Twizzlegift
written by: Verity Mason
Vorlin Fizzlegift flicks his whittling knife this way and that as he carves into the wood. Perched on a small round stool, he shuffles nearer the fire, then holds up his latest creation to the glow of the yellow and orange flames. Swapping tools, he picks out a rounded blade to carve out tiny fingers and toes. With its snub nose pinched in between chubby cheeks, this doll is nearly finished.
Taking potluck, he plunges his calloused fingers into the wicker basket and pulls out a few colourful rags, resting them on his knee. Dabbing glue from an oversized glass jar onto the figure, he wraps red and green fabric around its body, forming a simple dress. Setting her aside, he picks up another figure and dresses it in a black and red garb, glueing the pieces into place.
With a chuckle, “Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm,” he picks up a paintbrush and dots in the eyes and rouge red to show lips and cheeks. With a thicker brush, he covers their heads with black or yellow paint. As he lines the playthings up with the others to dry, he pushes a few roasted chestnuts in between his cracked lips. Standing, he curls his fingers unconsciously to ease the painful rigidity.
“Ahhhh, time for my reward.”
Inside his shack, he’s amassed many home comforts from the nearby village of Garlbody, so rummaging in the stash under his bed, he pulls out a bottle of beer. Clutching at his leg, he hauls himself up from the floor to sit on the mattress. Cursing, he pulls on his wrinkled brown boots and conical green cap. His face is hidden beneath a scraggly white beard that seems more frost than hair.
Ale in hand, he hobbles through the doorway of his home and into the night. A lone figure, clothed in the same tattered, red and green fabric as his moppets, stained with the grime of the forest.
Hibernation has protected Vorlin through the worst of the winter chill. But now, with the constant, gnawing sensation in his stomach, hunger compels him to venture out.
“It’s Christmas Eve, little ones. Time for old Vorlin to pay a visit.”
Back inside, he shuffles to the sack filled with his gifts, crudely crafted dolls. Tossing in the last pair from the hearth fashioned from twisted roots, their eyes black as coal, mouths set in a freakish grin, they join his macabre brood.
By dawn, Vorlin’s toys lie in wait on doorsteps. Each tag scratched with the words “A gift from Twizzlegift.”
Ronan, a boy of nine, is one of the first to find his doll that morning. It grins up at him from the step.
“You’re gonna be my friend, I’ll call you Johnny.”
He strokes Johnny’s tatty hair, feeling a peculiar warmth as he holds it close, tucking it into his jacket pocket wherever he goes. As the hours pass, Ronan begins to feel sickly and cold, even though he’s bundled up in his coat and scarf.
At bedtime, when his mommy is tucking him in, she notices Ronan is shivering and fetches the doll, hoping it will help him sleep. Dawn breaks, cold and restless. Ronan creeps out of bed searching for the doll, finding it on the windowsill in his room.
As he looks closer, he swears he sees Johnny’s face change, its grin stretching wider. Other children notice things too. When the lights are off, they can hear faint noises as the dolls shift.
By midnight, several of the children have vanished, their homes left in an eerie silence, as mommies and daddies search, calling out their names into the darkness.
***
“Ah, my little ones. Welcome to my Christmas.”
Ronan shivers, glaring at the gnome.
“What do you want? You, you don’t scare me.”
“Oh, you don’t need to be frightened, Ronan, my dear boy.”
With a snap of his fingers, the little dolls twitch, jockeying for position, fixated on the whimpering children. Like spiders, they crowd closer, a tide of clawing fingers and jagged smiles.
Vorlin watches with pride as his creations close in. Ronan gets ready to escape; he rips one of the dolls from the brood and throws it at the goblin. Momentarily, the spell breaks, and the dolls lie still.
Ronan yells for the children to run; he pushes them forward through the opening. Vorlin’s hands fist, causing the muscles in his forearms to ache as he watches the youngsters run free.
By morning, they emerge from the forest, shaken and cold but alive. Twizzlegift’s lair fading from their minds. Reunited with their parents, the hugs and smells of home feel good. Keen to enjoy the holiday, they all hungrily dig into their Christmas dinner.
Except for one little boy, his chair remains empty…
Vorlin’s face twists in rage as he grabs a rusty lantern, hurling it against the wall, the air vibrating with a guttural roar that rumbles from his throat like thunder. He grabs a few scraps of wood, his distorted mind splintering with each savage stroke of the knife, carving grotesque shapes as he seeks revenge on those who have escaped him.
Twizzlegift’s anger is slowly replaced by a sense of purpose as he smears bloody pulp onto the foul mutations, his emerald eyes shining with satisfaction as his emerging army begins to take shape.
“Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.”
- Beyond The Wrapping Paper - December 25, 2024
- Twizzlegift - December 1, 2024
- Mean Beans - September 13, 2024
