KENSINGTON GORE'S
ADVENT CALENDAR

The Beasts Come Out (Flash fiction)

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On the first morning of December, Sandra pressed her thumb into the tiny cardboard door marked 1. The flap popped open with a whisper—like someone exhaling after holding their breath far too long. Inside wasn’t chocolate. It was fur. Dark, matted, trembling fur. Something small wriggled, then spilled out: a many-legged creature with a snarling baby face and claws like snapped needles. It skittered across the table, shrieking. More movement swelled behind the open window. More fur. More claws. More hungry breathing. Lydia backed away as the calendar bulged. Door 1 had opened. And the beasts wanted out.

DAY 2 - SECOND THOUGHTS Death first noticed the man long before the man noticed him. It was hard not to; the stranger paced the abandoned railway platform in tidy sets of two—two steps forward, two back, two taps of his heel against the rusted rail. Whenever he muttered under his breath, every phrase arrived in pairs. The world held many odd souls, but this one was wrapped in twos like a cocoon. Rain drifted down in thin double droplets. Death waited beside a peeling timetable, unseen, patient as weather. Trains no longer came to this place, but appointments certainly did. The man halted. “You can come out now,” he said softly. “I’ve counted you. Twice.” Death stepped forward, revealing the outline of a tall figure in a long dark coat. “You can see me?” “Oh yes,” the man said. “I’ve always been able to see what others don’t. Helps with the twos, you know. Evens things out.” He smiled, a delicate, nervous thing. “I’ll call you Noah.” Death raised an eyebrow. Few mortals dared nickname him. “Why Noah?” “Noah means rest,” the man said. “Two of every creature went into the ark. Two of everything worth saving. You’re here for me, so I must be the second half of something.” Death considered this. “You are Marcus Dale. Forty-two years old. You died two minutes ago on the road outside the station.” Marcus nodded twice, precisely. “I suspected as much. My heart stopped in a pair of beats. Fitting, really. But I walked here anyway. I like things tidy.” Death gestured to the empty track. “You’re taking this calmly.” “Well,” Marcus said, clasping his hands in twos—right over left, then left over right—“I spent most of my life alone. Even numbers comforted me. They feel complete. If death must come, then let him come twice as gently.” Death almost smiled. “I do not come gently.” “Ah, but you came,” Marcus said. “And now you’ll take me.” “Soon.” Marcus tilted his head. “Not yet?” “No,” Death answered. “You died, but something in you clung tightly. A tether. You are between states.” Marcus’s eyes widened. “Is that bad?” “Not unless you linger.” He took two steps closer. Marcus took two back. “You fear me,” Death said. “Of course I do,” Marcus whispered. “But I fear imbalance more. If I go, I go. If I stay, I stay. This half-state—this unevenness—I can’t bear it.” Death extended a gloved hand. “Come, then. The path is ready.” But Marcus didn’t move. His gaze had fallen to the far side of the platform, where a flickering figure appeared—a child, small and blurred, holding a toy train. Marcus gasped. “Two of us.” Death’s voice softened. “Your twin brother. Stillborn. A life that never reached even its first step.” The child raised his little hand. Marcus trembled. “I always felt something missing. As if half my thoughts were echoes. Half my joys shadows.” “He waits for you,” Death said. The child nodded, twice. Marcus stepped toward him, but the platform rumbled. The dead rails groaned. A ghostly train materialized, its lights dim and doubled, its windows reflecting only darkness. Death said, “Once you board, you do not return.” Marcus hesitated. “If I step on, it becomes one journey. One ending. That isn’t even.” Death lowered his hand. “Then stay in the between-place.” Marcus whimpered. “I can’t. I can’t exist as a single thing.” The child reached again. Marcus inhaled sharply, then exhaled twice. “Very well. Two brothers, two souls reunited.” He boarded. The doors shut with a metallic clank. Death watched as the ghost train carried Marcus into the blackness between worlds. When it vanished, the rain stopped. Death murmured, “Farewell, Noah. May you find your twos.” In the stillness that followed Death listened to the fading echoes and considered the symmetry Marcus had longed for. Few souls achieved such balance. With a final nod to the empty tracks, Death stepped back into the veil, leaving the world neatly parted in two forever.

DAY 3 We have a full story for you about a scary snowman, written by Kensington Gore reproduced here kindly by him, and our good friends at Poe Girl Publishing. Simply click on the image to read the story.

A POEM OF CHRISTMAS FEAR

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the mall 
The creatures were stirring—zombies, one and all. 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with staples, 
In hopes that Black Friday would make us all staples. 

The children were screaming at tablets aglow, 
While visions of TikTok made their eyeballs explode. 
And Mama in her Onesie, and I in my dread, 
Had just settled down for a long winter’s dread… 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter— 
I sprang from my debt to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I stumbled, half-dead, 
Tripped over Amazon boxes and cracked open my head. 

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow 
Gave a lustre of Santa suit red to the horror below: 
When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear 
But a miniature sleigh pulled by eight rabid reindeer— 
Their eyes glowing red, antlers dripping with goo, 
And a skeletal driver who looked a lot like… you-know-who. 

More rapid than vultures his coursers they came, 
And he wheezed and he cackled and called them by name: 
“Now, Credit! Now, Debit! Now, Visa and Master! 
On, PayPal! On, Venmo! On, Crypto Disaster! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, 
Now charge away, charge away, charge away all!” 

Then up to the housetop the coursers they flew, 
With a sleigh full of gadgets no mortal should own, 
And St. Nick—sweet Jesus—he looked overblown: 
His eyes were both twitching, his dimples pure terror, 
His cheeks were like roadkill, his nose a red error. 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a scream, 
And the beard on his chin was a tangle of green 
(From eating the children who asked for too much). 
A bundle of smart-toys he had in his clutch— 
They blinked and they whispered and learned all your sins, 
Then posted your browser history straight to your kin. 

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work: 
Filled all of the stockings with cursed animatronics, 
Then turned with a jerk— 
And there in the doorway stood Granny so dear, 
Her dentures removed for her holiday cheer. 

She grinned like a jack-o’-lantern fresh from the grave, 
Gums flapping like batwings, a sight to deprave. 
Her eyes—how they sunken! Her wrinkles—how scary! 
Her breath could curdle the eggnog and make Rudolph grow hairy! 

She cackled, “Who needs ghosts when you’ve got me, lads?” 
Then chased us with dentures that snapped like bear traps. 
We fled through the tinsel, we fled through the fear, 
While Santa just laughed and cracked open a beer. 

He sprang to his sleigh, gave his team a cruel lash, 
And away they all flew like the downfall of cash. 
But I heard him exclaim as they tore out of sight: 
“Merry Christmas to all— 
and to all a good fright!”

COMING SOON

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