Christmas Tales of Terror Read Online Free PDF

his head.
    ‘Like being called an idiot, do you, idiot?’ he said.
    John saw no point in replying, so said nothing. He just turned the snowball over and over in his hands, smoothing it, squeezing it, until it felt as hard as stone.
    Charles lurched forward and gave John’s hands a great slap from below, making the snowball shoot up into the air and land a few feet away in the snow. Charles chortled.
    John stared at his empty hands and at his cousin’s laughing face, and then shoved Charles as hard as he could, making him stagger back, a look of confusion on his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
    John regretted this momentary loss of control almost before his hands had reached his cousin’s chest, but it was too late. Charles stared back at him, wide-eyed, and then grabbed him, twisting his arm painfully. John struggled and flailed his other arm, which connected accidentally with Charles’s nose.
    Charles let him go and backed away, cursing and holding his nose. John saw that it was bleeding as Charles took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face.
    ‘You are dead!’ said Charles. ‘ Dead! ’
    He spoke without any great anger in his voice. The threat was made with the quiet reverence of an oath. John saw that Charles was smiling as he took the bloodstained handkerchief away. It was not a pleasant smile.
    John braced himself for the inevitable attack, but, just as Charles began to walk towards him, Uncle Henry’s voice sounded out in the quiet of the garden.
    ‘Charles! Come and say hello to your aunt and uncle, boy!’
    The two boys turned to see Uncle Henry standing in the doorway. Charles gave his nose another wipe, sniffed and shouted, ‘Coming!’ before stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket.
    He gave John a look of stony coldness.
    ‘There’ll be plenty of time to deal with you, Worm,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time. You’ll see.’
    With a smug, self-satisfied grin, Charles turned and set off towards the house. As he walked away, he accidentally dropped his handkerchief in the snow, and it lay there, a single dash of colour in the white of the garden.
    After a few moments, John walked over to where his snowball had landed and picked it up. It was so hard that it hadn’t been damaged at all. John brushed the loose snow away.
    He looked back towards the house and thought about Charles and wondered what kind of revenge was being planned in that nasty mind of his. John’s eyes welled up and a single warm tear trickled down his cold face.
    He looked at the handkerchief, crimson against the snow, walked over and picked it up. Then, still staring at the house, he wrapped the snowball in it, enjoying the fact that Charles’s precious blood would end up inside his snowman.
    John bent down, put the wrapped snowball on to the snow and slowly and carefully began to roll it. Soon the blood was consumed by the layers of snow as he rolled it this way and that, always ensuring that the growing ball was perfectly smooth.
    He worked the giant snowball round and round the lawn, gathering new layers and leaving a trail of uncovered grass as he went. And as he rolled he chanted his hatred of Charles.
    ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ he said. ‘One day I’ll get, one day I’ll get you, one day I’ll get you . . .’
    And when the body of the snowman was big enough, John repeated the whole process for the head, lifting it on to the flattened top of the body. The head was so big, he wondered if he would be able to lift it, but with one great effort he managed.
    As he set it in place, he saw Charles staring at him through the window with a horrible grin on his face. John knew what it meant – it would not be the first snowman Charles had destroyed.
    But John did not let that spoil the pleasure of making it. He shut that thought away and got on with finding sticks for the arms and pieces of coal for the eyes and nose and mouth.
    Four more pieces of coal for the