Black Christmas 2: A Frightful Folly

Photo (c)2021 by Sanguine Woods.

——

…just in time for the holidays…

After Olivia Hussy ran out of the Black Xmas murder house in 1974, long after, in fact, a year on to be precise—a man renting a room in the house (the one where they found Miss Margot Kidder impaled in the heart by a glass unicorn) thought he’d heard a sound. It was coming from somewhere above him in the attic. It made him nervous; and, being nervous, he began to crave his favorite candy—hot cinnamon fireballs. He was all cozy on this late winter afternoon in a fuzzy electric blanket. The noise became a scuffling as of rats or cats (or worse) mucking about upstairs. The man was very sad because he wanted a cinnamon fireball so badly. To ease his nerves (how many coeds died in this house again?) and calm his mind. But, alas, the journey to his sweet tooth’s delight was long, and perilous, since one would have to ditch one’s electric blanket and set out barefoot over the Floor of Lava to reach the little desk drawer in which the fireballs were kept. Why had he put them all the way over there? The man cursed quietly. Then a scuffling directly over his head. “Hello?” Something tinkled from the hallway: the Christmas tree; cats jingling a bell. He called again, this time more morosely (he wasn’t used to not getting just what he wanted, just when he wanted it, just when he needed something to soften his nervous condition like a perfectly red round hot cinnamon fireball): “Hellooo?” The call hung in the air, soft ascending Os, the sound of which grew tight at the end, like a kitten mewling. From his soft memory-foam bed, he began to be frightened, and admittedly threw a temper tantrum of sorts—at the fear he felt, the dim moon shadows in the dusty room, and his nagging sweet tooth most of all…“Hello?? Helloooo???” “Why won’t anyone AHNSWER ME???!!” The sound of a hot cinnamon fireball wrapper crinkled in the silence like a firecracker! (Were they rattling around in there, by themselves?) His eyes found the little desk drawer. Fancies. Ministrations. Machinations. Brooding. All brought on by a frivolous, frenzied, unsweetened temperament. A heavy dragging sound came from the bedroom ceiling; and, after what felt like an hour, mewling like a mad cat to no one but the wind screaming in the eaves, the man rolled once and then half of another time and he was off of the bed and falling, dragging himself—his body, his soul; his fuzzy electric blanket, the drawer full of hot cinnamon fireballs (and possibly an unfortunate gray cat who may or may not have found itself caught up in the foray) into the Sun-colored lava. The front door of the murder house opened, creaked, closed again with a soft click, and a tall shadowy figure moved quickly away from the house…his large footsteps already beginning to fill up with snow.

Photo (c)2021 by Sanguine Woods.
Original film poster 1974 (Pinterest).

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