long as you remain within the store. So, what do you say?” The manager’s tone resumed its pleasant, yet eerily rehearsed quality. “Yeah, I suppose that’s fine,” Graham replied, his voice betraying a hint of hesitation. “So, when do I start?” he asked, uncertainty showing. “Tonight!” the manager exclaimed, rising from his makeshift desk. On closer inspection, this “desk” was a worn Formica table that had seen better days.
They shook hands, sealing their agreement, and Graham exited the back office. As he strolled through the store that would serve as his nocturnal workplace, doubts gnawed at his mind. Why did everything feel so eerie, and what was the deal with the person at the deli counter? Graham halted in his tracks, captivated by the colossal figure stationed behind the deli. The deli man’s repetitive wiping motion on the counter with a dirty rag, seemed uselessly robotic, and now he fixated on Graham with an automaton-like gaze. “What the hell’s his hang-up?” Graham muttered, resuming his stride toward the entrance. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to endure oddball coworkers, as overnight maintenance was the sole inhabitant during the graveyard shift.
Graham needed the money; that was the merciless truth. He was drowning in overdue bills, unpaid rent, and an avalanche of obligations. This was his final chance. His previous job had been a catastrophic calamity, and the final blow was the bouncing of his last paycheck. With no marketable skills except for his artistic aptitude, a graveyard shift mopping job at a grocery store was his sole passport to a semblance of self-sufficiency. If only his writing prowess could yield a dime, but alas, the elusive path to that success seemed reserved for those already swimming in wealth. Though the world would persistently preach otherwise, they failed to perceive the stark reality. In truth, any job would do, regardless of its grandeur.
As Graham settled into his dilapidated sedan, the relic inherited from his departed uncle, he embarked on the journey homeward. Not brimming with excitement, but rather armed with a sense of readiness for the night’s toil, he permitted himself a smidgen of accomplishment. A paycheck would arrive, evening out the odds, and the tide would turn, if only slightly.
Upon arriving home in his modest one-bedroom apartment, Graham surveyed the repairs that awaited his attention. The fridge stood barren, except for a half sandwich salvaged from the nearby deli—fortunately, his high school connection with the owner occasionally came in handy during lean times—and a solitary bottle of water. “Dinner is served,” Graham declared aloud, though there was no audience but himself. With work looming a mere five hours away, sleep seemed superfluous. He could collapse into slumber after the grueling shift. Settling down with his meager meal, he allowed the television to captivate his mind, drifting into a state of detached trance.
Graham was abruptly jolted out of his reverie by a breaking news report. Two women had gone missing not far from the area he had been in earlier that day. The manager’s words about missing persons echoed in Graham’s mind. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ll be locked in tonight,” he muttered to himself. There was something about that phrase that struck an uneasy chord within him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but it evoked a sense of profound apprehension. In the depths of his thoughts, he could hear his late uncle’s voice, lingering like a ghostly echo. “You shouldn’t trust that manager, something ain’t right about him, and it ain’t just about his mouth,” he imagined his uncle warning.
Graham’s uncle Charlie had been more than a father figure to him ever since Graham’s parents tragically perished in a car accident when he was just three years old. Charlie was his mentor, and Graham cherished him deeply. While Charlie wasn’t exactly communicating from beyond the grave, Graham couldn’t help but believe he was absolutely correct about not trusting the manager. “I need the money, Uncle. I need it bad,” Graham confessed aloud, his voice fading into an unexpected nap, as the television transitioned from the breaking news to a sitcom in progress.
In his dreams, Graham witnessed a chilling vision of the manager. However, the man was no longer clad in his usual vest and slacks. Instead, he donned a suit, clutching an old farm scythe. Where his face once resided, a grotesque mask crafted from human skin was affixed. It wasn’t just any skin; it was Graham’s own, the flesh horribly stitched onto the man’s snarling countenance. “Welcome to the family, BOYYY,” the manager growled, raising the scythe high above his head, poised to strike with deadly intent.
Graham jolted awake as his phone’s alarm blared. Thirty minutes until work! He leaped out of his reclining chair and hastily slipped on his shoes. Being late on his first night would not bode well with the employer—experience had taught him that. He always made a point to arrive early. Grabbing his keys, Graham couldn’t shake the image of his uncle from his mind. “Don’t go, stay,” his imagination whispered. Dismissing his own thoughts, Graham scoffed and made his way out the door.
Upon reaching Baddano-Mart, with five minutes to spare, Graham paused for a moment in his car, which sat a distance away from the store in the sprawling parking lot, now mostly deserted except for his own vehicle and a sleek Mercedes that undoubtedly belonged to the manager. He took a moment to observe his surroundings, a habit he had cultivated since childhood.
Graham had always possessed a knack for immersing himself in the present moment, perhaps inherited from his uncle. On a camping trip long ago, his uncle had taught him to fish and shared a profound insight: “If you pause and breathe in the air, you might discover hidden art within the world.” This wisdom had rung true every time Graham took a moment to “smell the air,” allowing him to uncover beauty in his surroundings that he might have otherwise overlooked. However, this place proved to be an exception.
Baddano-Mart appeared to be nestled in the midst of nowhere, despite the city skyline being clearly visible beyond the trees that enclosed the store and its parking lot. The only access to the lot was via a narrow stretch of a two-lane road that led to the highway. If you didn’t have GPS or were unfamiliar with the area, you would have no inkling of the store’s existence. The parking lot was illuminated by antiquated orange phosphorescent lights, a stark contrast to the bright white LED lights that had replaced them in other nearby areas. The amber glow, coupled with the eerie night fog that had rolled in as Graham arrived, cast an ominous sense of impending doom. There was no trace of beauty to be found in this vicinity, as far as Graham could discern. “I guess this is alright, if you’re Nosferatu,” Graham muttered to himself as he stepped out of his car and made his way toward the store.
Greeting him by the front glass doors was the manager, his strange, kindly smile and those sickly, yellow teeth were there too. Something sinister shifted, sending slight hesitance into Graham. He sensed an unsettling presence but couldn’t quite explain it. It was the manager himself. He seemed overly eager to hire Graham, almost too eager. In Graham’s experience, racial indignation aside, hiring managers didn’t hasten the process. Instead, they reveled in the grueling, drawn-out set of pre-written questions that always felt like a treacherous trap, crafted by a tantrum-throwing toddler.
“What would you say was your greatest weakness?” The worst of these queries, designed to gauge who had an ego too grand for the hiring store to bear, or who might be the dimmest bulb in the box. The latter always responded, “I just work too hard,” an equally asinine retort to an already absurd question. But Graham hadn’t received that list of interrogation earlier today. In fact, the entire interview lasted a mere two minutes, or so it seemed. And now, this pudgy, goateed, seemingly racist man was entrusting an entire store to Graham. Perhaps that’s what didn’t settle right. Then again, maybe he was overanalyzing the entire situation, burdened by his hyper-tuned but understandably cautious attitude.
“How are you, my boy, ready for the first night?” The manager exclaimed, his excitement palpable. “There’s that damned word again,” Graham thought to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips as he simply replied, “Yes, sir.” The manager unlocked the doors, manually sliding them open along their tracks, the once-automatic sensors now disabled after closing.
As Graham stepped inside, he noticed the manager lingering in the doorway. He turned to face the manager, who maintained the same eerie smile. “Aren’t you… uh, don’t you need to show me around?” Graham inquired, his discomposure growing. “No, my boy, the mop and all the supplies you’ll need are by the back entrance in the custodial closet. Just make sure you survey the store, wipe all the windows, bag up all the trash, and give the store floors a thorough cleaning. Perhaps check the produce and ensure nothing’s gone bad. But that’s it!” The manager’s words hung in the air, leaving Graham momentarily stunned.
He watched as the manager slid the doors closed, locking them with a finality that sent a chill inot Graham. As the pudgy man finished, he turned and walked away, his figure gradually dissipating into the peculiar fog, which now seemed denser than ever before.
“I swear, if I find a hood in here, I’m burning this place down,” Graham muttered, a hint of dark humor tainting his voice as he chuckled to himself. Shaking off the unsettling thought, he turned and continued his journey, making his way towards the back of the store. The interior of the grocery store seemed to have transformed. Once bright and pristine, it now exuded an eerie ambiance, as if it had been transmuted into a peculiar, almost haunted house-like setting. The remaining lights cast long, distorted shadows that danced along the aisles, playing tricks on Graham’s senses.
To add to the unsettling atmosphere, the usual Muzak that provided a faint background melody had been silenced. The absence of familiar tunes left behind an eerie void, now filled only with the low hum of the fridges and freezers, their monotonous drone permeating the otherwise silent space. Graham pressed on, his footsteps amplified by the linoleum floor, as he finally reached the closet nestled near the freezer aisle on the back wall.
The door itself appeared modest, adorned with a cheap plastic sign that bore the word “Custodial” in faded letters. Graham grasped the doorknob and pushed it open, revealing a sight that caught him off guard. The supply closet, hidden behind the unassuming door, proved to be larger than he had anticipated. Stepping inside, Graham was taken aback by its unexpectedly spacious dimensions.
The closet stretched out before him, revealing an interior that rivaled the size of an executive office. The roomy enclosure provided ample space for all the cleaning supplies and equipment he would need for his duties. It boasted high ceilings, allowing for shelves and storage units to be mounted along the walls, accommodating an array of products, from mops and brooms to disinfectants and sprays. The shelves were meticulously organized, each item in its designated place, creating an impression of order within the otherwise disconcerting surroundings.
A sturdy metal workbench was positioned against one wall, its surface gleaming under the faint glow of a solitary overhead light. The bench offered a convenient space for Graham to prepare his cleaning supplies and carry out any necessary maintenance tasks. In one corner of the closet, a compact refrigerator hummed softly, providing a chilling respite for Graham during his breaks. Adjacent to it, a small sink with running water stood ready for him to wash his hands or rinse out cleaning tools as needed.
The closet’s expanse added an unexpected layer of intrigue, as if it held secrets of its own within the confines of its walls. Graham couldn’t help but wonder why such a vast space was dedicated solely to custodial supplies, deepening his discomposure within this peculiar environment.
Graham’s first task was to retrieve a shammy towel and a spray bottle of window cleaner from the neatly organized shelves. The cleaning products, devoid of any recognizable brands, were labeled simply with strips of tape bearing generic descriptions like “floor” and the one he currently held, “window.” As he prepared his tools, his eyes were drawn to something resting beneath the workbench—a red chainsaw. It seemed entirely out of place in a grocery store custodial closet.
Intrigued and slightly unnerved, Graham carefully set the shammy towel and window cleaner down on the bench, his gaze fixed on the chainsaw. It appeared clean, yet the unmistakable signs of use were evident—a well-oiled chain secured onto a gleaming blade. He couldn’t help but wonder why such a tool would find its home here in the custodial closet of a grocery store.
Casting a cautious glance around the room, Graham’s eyes settled on a can of gas tucked away in the corner near the entrance he had used. Its presence only deepened the enigma surrounding the chainsaw. While he reasoned that there could be legitimate reasons for such equipment, like storm-related limb removal or other unforeseen circumstances, the sight of it still confused him. The juxtaposition of a mundane grocery store and the presence of a chainsaw felt unsettling, an incongruity that lingered in Graham’s mind.
Pushing the unsettling thoughts to the back of his mind, Graham gathered his supplies and stepped out of the room, making his way toward the row of large window panes that adorned the front of the store. Though the store itself wasn’t particularly spacious, the windows were proportionate to a typical store front. As he sprayed a fine mist of window cleaner onto the first pane, his attention was caught by another peculiar sight.
A flickering red flame danced in the distance, positioned near the road that led to the highway. The thick fog obscured Graham’s view, preventing him from discerning the exact nature of the flame, but its size indicated that it might be a torch. Confusion mingled with his growing suspicion as he contemplated the presence of a solitary flame amidst the misty haze. What could possibly be the source of such an isolated and enigmatic sight? With that thought, the flame vanished.
Curiosity tugged at Graham, urging him to investigate further, but a nagging sense of caution held him back. The combination of the mysterious flame and the eerie atmosphere within the store compelled him to proceed with heightened vigilance. The enigma surrounding the grocery store deepened, leaving Graham to wonder if there was something far more sinister lurking in the shadows.
“Yep, now the villagers are lighting torches,” Graham muttered, his voice tinged with a bundle of humor and nerves. However, before he could fully appreciate his own quip, a sound pierced the silence, diverting his attention from the window to the darkest corner of the store. His gaze fixated on the illuminated sign above a particular section that read “produce.”
Momentarily forgetting about the vanished flame and the thickening fog, Graham’s focus shifted towards the source of the clicking noise. It echoed through the store, metallic and unsettling, as if beckoning him closer. His mind echoed with a warning, his imagined uncle’s voice urging him to find an exit and leave. Or was it his own voice this time?
Despite the internal struggle, Graham felt an inexplicable pull, a curiosity that propelled him forward. Each step he took felt like a battle against his own instincts, the primal fight-or-flight response warring with his determination to press on.
As he neared the edge of the darkness that enveloped the produce section, a sense of trepidation washed over him. The unknown lay just beyond, concealed within the shadows. Graham strained his eyes, yearning to catch even the faintest glimpse of something—anything—in the murky depths of the aisle. He longed for the comfort of a familiar sight, perhaps an apple or two, but all he encountered was an impenetrable darkness.
Each advancing step felt like a struggle, as if his subconscious waged a battle against his conscious will. Yet, despite the mounting tension, Graham couldn’t resist the urge to uncover the secrets that lay shrouded before him. With determination etched on his face, he ventured to the very edge of the darkness, poised to uncover what awaited him within the enigmatic depths of the produce section.
As he cautiously stepped into the enshrouding shadows, a sudden burst of light illuminated the area above him. Before him stood a Santa Claus figure, poised with a bottle raised menacingly. However, Graham’s reflexes proved swifter as he delivered a high kick, accompanied by a Bruce Lee like scream, his foe would be no more… or so he believed. In reality, his foot connected with a case of fresh cranberries, sending them tumbling onto the floor. The darkness was abruptly dispelled by an automatic light sensor, revealing the truth behind the scene—a cardboard Santa Claus soda display. “Enjoy a fresh Cola,” the robotic voice of the Santa exclaimed, now lying on the floor, its body covered in a cascade of loose cranberries. Graham, overwhelmed with a mix of self-deprecating amusement and profound relief, erupted into laughter.
After collecting himself for a moment, Graham muttered under his breath, “Man, I really hope they don’t have any cameras around here. I’ll probably get fired just for being dumb.” As he surveyed the cranberry-covered floor and reluctantly stood up the Santa display, he let out a sigh of frustration. “Well, guess I gotta clean up this mess now,” he grumbled, making his way back to the custodial closet to grab a broom and dustpan.
As he stepped into the dimly lit closet, a familiar apprehension washed over him like a cold winter wave. It was a chilling, visceral reminder of the vanishing flame and the mysterious, rhythmic clicking noise that had previously driven him to confront Cola Santa in a fit of fear. With a well-worn broom and dustpan in hand, he exited the closet, the strange sound once again piercing the hushed silence of the store. The noise seemed to be emanating from the imposing wall behind the produce section, specifically from one of the perfectly lined fridges along the wall.
His curiosity, as relentless as a ravenous wolf, gripped him once more, compelling him to set the broom and dustpan against the cool, concrete wall beside the closet door. As he moved towards the row of fridges, the clicking noise grew louder and more pronounced, like the ticking of a monstrous clock, confirming his chosen direction. But as he neared the source, the fridge directly in front of him, the noise abruptly stopped, leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake.
The fridges, filled with neatly arranged packages of frozen vegetables, appeared normal except for one. This lone unit boasted an oddly empty shelf that stood out like a black hole in the otherwise fully stocked universe of frozen produce.
What struck him as truly odd was the trim around the door of the empty fridge. Unlike the standard chrome frames that glittered under the store’s fluorescent lights on the other units, this one was lined in a vibrant, almost defiant red. This unexpected sight brought back a flood of memories of his eccentric uncle who had stubbornly held onto his beloved old truck, patching it up with parts from similar models. He remembered how, following teenage Grahams mishap on a snowy day, his uncle had replaced a damaged door with one painted a jarring red. The fridge presented a similar spectacle – a lone red door amidst a line of gleaming chrome, a standout that sparked a surge of curiosity and apprehension.
Graham reached for the door, his trembling hand clasping the shuddering handle. It seemed as if the entire door quivered in anticipation, mirroring the discontent that coiled within him. But as he prepared to pull, a sinister specter danced at the edge of his peripheral vision, taunting him with its presence. The automatic lights had plunged the room into darkness during his trip to the closet, yet in that inky void, a flickering flame began to materialize. It grew steadily, gaining size quickly.
Too late, Graham realized the insidious nature of the flame; its fiery tendrils were drawing closer, not growing. Before he could fully comprehend the imminent danger, a thunderous impact crashed into him, propelling his body across the linoleum floor. He collided with a display of Shaky Snack brand Christmas tree cakes, cascading down upon him like an avalanche of sugary oblivion. The wind was sucked from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath, momentarily dazed by the assault.
Emerging from beneath the mound of snack cakes, he cast his eyes upon his assailant in horror. It was a deer, but no ordinary deer; a creature tainted by darkness—a reindeer, its eyes smoldering with a malefic glow, its nose, or what should have been a nose, consumed by an unholy red flame. Memories from his childhood surged forth, whispering a single name into his consciousness: “It’s fucking Rudolph!”
With that chilling proclamation, Graham’s survival instinct kicked into overdrive. Like a man possessed, he made a frantic dash, hurtling toward the closet’s sanctuary, seeking refuge from the nightmare that now roamed the once-familiar halls of Baddano-Mart.
As Graham burst into the closet, his trembling hands fumbled to lock the door behind him. Collapsing onto the floor, gasping for breath, he felt the weight of the four-legged quarterback’s sack still pressing against his chest, mingling with the pure essence of fear that gripped him. Wide-eyed and disoriented, he scanned the space, desperately seeking an escape route. “There must be a way out,” he muttered to himself, recalling a mention of an exit by the manager.
And then he saw it—a beacon of hope in the far reaches of the spacious custodial room. A glowing exit sign, its radiant light piercing the darkness, hung above a rack of coats and spare jumpsuits. Graham propelled himself to his feet, his heart pounding with renewed determination, and raced toward the promised path to freedom. But as he violently flung aside the coats and jumpsuits, his hope turned to horror.
There, where the door should have stood, was nothing but a message painted on the wall in red menacing strokes—a crude and ominous declaration: “Ho-Ho-Ho.” Graham’s voice trembled as he muttered, “What the…”
Before he could delve further into the implications of the foreboding message, the store’s music system crackled to life, the speakers embedded in the ceiling emitting a tune that should have evoked joy and merriment but now seemed sinister and mocking. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” by Gene Autry filled the air, its cheerful melody twisting into an eerie symphony.
The haunting melody echoed through the silent aisles, intensifying the malaise that clung to Graham’s every fiber. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare, a twisted Christmas tale with himself as the unwitting protagonist. The manager’s voice, previously pleasant yet now laced with an unsettling tone, came over the intercom system. “Well, merry Christmas, my boy,” the voice crooned. “Welcome to overnights. I apologize that a fine young man as yourself was chosen for tonight’s festivities, but Santa works in mysterious ways, and we shan’t question his motives.”
The manager’s chilling words drove fear into the very depths of Graham’s soul, fueling his desperation to escape the clutches of this malevolent holiday labyrinth.
“So, if you’d be so kind to come out of the custodial closet,” the manager continued, his voice maintaining that sickeningly pleasant tone that now lit Graham’s anger. Graham’s eyes darted around the room in a frantic search. Without a moment’s hesitation, they landed on a rack of screwdrivers hanging on the wall. With trembling hands, he reached out and grabbed one—a foot-long flathead, with a weight that instilled a hint of bravery in his terror-stricken heart.
This predicament surpassed the woes of a meager mop job, overseen by a contemptible, racist little man of both stature and temperament. No, this was a plunge into holiday hell. As Graham endeavored to regain composure and quell the pounding in his chest, another sight captured his attention—a desk tucked away near the mop sink. It had eluded his notice before, likely due to his fixation on the size of the so-called “closet.” Yet now, it stood prominently, revealing itself beside the mop sink to his left.
Securing the screwdriver onto his belt, Graham approached the desk. His gaze landed on a small monitor inset into the wall above it. With nowhere else to turn, he resolved to investigate what the monitor revealed, though a sinking suspicion already nagged at him. Flipping the switch, the monitor flickered to life, presenting four small black-and-white squares, each displaying different areas of the store.
In one square, the door to the custodial closet appeared, with the demonic Rudolph standing sentinel just outside. Another square focused on the store’s exterior, surveilling the parking lot. Graham’s heart sank at the sight of his car—a small beacon of familiarity in this surreal nightmare. The remaining two squares fixated on the same area—the produce section.
His breath caught as he witnessed the peculiar fridge door with the red frame now wide open. Emerging from it were small shapes, about three feet in stature, all adorned in cloaks concealing their faces and heads. Graham’s skin crawled as he counted at least thirty of these mysterious figures, moving in an eerie procession. The last, a larger shape, also cloaked, followed closely behind them.
As Autry’s cowboy croon faded from the speakers, a new holiday classic tainted by horror blared through the radio. “Deck The Halls” by Nat King Cole sprang to life, its joyful melody now twisted and mocking. The jingle of bells and cheerful chorus clashed with the impending doom that hung in the air.
“Ain’t no way I’m dying here in this dumbass grocery store to Christmas music,” Graham declared, determination lacing his voice. They clearly underestimated him. He wasn’t just some ordinary slob tasked with mindless mopping; he was Graham “motherfucking” Luis—an ordinary name concealing an extraordinary will. With a steely gaze, he reaffirmed his resolve.
His eyes scanned the room once more, taking in the surroundings with a newfound intensity. There, still under the workbench, the chainsaw he had glimpsed upon his initial arrival to the store sat. Its teeth gleamed with malice, eager to be wielded as an instrument of survival. That wasn’t all Graham’s keen eyes discovered. Behind him, hanging on a rusty hook, a jumpsuit beckoned—a red garment that had witnessed its fair share of horrors.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through Graham’s veins as he assessed his options. The scent of desperation mingled with the metallic tang of fear, and his heart pounded in sync with the rhythm of the twisted holiday tune. He knew he had to make a choice—either succumb to the terror that lurked within these walls or embrace the darkness and fight back with every ounce of his being.
With grim determination etched onto his face, Graham made his decision. He would face the horrors head-on, armed with a chainsaw and clad in the jumpsuit, as he was wearing a new shirt, and didn’t feel like staining it. Graham was about to show them the true meaning of holiday horror.
In the eerie semi-circle of the produce area, the group of small cloaked figures encircled the now cloaked manager. One by one, they reached up and pulled back their hoods, revealing their true forms—Christmas elves. But these were no cheerful, rosy-cheeked helpers from children’s tales. With their twisted, pale green skin, belled shoes, and elongated, pointy ears, they resembled little goblins, warped and corrupted versions of Santa’s once-jovial little assistants.
The manager, his yellowed teeth gleaming in a wide, malevolent smile, began to speak. “We gather here for the annual Christmas party,” he declared, his voice dripping with sinister delight. “We met the quarterly quota, so for your hard work, tonight, we dine on… pizza!” With those words, a spotlight materialized, casting its beam upon a flimsy card table adorned with several five-dollar pizza boxes, lined up and ready for consumption. The elves emitted a collective grumble, their disappointment at the proposed pizza party evident.
“Now, now, let’s not be discourteous,” the manager chided, his tone filled with false cheer. “We also have a sacrifice tonight. Finally, after all these years, a sacrifice will be made, and Santa will be pleased. No more coal.” His words resonated with enthusiasm, inciting the elves to erupt into cheers, their warped voices filling the air with a bizarre symphony of elven joy.
But before the manager could utter another word to further stoke the twisted revelry, a sudden, loud snorting sound pierced through the cacophony of holiday music and elven cheers. All eyes turned to Rudolph, who stood motionless, his glowing red nose fixed upon the cracked opening of the custodial closet door. The air grew thick with tension, as if the very spirit of Christmas held its breath, awaiting what lay beyond that slight, ominous gap.
As Rudolph nudged the door open enough to fit his head in, a hand emerged from the darkness, clutching a screwdriver. With a guttural roar, Graham lunged forward, driving the makeshift dagger into the evil reindeer’s skull with a sickening ripping sound. A torrent of viscous, black goo sprayed from the mortally wounded demon’s head, coating Graham’s face in a grotesque mask of darkness. He spat and frantically wiped the goo from his eyes.
As the door swung wide open, revealing Graham’s figure standing amidst the carnage, the elves and the manager beheld the daunting adversary that stood before them. Clad in the faded red jumpsuit, Graham discarded the screwdriver and brandished his true weapon—the chainsaw. Its teeth gleamed with a deadly promise, poised to tear through flesh and bone.
The elves and the manager stared in disbelief, the realization dawning on them that their intended sacrifice had just slain Rudolph—a demon older than the elves themselves. The manager, his voice laced with false camaraderie, pleaded with Graham. “Just let us finish the ritual, my boy,” he coaxed, a malicious glimmer in his eyes. “That’s all—just serve your purpose.”
But Graham, fueled by a newfound strength and purpose, refused to yield. As the final notes of Nat King Cole’s holiday cheer song faded away, he revved the chainsaw to life, its roar drowning out the eerie melodies that permeated the store. And then, as “Run Run Rudolph” performed by Billy Gibbons, Dave Grohl, and Lemmy blasted through the speakers, Graham’s voice rose above the chaos.
“Don’t call me boy!” he shouted, his words cutting through the cacophony of music and the menacing hum of the chainsaw. With a primal scream, he raised the roaring saw above his head, ready to unleash its deadly fury upon those who sought to harness the dark powers of the holiday season.
The air crackled with tension as the elves, their ornamental daggers glinting malevolently, surged forward, their eyes gleaming with malice. Graham, his heart pounding in his chest, gripped the whirling saw with a white-knuckled determination. With a deafening roar, he swung the deadly weapon, its teeth ripping through the air like a demented conductor.
The first elf, driven by his own audacity, lunged at Graham, but fate had other plans. The whirring saw met the elf’s body head-on, tearing through flesh and bone with a sickening squelch. The unfortunate creature was rent in twain, its severed halves crashing to the floor in a grotesque display. A vile, green liquid splattered in all directions, staining the walls and floor with the essence of elven demise.
Undeterred by the gruesome spectacle, Graham pressed on, channeling his rage into each merciless swing. Left and right, his blade carved through the air, a tempest of destruction in its wake. The shrieks of pain and terror from the remaining elves echoed through the room, intertwining with the wailing notes of Billy Gibbons’ guitar solo, creating a dissonant symphony of chaos.
The green gooey river flowed, painting the room in macabre hues, as Graham danced through the onslaught. His movements were a deadly ballet, a whirlwind of violence and survival. The elves, once so confident in their malevolent intentions, now found themselves at the mercy of a man driven to protect his own.
With each savage arc of his saw, Graham exacted retribution upon those who dared threaten his existence. The room became a battleground, strewn with torn bodies. As the last elf fell, its lifeblood mingling with the gruesome tapestry of its fallen comrades, Graham stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with exertion and triumph. The room was silent, save for the fading echoes of Billy Gibbons’ final guitar notes, as if even the music itself paid homage to the victorious warrior.
In that moment, Graham knew that the holiday horrors would not prevail. He had become the instrument of their destruction, the avenger of joy and merriment. And as he wiped the sweat and elven gore from his brow, a sinister smile curved his lips, for he knew that he had just begun to unleash the fury that lay dormant within him.
The manager, his face contorted with fright, hastily emptied his bowels into his khakis, a repulsive stain spreading across the fabric. Panic surged through his veins as he turned to flee, his mind consumed by the primal instinct for self-preservation. But before he could take more than a few steps, a sound pierced the air, freezing him in his tracks.
Graham’s chainsaw, the once-unyielding instrument of his wrath, now faltered and sputtered, its teeth caught and clogged with the bones and viscera of Santa’s elves. The mechanical beast groaned to a standstill, its once-deafening roar reduced to a feeble whimper. The manager, his laughter bubbling with a mix of relief and sadistic anticipation, turned back to face Graham, his eyes glinting with malicious glee.
“Now, my boy,” the manager sneered triumphantly, his voice dripping with venom, “you will reap exactly what you’ve sown.” As if summoned from the shadows, the Deli counter man from earlier that day, a towering figure, emerged behind Graham. With a swift and brutal motion, he enveloped Graham in an ironclad bear hug, his hairy arms coiling around him like a pale, serpentine vice.
Graham’s muscles strained against the vice-like grip, his desperate struggle to free himself from the clutches of this monstrous assailant proving futile. The chainsaw slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a clanging finality. He gasped for breath, his vision blurring as the relentless pressure constricted his chest, robbing him of the precious air he so desperately needed to survive.
In that moment of despair, Graham’s gaze locked with the manager’s maniacal eyes, a twisted reflection of the horror before him. The manager’s laughter reverberated in the air, a haunting soundtrack to Graham’s impending demise. The weight of defeat settled upon him, his body weakening as darkness encroached on the edges of his vision.
As the stars danced before his fading sight, Graham’s final thought was one of bitter resentment. He despised that his last moments would be spent witnessing the manager’s sadistic pleasure, a cruel reminder of the powerlessness that had led him to this grisly fate.
Just when all hope seemed lost, a thunderous crash shattered the air, the sound of splintering glass echoing through the room. Behind the manager, one of the store’s windows exploded inward, sending jagged shards cascading to the floor. The sudden interruption silenced the manager’s laughter, his expression morphing from triumphant glee to sheer astonishment.
His eyes widened as he turned to face the source of the disturbance, his heart sinking in defeat. “Youths,” he muttered in a tone tinged with resignation. A group of young teens, their faces masked by determination and fury, flooded into the store. They encircled the manager, their collective presence a daunting wall, closing in on him with unwavering resolve.
With swift precision, the teens pounced on the Deli counter man, their knives glinting in the dim light. They pierced his legs repeatedly, a merciless barrage of stabs that tore through flesh and sinew. The Deli man’s cries of pain filled the air, his grip on Graham loosening as agony consumed him.
Graham, gasping for breath and clutching at his bruised ribs, felt a surge of gratitude flood through him as the weight of the giant man’s arms released him. He gulped in precious lungfuls of air, his body trembling with newfound strength. As he struggled to his feet, his eyes met those of the tallest, oldest teen in the group.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy reached behind him and withdrew a shotgun, its menacing presence sending a shiver down Graham’s spine. The boy approached the sobbing Deli man, his face a mask of cold determination. With a steady hand, he aimed the weapon at the Deli man’s quivering form, his finger tightening around the trigger.
The deafening blast reverberated through the store, shattering the silence and ending the Deli man’s tortured wails in a puddle of gore. Graham watched in awe as justice was meted out in a single, swift act. The boy, his eyes devoid of mercy, had become an executioner.
As the smoke cleared, Graham climbed to his feet. The boy turned his gaze towards Graham, his expression unreadable. In a fluid motion, he tossed the shotgun towards Graham, who instinctively caught it and expertly cocked the weapon. The weight of the firearm in his hands felt both foreign and empowering, a symbol of his newfound agency in the face of unimaginable horrors.
The manager, his body pinned to the ground by the relentless weight of the youths, let out a final guttural shriek, his voice reduced to a mere whimper. As Graham looked over him, he pressed the barrel of the shotgun firmly against the manager’s forehead, a mix of fear and resignation etched across his tear-stained face.
“Merry… Christmas?” the manager muttered, his voice trembling with uncertainty. Graham’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the shotgun unyielding. A flicker of emotion danced across his features as he countered, his voice laced with a chilling resolve, “And to all a good night.”
Without hesitation, Graham pulled the trigger, brains and skull splattered the linoleum floor. Silence descended upon the scene, broken only by Bruce Springsteen’s rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” blaring from the store’s speaker system, filling the air with an eerie juxtaposition of cheer and horror.
As the group of youths and Graham surveyed the carnage around them, a faint jingle of sleigh bells carried on the wind, a haunting reminder of who was indeed coming to town. Their eyes met, a shared understanding passing between them. “Let’s put out the milk and cookies, kids,” Graham said, his voice filled with determination. With a resolute gesture, he cocked the shotgun once more.
The End.
(Graham Luis will return in: “Overtime & A Happy New Year”)
Leigh’s Chaos 