Christmas Only Comes Once
This short horror tale appeared in issue number two of Rictus. Story copyright 1994, William D. Cissna.


The place was packed, no doubt about it. But then, he'd depended on that. Bunch of crazy people, buying
stuff to give away. The magic of the Christmas season, crowded aisles and distracted salespeople.
He was shopping, too. But he sure as hell didn't plan to give it to anyone. And there wasn't the slightest
chance he would pay for it.
He had all the moves down right. Wear reasonably decent clothes. No lurking around. Act like you
belong there. Take your time, stroll, shop, but don't loiter. Watch for the best opportunity, hit and run.
Worked every time.
Still plenty of joints without those clip-on security gadgets. The independents and small chains couldn't
afford them, not in these times, so that's where he concentrated his efforts. Dark little shops with funky
merchandise like this one -- though obviously popular with the peculiar types living in this part of the
city -- could barely stay afloat, much less put big bucks into stopping shoplifters.
Course, there was the guy who looked like he owned the place, whose build and craggy face might scare
off any two-bit thief with a conscience. Joe Sheets, not afflicted with such a shortcoming, had caught the
guy glowering at the clientele like some kind of evil gargoyle, made more threatening by his dark
complexion and all-black outfit.
The woman behind the cash register seemed visibly relieved when the dark man left the front of the
store and disappeared behind a ratty curtain across a doorway in the back.
Joe Sheets was relieved for a totally different reason. The man scared him not at all, but it helped to
have him gone. He shoved the 3/4-inch drill under his bulky coat, shook his head negatively, pretending
he couldn't find what he wanted, and made a slow, measured exit.
A ten-minute subway ride later, he climbed five floors to his cluttered efficiency apartment in a
less-fashionable neighborhood and unloaded his new drill. He set it carefully on top of a still-boxed
television, next to three dual-cassette boom boxes and a gold-inlaid jewelry box. Not a bad take for an
afternoon's work. His fence would be pleased.
He grabbed a cold brew from the shuddering refrigerator and took a huge gulp. Too bad refrigerators
were so big. He could use a new one.
Brew in hand, he took the drill out of the box, fitted a small bit into place and plugged it in. It ran great,
putting a small hole in the ancient wood trim of the kitchen. He blew off the sawdust, repacked the drill
and put it back on the pile.
With the red neon of an all-night girlie show's marquee flickering outside his one window, he let night
and sleep fall over him as the beer went flat next to his lumpy cot. Life was good, he thought, or at least
good enough.
The sound, when it came, seemed like part of a dream at first. He'd reverted to age ten; the old man was
still alive and still around. He had Joe down at that old quack of a dentist, who had just discovered Joe's
first cavity and was preparing to put a huge hole inside Joe's mouth.
Joe woke up frightened, only to realize he was nowhere near a dentist's office, but on his dirty,
sweat-drenched cot. The sound, though, had not gone away.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see a movement across the room, near the wall. The sound
grew louder as a motor whine rose and fell, followed by a grinding screech. He watched, horribly
fascinated, as his new drill floated in mid-air, punching first one, then a second hole through a large
cardboard box and into the faux-wood body of his purloined television.
"Hey," he mumbled into the thick air, "what the hell you think you're doing?" As if the drill could
hear, he thought. What a stupid asshole.
But the drill withdrew itself from its task and turned its whirring bit towards him. Slowly, still
dreamlike, it drifted towards the cot. He rationalized that it must be a dream: the power cord dangled
beneath the drill, unconnected.
He heard himself scream, knowing it would go unnoticed or at least without reaction in a place like his.
Then he jumped from the cot and bolted for the door. Behind him, he heard a macabre echo of his
scream as the drill's motor hit full speed.
When he threw the door open, the dark man stood there, with a smile more like a grimace. Joe Sheets
screamed again.
"It's not good to steal, Mr. Sheets," the dark man cackled.
He could have sworn that the man's eyes shone red in the dim light of the hallway. But it could have
been a spasm, a shock reaction of the nerves, for it was at that moment the drill bit struck its target for
the first time.
***
Joe's body was buried in Potter's Field, and no one but the coroner and the police knew about the
twenty-nine unexplained holes in his carcass. In the suburbs later that week, a paying customer was
pleased to give her husband a slightly-used 3/4-inch drill she'd found in a funky little store in Soho. It
filled out the perfect Christmas.
# # #
Horror shorts -
by Bill Cissna
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