December 9, 2025 • 20 mins
After his wife divorced him at Christmas, a man snapped — and used the classic holiday carol as a twisted blueprint for a cross-country killing spree.
It’s a short holiday horror story from horror author Jon Allen. And it’s a gruesome one! This story ain’t holly or jolly!
SOURCES AND ESSENTIAL WEB LINKS…
“The Twelves Slays of Christmas” by Jon Allen (no link available)
"I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46
Weird Darkness®, Weird Darkness© 2025
https://weirddarkness.com/12DaysOfChristmas
Originally aired: Christmas, 2023
It’s a short holiday horror story from horror author Jon Allen. And it’s a gruesome one! This story ain’t holly or jolly!
SOURCES AND ESSENTIAL WEB LINKS…
“The Twelves Slays of Christmas” by Jon Allen (no link available)
"I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46
Weird Darkness®, Weird Darkness© 2025
https://weirddarkness.com/12DaysOfChristmas
Originally aired: Christmas, 2023
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:07):
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent
to me a partridge in a pear tree. There are
ninety two known species at partridges, and all are actually
ground nesters and unlikely to roost in a pear tree.
It's a fallacy this line, because this would be unnatural.
They simply don't belong there. Divorcing me at Christmas and
(00:31):
leaving me rotting alone in a cold place where I
didn't belong was also an unnatural state of existence. I
was a sickly partridge and this cruel new reality was
the pear tree where she sent me, where I didn't belong.
So I responded, as one does under a break up,
both romantic and psychiatric. I chopped my true love up
(00:55):
like I was fileting flank steak, and stuffed her dice
remains amongst the tul and ornaments around our Christmas tree.
Welcome Weirdos. I'm Darren Marler, and this is Weird Darkness.
(01:16):
Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural legends, more
the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and
unexplained coming up in this episode. It's a short horror
story from one of my favorite indie authors John Allen
(01:38):
and as you can already hear, it's going to be
a gruesome one. This story won't be holly or jolly.
It's the twelve Slays of Christmas. If you're new here,
welcome to the show. And while you're listening, be sure
to check out Weirddarkness dot com from merchandise my newsletter
to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can
visit the Hope in the Darkness page. If you're struggling
(01:59):
with oppression or dark thoughts, you can find all of
that and more at Weird darkness dot com. Now bult
your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and
come with me into the Weird Darkness. On the second
(02:34):
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two
turtle doves. That's what the voices called the eyes of
the officer conducting a welfare check at the behest of
my serpent mother in law. I am paled the turtle
doves with the sharpened end of a gnawed candy game.
Then I placed the policeman's severed head in a gift
(02:54):
box and wrapped it for my mother in law, a
small token of affection that expressed my heart feelings for her.
With utmost Christmas spirit, I shipped the Serpent's gift and
left Rockford and skipped to Spokane. On the third day
of Christmas, my true love sent to me three French
(03:18):
hens and faces to match the voices in my head.
That's what I saw going forward, three talking French hens
in cheery cartoon form, alongside the bloodied apparition of my bossy, nagging,
dead wife. They might have only been real in my diseased,
ravaged mind, but they spoke to me and told me
(03:41):
to kill I was commanded. Losing the burden of responsibility
for my wickedness allowed my wrath to flourish. I found
a street walker and Spokane before leaving for Phoenix, and
pulled her underneath the batch of mistletoe and a park gazebo.
We kissed under the pale moonlight is the stars radiated above,
(04:02):
and held the cosmic conversations like the movie It's a
Wonderful Life. Then I chewed her face off. We had
a sour taste, but I pretended I was feasting on
popcorn balls and gum drops. After I pushed her ears
inside the slit of a rusty salvation army box. On
(04:24):
the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to
me for calling birds. The first bird to call was
my neighbor to ask about the squad cars and my
driveway through voicemail. Then my in laws rang me up,
but I scoffed and refused to answer. Thank God for
color id. The third call was from my brother, and
(04:47):
I had no time for him because he only called
during emergencies. As I strangled the mal Santa behind Macy's
with a strand of Christmas lights. The fourth call bellowed
my wife and the three French hens ordered me to
answer this one, so I did. The detective wanted me
for questioning. I agreed and told the screw i'd be
(05:09):
there in the morning. The lifeless cause place Sanna lie
wide eyed in the gutter, the pulsating hues from green
and red lights flashing against his shocked, mortified face. My
phone was tossed in his empty toy bag for the
cops to ping me in Phoenix, and I laughed at
the thought of meeting any detective in Rockdale tomorrow. Hours later,
(05:31):
and I was shuffling across the arctic tundra of a
Minneapolis white out. The freedom of lunacy, I realized was
the greatest gift my wife bequeathed me. On the fifth
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me five
gold rings. In some parts of North America they say
(05:56):
five golden rings so it's easier to sing. But it
really is five gold rings, and that's the way I
sing it. My true love, Man the French hands colluded
inside my mind again and told me this before I
was given my mission. So I pressed the button on
a gold plated doorbell and rang five times at a
(06:17):
random house. When the surly old man answered the door
and instantly cursed. And what he thought was going to
be me begging for holiday donations for some charity, I
cackled in his wrinkled face. Soon this scrooge would be
the one begging, and charity was not going to be given.
I drilled and hammered spikes and fought through tendons and
(06:40):
bone until his legs were forever melded in a seated
position atop a chopped tree stump in his backyard. The
mouth of this one was enough to make a sailor
frown until the moment he perished. I had to listen
to a barrage of old time expletives. Eventually, his gushing
blood froze into crimson eyesicles, and I placed a doll
(07:01):
next to him as the billowing snow drifted sideways. Elf
on a shelf, meat grump on a stump. On the
sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me
six geese a laying Minneapolis was still draped in harrowing
(07:22):
white doom, and I was stuck another day. Now. On
the orders of my mind's new handlers, I traped through
the woods wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and Santa hat.
The sharply honed axe from the old man's backyard fixed
to my hand like a fleece glove. Jack frost was
nipping at my nose, and I needed to find someone soon. Luckily,
(07:45):
opportunity came towards the north pole. The explosions came in
succession and deeper into the woods. I marched until I
found the hunter standing over the waterfowl corpses of six
innocent geese. Waited until he returned to his cabin, a
spirited little place filled with Christmas splendor. As he shook
(08:07):
off the snow from his camouflage jacket, I chopped off
his feet and inserted them into the stockings that were
hung over the chimney. With care. That hunter tried to
crawl to freedom as he bled out, so I encased
his torso inside her wreath tight enough to prohibit his
arms from moving. To be fair, I gave him the
same opportunity he gave the geese with buckshot riddled wings.
(08:31):
Being Crosby dreamt of a white Christmas from the record
player in the kitchen, and I'd like to think it
was a pleasant final song for the woodsman as death
overcame him. On the seventh day of Christmas, my true
love sent to me seven swans of swimming in Saint Petersburg.
(08:53):
The next day, I shared a hotel with contestants from
the Southern Florida Miss Holiday pageant. What true the swans?
They were once introverts, meek and mild, blossomed now and
ready to present themselves to the world for judgment of
their measurements and tans. Theirs could have been a nice
tale about perseverance, but the WiFi and the hens had
(09:16):
an alternative viewpoint. So I stalked seven of these swans
to the Sandy Beach, where they frolicked in the gulf
and bronzed themselves under the happy sun. Seven swans held
a contest to see who could swim to the sandbar
and back the quickest. Six returned. The seventh swan just
(09:36):
didn't have the lung capacity to pull it off, not
with an esophagus full of filthy lumps of coal. That is,
My heart wasn't in this one. Florida didn't feel very
much like Christmas, no snow. This was the most wonderful
time of the year, after all, and I found my
way to Boston on the eighth day of Christmas. My
(10:03):
true love sent to me eight maids of milking. When
I arrived at the Merrymaid Cleaning Service, the store was
closed an office Christmas party was being held. The sign
on the door read the bar across the street was
the most likely location as a Nor'easter began to filter in,
and my assumption was correct. It was a friendly place
(10:23):
where everybody knew your name, much like that other famous
Boston bar from that sitcom. No one knew my name, though,
and I was grateful. I needed the quiet solitude to
figure this out. I ended up cheating a little. There
were sixteen maids, not eight, and no milk was involved,
(10:43):
though I reconciled that the spiked eggnog shared enough dairy
DNA to count. The woman was chosen at random, a
generic homely type I wouldn't remember moments after introducing myself.
She was easy to pull away from the group, as
it was doubtful. Men approached her very often in a
back booth, away from the drunken laughter. She talked while
(11:05):
my eyes darted. This bar was kitschy during the holiday season,
inflatable elves, framed photos of cousin Eddie from the Christmas
Vacation movie, even a Santa sleigh hung from the rafters
with a life sized Chris Kringle mannikin at the helm.
I preferred to view this kill not as gore, but
(11:26):
as a whimsical experience. I imagined as I crashed the blunt
object across her temples in a furious rage, it was
more of a playful knock into a fantasy where visions
of sugar plums danced at her head. In actuality, my
handlers decided that the replica leg lamp from another seasonal classic,
a Christmas Story, was just what I needed to bludgeon
(11:49):
this stranger until brain matter oozed from her ears. On
the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to
me nine ladies dancing. Detroit was a sloppy, icy mess,
and now I knew the FEDS or some other three
(12:09):
letter agency were tracking me, so it was important to
blend in. Knowing they'd be searching for me in the city.
I grabbed a cab to Auburn Hills and found a
nice little flop house motel with a room in the back.
I must have ordered over twenty pizzas before I secured
nine female delivery drivers, and the room spelled like pepperoni
and fear. Once my admittedly sick plan came to fruition,
(12:34):
I'd shattered glass ornaments at least three dozen into jagged
pieces ingrained into the carpet fibers. At gunpoint, I forced
the nine ladies to dance barefoot atop this flesh piercing nightmare,
with their duct taped mouths whimpering. I wore my Santa
hat and watched them sway to the rhythm of Baby
It's cooled outside. Finally, one of my lambs crumbled to
(12:58):
the floor in agony. The eight winners received a fruitcake
as they limped shoeless into the cold run run Rudolf
I sang into the night, laughing as they scattered into
all directions as fast as they could, leaving bloody footprints
in the crisp blanket of snow. As for the loser,
I hung her from the rafters with a double looped garland.
(13:22):
I put fall antlers on her head to brighten the
occasion before fleeing into the night. Before I left my
dead wife, and the three French hens made a point
that I had to agree with. I was an utter
psychopath that beels above himself wouldn't claim. On the tenth
(13:43):
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ten
lords of leaping based on my pattern. I should have
been in Nashville, but instead I used the highway to
make it to Chicago by morning to throw off the chase.
Ten lords leaping refers to the ten commands. So I
found myself window shopping the endless stream of Catholic churches
(14:05):
in the windy City during the busiest time of the year.
For confession, I never could bring myself to on a
live clergy, but it was easy enough to slip into
the rear of Saint Anthony's knocked the priest out and
take his spot in the confessional booth. Even the confines
of a holy place couldn't wash the devil out of me. Oh,
(14:26):
how the sinners spilled their guts. One particular center confessed
to an unspeakable crime. So I followed him home, and
he spilled his guts again, this time at my hand.
Who knew the star that capped this Christmas tree could
be so sharp? His foul soul lived alone, so I
(14:47):
decided to make myself at home for a few days.
I mumbified as carcass with his large intestine and an
entire roll of Grench wrapping paper. Then I rolled his
remains down the basement stairs, and the hens and the
wife and I baked gingerbread men. While home alone, played
for my new television. On the eleventh day of Christmas,
(15:12):
my true love sent to me eleven pipers piping. The
following evening, I knew the Christmas spirit was on my
side when exactly eleven carollers beckoned me to my new
door to the tune of Silent Night. What nice pipes
this mobile choir had, indeed, except for the n easily
(15:34):
stringy man singing off key, something about him irked me.
He looked like the taypoo wrote bad reviews online and
complained to the ha about noise, the corpse bride, and
the cartoon French hens told me that he was the
one who had made the naughty list. So I caught
(15:54):
up to the group an hour later, forty feet away.
I hid behind slush and and positioned myself obscure inside
a sniper nest. It was innocent and innocuous pelting the
man with snowballs after a nonslot directed solely towards him,
I finally goaded him enough to come scold what he
had to think was a child hiding and acting up.
(16:17):
Such sullying of joy was definitely his thing. Once separated
from the group, my nuisance became my prey. The last
snowball to peg the bridge of his nose was laced
with an unforgiving jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell rock
that turned off his lights. After dragging him by his
(16:38):
ankles to my place, his streaked blood a cookie crumb
trail behind us, I manipulated his body to make a
snow angel. Then I quit goofen off, and I ripped
off his lips and nose and removed his eyes with
a nutcracker. I replaced them with a corn cob pipe,
a button nose, and two eyes made out of regurgitated
coal for my seventh Florida swans throat. I then impaled
(17:02):
his body on a spike and packed it with the elements,
so I had my own snowman in the front yard.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent
to me twelve drammers. Dramming. A dozen law men banging
on the door with guns drawn woke me up. I'd
(17:24):
hoped it was a simple nightmare before Christmas, but I
knew better. It seemed they had finally caught up to
Mark Partridge, the commercial airline pilot turned uxy recital Christmas
maniac on across country rampage. My vile, demonic exploits of
homicide were all over the news. Some would say I
went viral. The wife and French hens said I'd become
(17:47):
a virus because I lounged in bed wearing another man's
pajamas in another man's home. This deranged pear tree I created.
I wondered how they found me. Perhaps the decaying meetsuit
out front didn't quite pass as frosty as snowman. Maybe
only a mind is besieged with a thundering malice and destruction,
(18:07):
as mine could have thought that it might, I did say.
I was umabashedly insane. As the front door downstairs splintered
into kindle and the boys from the bureau rushed in.
I bit into one of the sugar cookies I had
left for Santa, and chased it down with some milk.
The cyanide filling killed me instantly. It was time I
(18:31):
didn't belong here anyway, Alone and rotting in this cold place.
I was a ground nester, and all of this was unnatural.
I entered my satanic oppression and my life with a
nibble off of a cookie. I also finished my Twelve
Days of Christmas as I'd started it, A partridge and
(18:53):
a pear tree. Thanks for listening. If you like the show,
(19:21):
please share it with someone you know who loves the
paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries
like you do, and please leave a rating and review
of the show in the podcast app you listen from.
You can email me anytime with your questions or comments
at Darren at Weird Darkness dot com. Darren is d
A r r e N. Weirddarkness dot Com is also
(19:43):
where you can find all of my social media, listen
to audiobooks I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness Store, and
find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or
someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts.
The fictional horror story The Twelve Slaves of Christmas was
written by John Allen. Weird Darkness is a production and
(20:03):
trademark of Arlour House Productions. And now that we're coming
out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little
light revelation three verse twenty. Here I am. I stand
at the door and knock. If anyone here's my voice
and opens the door, I will come in and eat
with him, and he with me. And a final thought,
(20:24):
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in
a conspiracy of love. Hamilton Wright, Maybe I'm Darren Marler.
Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness, and Merry Christmas.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent
to me a partridge in a pear tree. There are
ninety two known species at partridges, and all are actually
ground nesters and unlikely to roost in a pear tree.
It's a fallacy this line, because this would be unnatural.
They simply don't belong there. Divorcing me at Christmas and
(00:31):
leaving me rotting alone in a cold place where I
didn't belong was also an unnatural state of existence. I
was a sickly partridge and this cruel new reality was
the pear tree where she sent me, where I didn't belong.
So I responded, as one does under a break up,
both romantic and psychiatric. I chopped my true love up
(00:55):
like I was fileting flank steak, and stuffed her dice
remains amongst the tul and ornaments around our Christmas tree.
Welcome Weirdos. I'm Darren Marler, and this is Weird Darkness.
(01:16):
Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural legends, more
the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and
unexplained coming up in this episode. It's a short horror
story from one of my favorite indie authors John Allen
(01:38):
and as you can already hear, it's going to be
a gruesome one. This story won't be holly or jolly.
It's the twelve Slays of Christmas. If you're new here,
welcome to the show. And while you're listening, be sure
to check out Weirddarkness dot com from merchandise my newsletter
to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can
visit the Hope in the Darkness page. If you're struggling
(01:59):
with oppression or dark thoughts, you can find all of
that and more at Weird darkness dot com. Now bult
your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and
come with me into the Weird Darkness. On the second
(02:34):
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two
turtle doves. That's what the voices called the eyes of
the officer conducting a welfare check at the behest of
my serpent mother in law. I am paled the turtle
doves with the sharpened end of a gnawed candy game.
Then I placed the policeman's severed head in a gift
(02:54):
box and wrapped it for my mother in law, a
small token of affection that expressed my heart feelings for her.
With utmost Christmas spirit, I shipped the Serpent's gift and
left Rockford and skipped to Spokane. On the third day
of Christmas, my true love sent to me three French
(03:18):
hens and faces to match the voices in my head.
That's what I saw going forward, three talking French hens
in cheery cartoon form, alongside the bloodied apparition of my bossy, nagging,
dead wife. They might have only been real in my diseased,
ravaged mind, but they spoke to me and told me
(03:41):
to kill I was commanded. Losing the burden of responsibility
for my wickedness allowed my wrath to flourish. I found
a street walker and Spokane before leaving for Phoenix, and
pulled her underneath the batch of mistletoe and a park gazebo.
We kissed under the pale moonlight is the stars radiated above,
(04:02):
and held the cosmic conversations like the movie It's a
Wonderful Life. Then I chewed her face off. We had
a sour taste, but I pretended I was feasting on
popcorn balls and gum drops. After I pushed her ears
inside the slit of a rusty salvation army box. On
(04:24):
the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to
me for calling birds. The first bird to call was
my neighbor to ask about the squad cars and my
driveway through voicemail. Then my in laws rang me up,
but I scoffed and refused to answer. Thank God for
color id. The third call was from my brother, and
(04:47):
I had no time for him because he only called
during emergencies. As I strangled the mal Santa behind Macy's
with a strand of Christmas lights. The fourth call bellowed
my wife and the three French hens ordered me to
answer this one, so I did. The detective wanted me
for questioning. I agreed and told the screw i'd be
(05:09):
there in the morning. The lifeless cause place Sanna lie
wide eyed in the gutter, the pulsating hues from green
and red lights flashing against his shocked, mortified face. My
phone was tossed in his empty toy bag for the
cops to ping me in Phoenix, and I laughed at
the thought of meeting any detective in Rockdale tomorrow. Hours later,
(05:31):
and I was shuffling across the arctic tundra of a
Minneapolis white out. The freedom of lunacy, I realized was
the greatest gift my wife bequeathed me. On the fifth
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me five
gold rings. In some parts of North America they say
(05:56):
five golden rings so it's easier to sing. But it
really is five gold rings, and that's the way I
sing it. My true love, Man the French hands colluded
inside my mind again and told me this before I
was given my mission. So I pressed the button on
a gold plated doorbell and rang five times at a
(06:17):
random house. When the surly old man answered the door
and instantly cursed. And what he thought was going to
be me begging for holiday donations for some charity, I
cackled in his wrinkled face. Soon this scrooge would be
the one begging, and charity was not going to be given.
I drilled and hammered spikes and fought through tendons and
(06:40):
bone until his legs were forever melded in a seated
position atop a chopped tree stump in his backyard. The
mouth of this one was enough to make a sailor
frown until the moment he perished. I had to listen
to a barrage of old time expletives. Eventually, his gushing
blood froze into crimson eyesicles, and I placed a doll
(07:01):
next to him as the billowing snow drifted sideways. Elf
on a shelf, meat grump on a stump. On the
sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me
six geese a laying Minneapolis was still draped in harrowing
(07:22):
white doom, and I was stuck another day. Now. On
the orders of my mind's new handlers, I traped through
the woods wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and Santa hat.
The sharply honed axe from the old man's backyard fixed
to my hand like a fleece glove. Jack frost was
nipping at my nose, and I needed to find someone soon. Luckily,
(07:45):
opportunity came towards the north pole. The explosions came in
succession and deeper into the woods. I marched until I
found the hunter standing over the waterfowl corpses of six
innocent geese. Waited until he returned to his cabin, a
spirited little place filled with Christmas splendor. As he shook
(08:07):
off the snow from his camouflage jacket, I chopped off
his feet and inserted them into the stockings that were
hung over the chimney. With care. That hunter tried to
crawl to freedom as he bled out, so I encased
his torso inside her wreath tight enough to prohibit his
arms from moving. To be fair, I gave him the
same opportunity he gave the geese with buckshot riddled wings.
(08:31):
Being Crosby dreamt of a white Christmas from the record
player in the kitchen, and I'd like to think it
was a pleasant final song for the woodsman as death
overcame him. On the seventh day of Christmas, my true
love sent to me seven swans of swimming in Saint Petersburg.
(08:53):
The next day, I shared a hotel with contestants from
the Southern Florida Miss Holiday pageant. What true the swans?
They were once introverts, meek and mild, blossomed now and
ready to present themselves to the world for judgment of
their measurements and tans. Theirs could have been a nice
tale about perseverance, but the WiFi and the hens had
(09:16):
an alternative viewpoint. So I stalked seven of these swans
to the Sandy Beach, where they frolicked in the gulf
and bronzed themselves under the happy sun. Seven swans held
a contest to see who could swim to the sandbar
and back the quickest. Six returned. The seventh swan just
(09:36):
didn't have the lung capacity to pull it off, not
with an esophagus full of filthy lumps of coal. That is,
My heart wasn't in this one. Florida didn't feel very
much like Christmas, no snow. This was the most wonderful
time of the year, after all, and I found my
way to Boston on the eighth day of Christmas. My
(10:03):
true love sent to me eight maids of milking. When
I arrived at the Merrymaid Cleaning Service, the store was
closed an office Christmas party was being held. The sign
on the door read the bar across the street was
the most likely location as a Nor'easter began to filter in,
and my assumption was correct. It was a friendly place
(10:23):
where everybody knew your name, much like that other famous
Boston bar from that sitcom. No one knew my name, though,
and I was grateful. I needed the quiet solitude to
figure this out. I ended up cheating a little. There
were sixteen maids, not eight, and no milk was involved,
(10:43):
though I reconciled that the spiked eggnog shared enough dairy
DNA to count. The woman was chosen at random, a
generic homely type I wouldn't remember moments after introducing myself.
She was easy to pull away from the group, as
it was doubtful. Men approached her very often in a
back booth, away from the drunken laughter. She talked while
(11:05):
my eyes darted. This bar was kitschy during the holiday season,
inflatable elves, framed photos of cousin Eddie from the Christmas
Vacation movie, even a Santa sleigh hung from the rafters
with a life sized Chris Kringle mannikin at the helm.
I preferred to view this kill not as gore, but
(11:26):
as a whimsical experience. I imagined as I crashed the blunt
object across her temples in a furious rage, it was
more of a playful knock into a fantasy where visions
of sugar plums danced at her head. In actuality, my
handlers decided that the replica leg lamp from another seasonal classic,
a Christmas Story, was just what I needed to bludgeon
(11:49):
this stranger until brain matter oozed from her ears. On
the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to
me nine ladies dancing. Detroit was a sloppy, icy mess,
and now I knew the FEDS or some other three
(12:09):
letter agency were tracking me, so it was important to
blend in. Knowing they'd be searching for me in the city.
I grabbed a cab to Auburn Hills and found a
nice little flop house motel with a room in the back.
I must have ordered over twenty pizzas before I secured
nine female delivery drivers, and the room spelled like pepperoni
and fear. Once my admittedly sick plan came to fruition,
(12:34):
I'd shattered glass ornaments at least three dozen into jagged
pieces ingrained into the carpet fibers. At gunpoint, I forced
the nine ladies to dance barefoot atop this flesh piercing nightmare,
with their duct taped mouths whimpering. I wore my Santa
hat and watched them sway to the rhythm of Baby
It's cooled outside. Finally, one of my lambs crumbled to
(12:58):
the floor in agony. The eight winners received a fruitcake
as they limped shoeless into the cold run run Rudolf
I sang into the night, laughing as they scattered into
all directions as fast as they could, leaving bloody footprints
in the crisp blanket of snow. As for the loser,
I hung her from the rafters with a double looped garland.
(13:22):
I put fall antlers on her head to brighten the
occasion before fleeing into the night. Before I left my
dead wife, and the three French hens made a point
that I had to agree with. I was an utter
psychopath that beels above himself wouldn't claim. On the tenth
(13:43):
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ten
lords of leaping based on my pattern. I should have
been in Nashville, but instead I used the highway to
make it to Chicago by morning to throw off the chase.
Ten lords leaping refers to the ten commands. So I
found myself window shopping the endless stream of Catholic churches
(14:05):
in the windy City during the busiest time of the year.
For confession, I never could bring myself to on a
live clergy, but it was easy enough to slip into
the rear of Saint Anthony's knocked the priest out and
take his spot in the confessional booth. Even the confines
of a holy place couldn't wash the devil out of me. Oh,
(14:26):
how the sinners spilled their guts. One particular center confessed
to an unspeakable crime. So I followed him home, and
he spilled his guts again, this time at my hand.
Who knew the star that capped this Christmas tree could
be so sharp? His foul soul lived alone, so I
(14:47):
decided to make myself at home for a few days.
I mumbified as carcass with his large intestine and an
entire roll of Grench wrapping paper. Then I rolled his
remains down the basement stairs, and the hens and the
wife and I baked gingerbread men. While home alone, played
for my new television. On the eleventh day of Christmas,
(15:12):
my true love sent to me eleven pipers piping. The
following evening, I knew the Christmas spirit was on my
side when exactly eleven carollers beckoned me to my new
door to the tune of Silent Night. What nice pipes
this mobile choir had, indeed, except for the n easily
(15:34):
stringy man singing off key, something about him irked me.
He looked like the taypoo wrote bad reviews online and
complained to the ha about noise, the corpse bride, and
the cartoon French hens told me that he was the
one who had made the naughty list. So I caught
(15:54):
up to the group an hour later, forty feet away.
I hid behind slush and and positioned myself obscure inside
a sniper nest. It was innocent and innocuous pelting the
man with snowballs after a nonslot directed solely towards him,
I finally goaded him enough to come scold what he
had to think was a child hiding and acting up.
(16:17):
Such sullying of joy was definitely his thing. Once separated
from the group, my nuisance became my prey. The last
snowball to peg the bridge of his nose was laced
with an unforgiving jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell rock
that turned off his lights. After dragging him by his
(16:38):
ankles to my place, his streaked blood a cookie crumb
trail behind us, I manipulated his body to make a
snow angel. Then I quit goofen off, and I ripped
off his lips and nose and removed his eyes with
a nutcracker. I replaced them with a corn cob pipe,
a button nose, and two eyes made out of regurgitated
coal for my seventh Florida swans throat. I then impaled
(17:02):
his body on a spike and packed it with the elements,
so I had my own snowman in the front yard.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent
to me twelve drammers. Dramming. A dozen law men banging
on the door with guns drawn woke me up. I'd
(17:24):
hoped it was a simple nightmare before Christmas, but I
knew better. It seemed they had finally caught up to
Mark Partridge, the commercial airline pilot turned uxy recital Christmas
maniac on across country rampage. My vile, demonic exploits of
homicide were all over the news. Some would say I
went viral. The wife and French hens said I'd become
(17:47):
a virus because I lounged in bed wearing another man's
pajamas in another man's home. This deranged pear tree I created.
I wondered how they found me. Perhaps the decaying meetsuit
out front didn't quite pass as frosty as snowman. Maybe
only a mind is besieged with a thundering malice and destruction,
(18:07):
as mine could have thought that it might, I did say.
I was umabashedly insane. As the front door downstairs splintered
into kindle and the boys from the bureau rushed in.
I bit into one of the sugar cookies I had
left for Santa, and chased it down with some milk.
The cyanide filling killed me instantly. It was time I
(18:31):
didn't belong here anyway, Alone and rotting in this cold place.
I was a ground nester, and all of this was unnatural.
I entered my satanic oppression and my life with a
nibble off of a cookie. I also finished my Twelve
Days of Christmas as I'd started it, A partridge and
(18:53):
a pear tree. Thanks for listening. If you like the show,
(19:21):
please share it with someone you know who loves the
paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries
like you do, and please leave a rating and review
of the show in the podcast app you listen from.
You can email me anytime with your questions or comments
at Darren at Weird Darkness dot com. Darren is d
A r r e N. Weirddarkness dot Com is also
(19:43):
where you can find all of my social media, listen
to audiobooks I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness Store, and
find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or
someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts.
The fictional horror story The Twelve Slaves of Christmas was
written by John Allen. Weird Darkness is a production and
(20:03):
trademark of Arlour House Productions. And now that we're coming
out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little
light revelation three verse twenty. Here I am. I stand
at the door and knock. If anyone here's my voice
and opens the door, I will come in and eat
with him, and he with me. And a final thought,
(20:24):
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in
a conspiracy of love. Hamilton Wright, Maybe I'm Darren Marler.
Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness, and Merry Christmas.
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