Black Christmas: A Cursed Snow Globe Christmas Horror Story

Weekly Spooky brings you a Christmas horror story about a broke newsboy, a hidden antiques shop, and a cursed snow globe that can tilt luck itself—if you’re willing to pay. Inside the glass sits a miniature winter town… and with each whispered wish, the flakes swirl… and a few turn black.

At first, it feels like a miracle: debts vanish, odds bend, and the world finally stops kicking you in the teeth. But the snow globe keeps count. The town inside begins to glow with holiday lights, the season creeps closer, and the promise of “Black Christmas” stops sounding like a joke.

Because when the last wish is spent, the bargain doesn’t end. It collects.

Bundle up and hit play for a bleak, gritty, supernatural holiday nightmare packed with bad luck, blood money, and the kind of Christmas magic you don’t survive twice.

Black Christmas by Rodri Go
Instagram: @unhappy_stories
www.unhappystories.net

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🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Snow falls inside the globe, quiet, peaceful. Then you whisper
the words and the town lights up. A few flakes
turn black. Your luck changes overnight. But Christmas is coming

(00:22):
and the snow globe isn't granting wishes anymore. How did
you get in here? Oh? Ho ho? What's that You

(00:44):
want to be scared? Come with me? This is Weekly Spooky. Hello,

(01:13):
my spookys, you're not confused. It's Tuesday, and don't worry.
If you're a fan of this week in Horror History,
that'll be airing in just a few hours here on
the Weekly Spooky Feed. But as is tradition on our podcast,

(01:34):
we brought you a little something extra to unwrap, because
would it even be Christmas without surprises? And tonight's story
is full of them. And it's courtesy of a new
author to our program, rodri Go, And trust me, I
know you'll enjoy it. I'm your host and narrator, Enrique Kuto,

(01:59):
and before we get to the story, I just want
to thank you from the bottom of my heart. This
has been one of the most successful holiday seasons on
Weekly Spooky ever and we're not even all the way through.
So if you love what we're doing. Make sure you're subscribed,

(02:19):
and if you'd like to show us a little bit
more support, I would consider that a gift under my tree.
Just head to Weeklyspooky dot Com slash join and for
as little as one dollar a month, you get two
bonus stories every single month, and my undying gratitude. It's

(02:40):
what helps keep the show going and going and growing.
As we wrap up our seventh year of bringing you spooky,
and if you've just joined us in the last few months,
I want to remind you we do not stop. All
year long. Weekly Spooky brings you something scary to listen to.

(03:03):
On Mondays you have Terrifying and true for your folklore
and true crime, and then of course on Wednesdays you
have our weekly spooky story just for you to enjoy.
So if you want to show us some support and
join over ninety other spookies, I really would appreciate it,
head to Weeklyspooky dot Com slash join. But now, as

(03:27):
for tonight, imagine it's a cold night, the streets are
slick with slush, and you duck into a dusty little
shop because you're desperate. Inside, you discover a snow globe,
tiny houses, warm lights, perfect snowfall and a price tag

(03:52):
that feels like a joke. But when you shake it,
the snow doesn't stay war Because this globe doesn't just
show you Christmas. It changes it. It bends luck, It
grants wishes, and it starts turning the season into something darker,

(04:15):
demanding payment you can't afford. Black Christmas by Roder Gough.
It was cold and dark that one wretched morning in

(04:37):
the city of dead dreams. Dilapidated buildings, decadent centuries of
another time towered on either side of me. As I
sped by on my way to the warehouse downtown, an
ill disposed wind howled in every direction. Beggars huddled together,

(04:59):
and brown slow clung to the rims of my bicycle tires.
Down the road, a neon papst blue ribbon sign buzzed
over silent garbage cans in disarray. The entire grim metropolis
shivered under a silver sky, while an icy drizzle lacerated

(05:22):
pavement and poltergeist alike dim holiday lights hung miserably on
the iron gate of a Catholic church. It was that
time of year again. I shuddered at the thought, and
kept my eyes on the path ahead. Unwilling to dwell

(05:42):
in bad memories and worse nights, I arrived at the
warehouse freezing, wet and tired. The depots, weathered brick walls
and cement pillars, stood indifferent. There is no rest for
the poor. An old gray delivery truck backed up next

(06:04):
to a concrete platform while a stocky, middle aged man
opened the vehicle's rear door. Myself and other kids roughly
my same age began to gather around him. A large, empty,
brown leather satchel hung loosely across my chest. The other

(06:26):
boys had similar knapsacks of their own. Soon they'd all
be filled with copies of the day's journal, ready to
be delivered. At fifteen cents apiece. We got to keep
two cents per unit sold. Not bad. It was enough
to keep food on the table most of the time.

(06:51):
Every now and again, though, a salacious incident would send
the general public into a frenzy, resulting in a higher
profit for us. Political scandals were usually the most lucrative.
What we got, boss, I asked one of the older kids,

(07:11):
hoping for a shocking headline. His tattered clothes and grimy
disposition told the same worn down story. We were all
accustomed to see for yourself, replied the man as he
hurled a stack of newspapers onto the floor right by
our feet. The smell of fresh ink filled our nostrils

(07:37):
in anticipation. Mismatched Patterson lasts to twelve clay by Tko.
Myself and a few of the boys made affirmative sounds
and gestures in unison boxing championship bouts meant plenty of sales.

(07:57):
Everyone knows that despite modern society's pretense for civility, the
age old spectacle between desperate, violent men striking years off
each other's lives under the bright lights remained unmatched. Works
for me. What's TKO mean, boss, asked one of the

(08:22):
youngest kids in the bunch. Snot nosed and dirty means
get to work, all you. If you can say it,
you can sell it. Don't need to know what it means.
The stout man grumbled back in a bad mood, without
making eye contact with any of us. He began handing

(08:42):
out bundles of newspapers to the skinny hands reaching out
for them, until the truck was left empty. While the
city still slept a ragtag of raggedy kids in weary
clothes ventured out into the cold, thirsty for love and money.

(09:03):
Most would never find either. After finishing my scheduled deliveries,
I hurried over to the corner of Fifth and Wilson
Avenue just in time for the morning rush. Though the
sleet had subsided in exchange for a meek daylight, an
insidious chill still remained. Tall men in long coats, ruthless suits,

(09:30):
and fedora hats brisked by me on their way to work.
Most would fling a coin and take the paper without
missing a step, while others lingered, volunteering their opinion on
whatever was on print that day. One such man approached
me with his hands in his pockets and a scowl

(09:52):
across his face. An unkempt gray beard betrayed his age
clay by TKO, sir, get the details here for less
than a quarter, I said to him in my most
polished salesman tone, raising the paper so he would see
the headline on display. The guy replied with a scoff

(10:16):
and grabbed the newspaper, abruptly unfolding it and scanning the
front page. Big whoop, Kid's a loud mouth. Doesn't know
his place. They ought to send his ass to nam
and see how he does over there. The man growled
back as he shoved the paper into my chest and

(10:37):
walked away, leaving behind the distinct aroma of cheap liquor
and old regret. Asshole. I thought, though without actually saying
anything back to him, not worth the fuss. Less than
an hour later, my satchel was finally empty and my

(10:58):
pockets were full of It was time to head back
to the depot to cash in and collect my earnings.
The day was still young, and though no one would
ever hear, sullen wraiths cried out in agony on every corner,
aware of their eternal penance. I walked alongside my bike

(11:23):
through the city's business district. Colorful advertisements for all sorts
of products and services beamed on either side of me.
As I strolled by on my way back to the warehouse. Downtown,
the dead moaned, the cold persisted. Halfway down Truman Boulevard,

(11:48):
between a tailor and a record store, I spotted a
small shop, old and unassuming. A dim yellow light emanated
from inside, and a strange, bold lettered word decorated the
entrance Antiques. I was perplexed for a second wondering how

(12:11):
I'd never seen this business before, despite my many trips
through the district. There was a certain appeal to the place,
an irresistible warning. Curious, I leaned my bike on the wall,
opened the front door, and walked in. A prolonged, low

(12:33):
pitched chime announced my entry as the door closed softly.
Behind unending rows of dusty furniture and all matter of
peculiar items, many of them unknown to me, lay on
display ahead. A deep red wallpaper clung to the walls,

(12:56):
and candles hung on silver sconces at even intervals. Inside,
the space was much bigger than it looked. A deafening silence,
only barely interrupted by flickering lights and my own hesitant
footsteps reigned unopposed. The rich, bitter sweet smell of moth

(13:20):
balls invaded every pore in my skin, loosening the senses. Hello,
I called out into the mild darkness nothing. An aged
upright piano stood to my left. It was missing a pedal,

(13:41):
and there were numbers carved on specific keys up Ahead
to my right, a robust wardrobe loomed quietly over an
iron typewriter sitting on a charred desk. The dresser was
seven feet tall and smoothed to the touch. A gilded
bronze lock kept its secret safe from wandering hands. Hello, anyone,

(14:09):
I called out again, this time a little louder. Still nothing.
The hardwood floor creaked under my weight as I slowly
made my way from one corridor to the next, intrigued
by the untold stories hidden behind every dated artifact. Tomes

(14:31):
of books on ornate shelves, marble busts of ancient men,
and empty rocking chairs languished in the shadows begging for attention.
The room began to feel warm. Deep in the labyrinth,
touched by the soft glow of candle light and leaning

(14:54):
on a scarred phonograph cabinet, there was a large painting
lying up the st side down on the floor, A
man and a woman preying in the middle of a
field shadows in all the right places. I tilted my
head and read the inscription engraved on the bottom length

(15:15):
of the frame, The Angelus by Jean Francois milet my apologies.
A soft voice spoke close behind me. For a second,
my body tensed up. I was just about to hang
that piece, If you'll excuse me, I turned around to

(15:39):
face a stern silhouette in a taut black on black
collared dress. A tall woman with blunt, dark features and
ominous amber eyes stood before me. Hair done in the
beehive style. Nylon leggings concealed her in the dim light.

(16:01):
A pair of golden serpents decorated her ears. Yes, ma'am.
I managed to stammer back and move out of the way.
The striking figure swiftly walked past me and picked up
the painting effortlessly follow me. She commanded without looking back

(16:24):
or missing a step, though there was rhythm to her gait.
She moved fast and mostly seemed to glide over the
old floorboards beneath her feet, invisible in the scarce light.
I obeyed without question, lost already under the influence of

(16:45):
aberrant things unknown to most, a legion of mute artifacts,
cursed and otherwise witnessed our destined procession, no matter how
fast I wore, though the distance between me and the
woman seemed to widen with every step we took through

(17:07):
the ample gallery. I sped up my stride from one
aisle to the next, past inaccurate clocks and particular metals,
until she was barely visible, and then she wasn't. Instead,
a warm, subtle light appeared at the end of the corridor. Come, child,

(17:33):
I can help you find what you're looking for. The
shopkeeper's ethereal voice touched my senses. A drop of sweat
ran down my neck. I approached and found her standing
behind a long wooden counter. An ornate brass candelabra holding

(17:54):
three tall candles stood on the edge. Behind the aforementioned
painting hung on the wall, and next to it, the
regal head of a lion remained stoic in death, a
glimmer of ferocity still in his eyes. Curator, she said smoothly,

(18:22):
I am the curator and owner of this establishment. How
may I assist you? Despite her calm demeanor, there was
a palpable intensity to being in her presence. I was
afraid and intrigued at the same time, unsure whether to

(18:43):
run for my life or drop to my knees and worship.
Words escaped me knowingly, she smiled. Not many people find
this place, you know, the ones who do leave satisfied
but never come back. What brings you here? She spoke,

(19:04):
in a beautiful accent, one fit only for gods and monsters.
A brand new cash register sat on the counter, cold
and unyielding, except for a pristine purple sticker in the
shape of a fish, candidly stuck to it. Nothing. I

(19:24):
was just passing by. What is this place? My voice
came out in reverence, barely louder than a whisper relaxed child.
This is not wholly ground. What you see here is
a collection of relics, morose, powerful artifacts from years past,

(19:49):
each one carefully selected by me from across the globe.
Each one meant for someone somewhere some time. The important
question now is which one is meant for you. A
look of surprise found my face. Her luminous eyes savored

(20:13):
the moment. Thank you, ma'am. But I could never pay
for any of this. I wouldn't even know where to
begin as far as picking goes. To be honest, the
room felt hot now. I thought about taking my coat off,
but decided not to. A tie is all I ask

(20:35):
for in return? Ten percent of whatever is in your pockets,
she said, enticingly, leave the rest to me. Sold I
took out the exact amount and set it on the counter, foolish,
eager to join the damned, What is your name? I asked,

(21:02):
helpless you can call me Nina. Multiple heavenly voices spoke
the name in unison. A blue hue tinted the candlelight
for a brief second. Now close your eyes and breathe deep, child,

(21:24):
listen to the flame. Let it clear your thoughts. I'm
going to ask a question. Your answer will guide me
in choosing the right antique for you. Only the truth
will do Silence. I nodded in response. Standing there in

(21:50):
the vicinity of Godhood, my mind felt quiet, infinite, pure,
and despicable. Her poised inflection descended on me, gently, nurturing
and astute. What do you hate the most? I grimaced.

(22:12):
The answer to her question was easy to find. The
sting of a fresh cigarette burn, the bitter taste of
an undelivered promise, a raw, vivid picture of violence and abandonment,
permanently linked through trauma to a particular day Christmas, I replied,

(22:40):
opening my eyes and repressing the past, once again, burying
the pain so deep it could never hurt me. The
curator let out a delighted laugh, sinister and elegant, Of
course you do. I have seen your nightmare, and I

(23:04):
have just the thing. Wait here. The woman disappeared back
into the labyrinth, her movements quick and fearless. I leaned
on the counter facing the haunted collection. A dozen dark
corridors lined in mystery and madness sprawled before me. I

(23:32):
wondered what sort of arcane magic laid there. Restless, eager
to live again, stare into the abyss long enough, though,
and it will find you. First. Coming from one of
the hallways, a whisper, then someone writing hurriedly in the dark.

(23:57):
The turn of a key, followed by a click and
deranged laughter soon followed. In the background, a faint weep
held still, sad and inconsolable. Death trembled, prayers turned to curses,

(24:17):
and screams of terror faded into miserable whimpers. I could
only smile. Here, child, your antique. Once again, the soft
voice spoke close behind me. I turned around and found

(24:38):
the woman back behind the counter, her divine aura resonant
and rich. She was holding a crystal sphere, sitting on
a heavy set wooden base inside a colonial village in
the middle of a forest. Covered in white. It was

(25:01):
a snow globe. I looked back at her, perplexed. To
cheer you up during the holidays, she said, placing it
on my hand. A tiny church, complete with a bell
tower and a cross, loomed over a few traditional homes.

(25:24):
The town square was empty except for a stone well
on the base, a silver plaque or an inscription in
a language unknown to me. Peter Noster up to terra,

(25:47):
a malicious play on words, particularly on sacred texts tied
to terrible sacrifice can sometimes unlock derivative power and with consequence.
But power nonetheless, explained the woman. Sweat accumulated on my forehead.

(26:12):
I remained still one of the latest additions to my collection,
This one callous and fickle. Used properly, it can grant
certain wishes, frivolous whims, as long as the request doesn't
break human will or the laws of physics, she said,

(26:36):
looking at the artifact pleased behind me. Solemn murmurs and
barren moans wandered the darkened corridors. The laws of what,
I replied with a gulp. My throat felt dry. The
woman smiled. Keep it simple, child, Think of kismet, coincidence, odds,

(27:02):
and chants. The ritual will tilt these in your favor.
Every year, at any time from the beginning of the
autumnal equinox to the end of the winter solstice. Shake
the artifact, make the snow fall with your wish in
mind and the hex on your lips. Pay her noster

(27:26):
up to terra. If your wish is granted, you will
notice some of the flakes will permanently turn black in color,
she said. Pressing a few keys on the cash register,
a tray slid open with a ding. The woman placed
the coins inside and closed it in a swift motion.

(27:51):
She then looked at me severely and continued, Now listen,
there must always be white snow inside the globe. You understand,
Once only a few regular flakes remain, you must stop
using the incantation at your own peril. In other words,

(28:16):
the amount of wishes you have is limited. Use them wisely.
Looking down, I examined the artifact in disbelief, wondering how
an old snow globe was going to do any of that.
The level of detail inside, though, was mesmerizing, every window,

(28:42):
rock and tree masterfully crafted to perfection by someone driven obsessed.
Hidden in the middle of the forest, a lone cross
marked the location of a shallow grave. What happens, you know,

(29:04):
when they all change color? I asked, looking up. The
woman took the souvenir from my hand and shook it.
A great number of white snowflakes swirled inside before gently
descending onto the somber landscape. Black Christmas, she replied, casually,

(29:29):
setting the snow globe back on the counter like a
bad holiday piece of cake, I muttered, picking it up
and wiping my brow, still intrigued by the curious object.
Magic or not, this thing was valuable, I could tell

(29:51):
from how heavy it was. It was nice doing business
with you. Then please come again, the curate spoke definitively.
As the room's intense pressure slowly subsided, I turned back
to find no more than a couple of aials and

(30:12):
the shop's entrance. The dim candlelit facade remained untouched. My
shirt felt damp. It was time to go. Yeah you too,
I replied, like an idiot. Walking towards the exit. At
the door's threshold, I turned around to look at the

(30:35):
woman one last time. Her statuesque figure faced me from
behind the counter, Vibrant and appealing, solemn enshrined in priceless
art and loyal subjects, powerful, her incandescent eyes majestic and serene.

(30:59):
Something told me we'd never meet again. I opened the
door and walked out into the cold street. For a
brief second, it was a welcome change. Not one step
out of the gallery, though I realized something everything was wrong.

(31:22):
It was dark outside night time, pretty late too, judging
from the complete lack of cars or people strolling about.
Though temperatures were surely below freezing, there was no wind,
sleet or snow. A glum silence held the entire town.

(31:46):
On the sidewalk, tall slender street lights offered solace from
the stark darkness. Every few feet I turned around to
find the antique shops lights we're out, a closed sign
firmly on display. Somehow, I'd spent over twelve hours inside

(32:11):
the hallowed gallery, though to me it felt like no
more than one. Also, my bike was gone, though no
surprise there. Either way, I was screwed. There is a

(32:32):
specific window during the day in which we are supposed
to get back to the warehouse and cash in. It's
important to make it because they get their money and
so do we. Not showing up usually means one of
the boys is trying to keep the whole stash and
never come back, mostly over drugs, sometimes a medical emergency.

(32:56):
In any case, the foreman make sure to notify the police,
and well, it never ends well for the runaway. As
for me, a story about getting lost in a mysterious
shop wasn't going to cut it. Even a reasonable explanation
wouldn't do it. You were either there on time or

(33:19):
you were a criminal. No questions asked, no mercy given.
Standing under one of the street lamps, a sense of
dread gripped my guts. I reached inside the satchel and
pulled out the snow globe. Light from above refracted through
the curved shimmering crystal, projecting color and grief. I shook

(33:45):
it and said the words out loud, trying my best
to emulate the curator Peter Noster up to Terra. At
the same time, in my mind, a single statement was
on repeat. Don't let me be in trouble with the foreman.

(34:07):
Don't let me be in trouble with the foreman. After
a few shakes, I held it up at eye level
and looked closely inside. Thousands of snowflakes filled the miniature
atmosphere in a whirl, gently slowing down into a state

(34:28):
of eerie suspension. The town was only partially visible, now
shrouded in white, as was everything else. I looked at
the globe from different angles, carefully maneuvering the artifact with
both hands, looking for them. It only took a minute.

(34:53):
Fleeting at first, easy to lose in the crowded procession,
but they were there. Black snowflakes scattered less than a pinch,
but undeniably there. I felt fear and excitement, instinctively bracing

(35:13):
myself for something to happen, but the night remained calm. Disappointed,
I put the relic back in the satchel and walked
home in a hurry, thinking of other ways to get
out of my troubled situation. Elsewhere in the city, a stocky,

(35:36):
middle aged man slept comfortably, unaware he would be dead
before sunrise. I arrived at the warehouse the next morning,
wide eyed and anxious, expecting loud accusations, handcuffs or worse,

(35:58):
but at the same time hoping a clever excuse, plus
the old wages would spare me a meeting with the fuzz,
not to mention keeping the actual job. Surprisingly, everything seemed
business as usual. A different guy handed out the newspaper bundles,

(36:19):
and things seemed to be running a little late, but
other than that nothing. It was certainly quiet, but that
wasn't unusual either. I kept my head down, got my batch,
and got out of there, pockets still full of coins
from the previous day. No one even looked at me.

(36:42):
Twice the artifact worked. My wish had been granted. Maybe
this would be a good holiday after all. Later on
that shift I heard from one of the other boys
that are us. Usual guy at the warehouse, the foreman

(37:02):
who gave us the merch and kept track of things,
was moving stacks of newspapers early that morning when he
stepped on a patch of ice and hit the back
of his head hard on the concrete floor. Lights out
right then and there on company property. Things moved fast.

(37:27):
The deceased's accounting records were verified, his family modestly compensated,
and the suits moved on without as much as a
second thought. Kismet, coincidence, odds and chance. I smiled. Dude
was an asshole anyway, probably did him a favor. Rerent

(37:52):
was coming up. Gas and light were overdue. It was
time for the world to give back what it had
taken from me, my entire life. After all, Why should
I care about others when no one ever cared for me.
I spent every five minutes thereafter thinking of different ways

(38:15):
to use my magic snow globe for profit. Options were
limited at first, but as I grew older, a wide
range of opportunities were unlocked in the form of gambling.
Sporting events specifically were there for the taking basketball, baseball, football, boxing,

(38:41):
even the races. A wish, a shake, and a spell
is all it took to pull the upset easy money.
The time constraints on the ritual were inconvenient, but I
managed by planning ahead head and saving diligently. Still, it

(39:04):
took time to build enough capital to place significant wagers,
but once I was there, making rent was not an
issue anymore. The bills were paid and my stomach was
full year round. By that point, about a quarter of
the flakes inside the globe had turned color, and there

(39:29):
was something else. With every wish granted. Red and green
lights began to appear in the miniature town, decorating rooftops
and trees alike. Some of the houses lit up inside,
giving off a warm yellow hue. It was beginning to

(39:52):
look like Christmas. The Curator's ominous warning foreboding misfortune and
despair echoed distant in my thoughts. I used the haunted
artifact to my advantage over the years, addicted to money, booze,

(40:17):
and winning, never once thinking of the price paid in
blood for every one of my wishes, never once feeling remorse,
never once nothing. They say, selfish lives lead to lonely deaths.

(40:38):
It's true. The gloom brick lined alleyway was like any
other in the city, disillusioned and dirty. Empty beer cans
and broken glass rattled on the weathered ground amidst cigarette
butts and dog piss. A halfway ripped poster ad advertising

(41:00):
and upcoming fight fluttered in the cunning fall wind. Dusk
was beginning to set in, and with it came the
prostitutes and debt collectors. Rats big as cats scurried away,
spooked by the sound of polished shoes cracking hard against

(41:23):
my ribs. Unfortunately for me today there would be no hookers.
With my back against the wall, two men in swanky
clothes and a smug demeanor stood over me, clearly enjoying
their respective roles. The smaller one did all the talking

(41:45):
while the other used his fists. Both wore heavy jewelry
This is the last time we play nice, you understand,
he said in a slimy accent, pointing his face at
me as blood poured down from a fresh gash on
my lips. Brass knuckles will do that. The brute laid

(42:09):
one last right cross straight on my left cheekbone, opening
another wound, then finished it with a heel kick to
the chest. Fucking wops, I thought, curled up on the
concrete ground in pain, unable to breathe. You think this

(42:29):
is bad, the mobster continued, pursing his lips. If you
don't pay what you owe in two days, I'm gonna
have my friend here go to work on you with
a crowbar. You hear me? Two days? That's it? He
took one step closer and looked me directly in the eyes.

(42:52):
We'll make a fucking cripple out of you. Then you
can beg on the streets until your debt is paid.
Two days, I nodded in return. Can't hear you, boy,
he said, leaning in and raising his backhand. I heard you, man,
two days, I got you. I'll get the money, I replied, flinching.

(43:19):
The thugs chuckled and took off, leaving me bruised, broken,
in the company of trash and misery. Didn't matter either way.
I was fucked. Little over a year ago, I was
about to use the snow globe, intent on fixing an

(43:40):
important ballgame, when I noticed every snowflake in view had
turned black, while the entire town dressed in holiday cheer.
Fear settled in the pit of my stomach. After years
of witnessing first hand and the artifacts sinister power, I

(44:04):
was less than keen to find out what happened when
if only I'd ask the woman to be a bit
more specific back then, fuck. I began inspecting the globe
from all angles, using both hands, until finally the sight
of a few white flakes sent a wave of relief

(44:27):
down my spine. Still, it was clear my days of
easy money at the bookies were done. I wasn't too worried, though.
By then I'd made enough cash to keep me going
for a bit. So I put the snow globe away
in a drawer and forgot about it. Figured i'd beat

(44:50):
the system, and honestly, it would have worked, except I
didn't stop gambling. I couldn't. Addiction is a greedy bitch.
It only knows how to take until there's nothing left
without the odds in my favor. Within months, I'd lost

(45:12):
most of my savings to different betters. The constant partying
didn't help either, After all, loose women and fine spirits
are expensive commodities. Even worse, I got in the hole
with the local mob. Now my face was swollen, blood

(45:35):
pulled in my eye socket, and it was time to
pay the piper. I needed a big score in the
next forty eight hours, and I knew just the one.
Hard to miss. Actually, though, I'd have to use the
entirety of my remaining capital with the right wager. The

(45:59):
stakes were steel deep enough to pay off my debt
and then some How bad could a black Christmas be? Anyway,
Whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than what those
fucking scumbags would do to me if I didn't come
up with the money on time. This was the only way.

(46:24):
I slowly picked myself up and began walking home, determined
to throw the dice on my life and perform the
curse ritual one last time. Ignoring my presence, a stray
cat scavenged for dinner in the dumpster, another victim of

(46:46):
existence in this cutthroat town. It was early in the
morning two days later. When I walked down Cleveland Street
on my way to the nearest newsstand, the man working
it was just getting ready to open. Stacks of fresh
newspapers lay on the floor beside him, waiting to be shelved.

(47:12):
Although I knew from experience the result from last night's
bout would be in my favor, it still felt good
to see it on print, this one in particular, even
more so than the rest. I approached the booth and
read the headline Ali wins by Ko and eight Floor's

(47:36):
foreman to regain crown. Can you believe it, the merchant asked, rhetorically,
picking up the stack of papers with difficulty and setting
it on the counter. Son of a bitch actually did it.
His rotund waste was barely reined in by a worn

(47:56):
leather belt and a pair of navy blue suspended. The
button on his denim pants was missing. I would have
bet everything I got he even the misses, that Big
George was going to end that man's career, he said,
taking off his flat cap and wiping sweat off his
wrinkles before putting it back on. Considering everything he's been

(48:21):
through and all that I guess you never know, you know,
the merchant mused, comically aware he would never achieve greatness himself.
A crisp morning dew settled on the newsstand. Tabloids and
magazines were neatly lined up under a plastic cover displaying

(48:43):
pictures of parties and dead celebrities. Guess not, I replied,
and walked away without making a purchase, already thinking of
my next move. After collecting at the bookies, I'd head
straight to the grease balls and pay my debt, then

(49:05):
go home and figure out what to do with the globe.
The antique shop was long gone. Pawning the thing had
crossed my mind, but mostly I wanted to keep it
just in case. Ever since using it this last time,
the legion of black snowflakes inside the globe remained in

(49:27):
a state of constant motion, slowly orbiting the lid up
empty town in a funereal procession. It was an unnerving sight,
a sobering reminder of the horror to come. Christmas was
only a few weeks away. I spent those short days

(49:51):
laying low, mostly afraid, though sometimes hopeful, woefully ignorant of
the cruel fate ahead. On the evening of December twenty fourth,
I sat alone in my room, with a bottle of
jim Beam on my left hand and a Smith and

(50:12):
Wesson thirty eight magnum revolver laying next to me on
the bed. Tired, anxious, wary, depressed. It's not easy living
with a deadline. Reruns of The Twilight Zone, Our Long
Nightmares in black and white played on the television across

(50:35):
from me. Funkadelic's album cover art for Maggot Brain hung
above it. The Magic Artifact sat on the night stand
beside me, festive and mute. Eventually I passed out in
the cheap stupor, sweating fear and regret. Fuck. This was

(50:57):
my last thought that night, already dead anyway. But unfortunately
for me, that would not be the case. I should
have pulled the trigger when I had the chance. I
woke up to complete darkness. It was difficult to breathe

(51:20):
and almost impossible to move, and unyielding shifting force restrained
me in every direction. The smell of soil pervaded my surroundings,
and I could taste dirt. A sepulchral silence govern the
tight space, Unable to lift my head or move any

(51:42):
part of my body more than a fraction of an inch.
I began to cry for help, Trapped, powerless, and soon
to become desperate. Within minutes, as the horror of my
predicament began to dawn on me, pleading words turned to

(52:03):
frenzied screams, a stream of tears salted in anguish and denial.
What the earth around me? I conjured praise and profanities
aimed at any entity out there willing to listen, divine
or otherwise. I even called for Nina at the top

(52:25):
of my lungs, but like the rest, she never answered. Defeated,
I sobbed quietly, wishing all of this was just a
fucked up fever dream. Soon I'm going to wake up,
I told myself, repeatedly, looking for even the slightest sense

(52:46):
of solace. Then I heard it, another voice, muffled but
close by, wailing, unhinged, manic to make contact. But the
voice never spoke back a single word, only pain and lunacy,

(53:08):
in the form of shrieks, moans, whimpers, laughter, and any
other primal sound a human can muster. It was someone
nearby suffering my same fate, and equally helpless. His fractured
state of mind made it clear he'd been here far

(53:29):
too long, abandoned, forgotten. Sometimes he keeps quiet, but to
be honest, I prefer the company of his screams. And
so it's been months, years, decades, It's hard to tell

(53:52):
in this place. I've recounted this and other stories to
myself a thousand times over, although mostly I cry in
the dark, entombed with my sins. One day, like my neighbor,
I hope to go insane. Every muscle in my body

(54:16):
is in constant, excruciating pain from not being able to
move for so long. Persistent sores cover my skin, and
my throat remain scarred, bloodied by an age of wails
and agony. Festering questions and stale remorse still resurface every

(54:40):
once in a while, sending me into fits of rage
and meaningless struggle. No one ever comes, nothing ever changes.
After a while, Monotony becomes its own shade of torture.
I bid off my own tongue long ago, just to

(55:04):
feel something different, if only for a few hours. I
am constantly starved, parched, unable to sleep or die, cursed,
condemned alone with my poultry thoughts for eternity. Imprisoned by

(55:26):
my own will, all I can do now is wait
for my mind to let go. Certainly, only severe madness
can deliver me now from the infinite wrath of one
black Christmas sold exclaimed the well dressed man, striking his

(55:57):
smooth gavel on the hardwood lot seven thirteen to the
woman in black. He finished, exhausted, officially closing the sail.
Immediately after, a uniformed attendant scanned the item's QR code
and took it away to get ready for packaging at

(56:20):
the service room. Before wrapping it up, the young employee
inspected the relic. A crystal sphere sat on a heavy
wooden base inside a tiny colonial village surrounded by pine
trees covered in white snow. The town's church, complete with

(56:44):
a bell tower, stood over a few traditional homes and
alone stone well hidden in the middle of the forest.
Two crosses marked the locations of two shallow graves. On

(57:04):
the base. A rusted metal plate bore an inscription in Latin,
a festive quote no doubt. Despite feeling tempted, the attendant
didn't dare shake the old thing, not after witnessing the

(57:25):
spirited bidding war for it and the resulting price. Surely
this was no ordinary snow globe. Well, my spookies, hope
you enjoyed that black Christmas courtesy of our new friend

(57:48):
roder Gough. Make sure to check out his other work.
There are links in the show notes. And I want
to remind you if you've ever felt the tightening grip
of that snow globe, if you've caught yourself thinking maybe
one more wish, well remember Christmas. Magic is never free.

(58:11):
It just waits until the lights are low and the
streets are slick with ice, and then it collects. And
if you're still in the mood for dark wintry trouble,
tomorrow's episode features a century's old curse, a witch's revenge,
and a strickfield winter where love does not warm you up.

(58:34):
Expect snowy streets, buried secrets, and a holiday romance that
turns sharp as broken glass when we bring you a
Christmas Romance by Rob Fields, but don't let that name
fool you. And I want to take a moment to
say an extra special thank you to our Patreon podcast boosters.
Folks who pay just a little bit more at weeklyspooky

(58:57):
dot com slash join to hear theirs at the end
of the show, and they are Johnny Nicks, Kate and Lulu,
Jessica Fuller, Mike is Skewey, Jenny Green, Amber Hansford, Karen
we Met, Jack Kerr and Craig Cohen. Thank you all
so much for your support, and if you want to
hear your name at the end of every episode of
Weekly Spooky, just head Toweeklyspooky dot com slash join and

(59:22):
sign up at the fifteen dollars a month or higher tier.
That support really makes a huge difference and I appreciate it.
But now it's time for me to get back to it,
because not only do we have a show on Wednesday,
but on Thursday we have a novella and on Friday,
Cutting Deep into Horror returns to tell you all about
the terrors of dead End. So for myself, for my

(59:43):
executive producers Rob Fields and Bubbletopia dot Com, my producer
Dan Wilder, and my composer Ray Mattis, I'll talk at
you tomorrow. Thank you for listenings, das, make sure to
find your way back next week week. But for now
you are safe. Trust me.