Dr. Stuart Knott is a PhD graduate and writer of horror fiction. A lifelong fan of videogames, comic books, and horror, action, and science-fiction films, his writing aims to infuse the mundane nature of everyday life with dark comedy and macabre events.
Read more from Dr. Stuart Knott right HERE.
WHERE THE HOOVED-ONE TREADS
by
Dr. Stuart Knott
Piping hot cocoa warmed my stomach as my nanna fussed over me. She hummed a soft tuned as she tucked me in all tight and cosy, as she did every night, and I looked up at her with such love and warmth I thought my heart would melt in my chest.
“Got t’keep t’chills out, child,” she said as she stoked the logs in the fireplace opposite my bed.
I stared it, mesmerised by the flames as lapped over the charged logs, the flickering of the embers and the soft crackle that accompanied radiating waves of soothing heat that cast a warm light across my small bedroom.
“Is Santa comin’ tonight, Nanna?” I asked, hands clutching the top of my fluffy duvet.
Nanna turned towards me, gently gripping at a cotton shawl draped around her shoulders, and slowly shook her head. “Cringle? Laws no, child. Not t’night; not in a th’sand nights.”
“But why, Nanna?”
Nanna squinted at me through wizened eyes hidden behind rimless glasses; her eyes glistened and were filled with love, but also the slight tinkle of fatigue. She slumped into the great wicker chair before the roaring log fire and busied herself with a bundle of knitting in her lap, rocking herself gently and casting a looming shadow on the wall behind her.
“Oh, child,” she answered, her voice a gravelly whisper, “T’was a time when all magic lived here. When people dec’rated trees an’ sang carols an’ made merry in th’ street. But those times have long since passed.”
I tried to picture the scene; kids, like me, running and sledging and playing in mounds of snow, building rotund snowmen, and tossing snowballs as adults bustled around, boxes of wrapped presents in their mittened hands. The image stayed in my mind for a few seconds before it was snuffed out, replaced by a barren street, dark and cold and empty of life.
“But I’ve been really, really good!” I whined, pouting, gazing up at her with watery eyes and feeling like I had done something bad. I was snug in my bed, my night light glowing on my bedside table and casting shadows of a hunched, robed figure on my walls. I glanced at them as they danced and felt a waves of upset, fear, and longing flow through me.
Nanna chuckled and laced her gnarled fingers together. “It don’t madder, child,” she soothed, a sympathetic look on her face. “Not since the Hooved-One was born.”
“Did…did He scare Santa away, Nanna?”
Nanna sighed and briefly gazed out of the frosted-up window at the perpetual darkness and steady snowfall that glared at us from the broiling void behind the glass. “Aye, in a way…The Hooved-One had no time for Chrissmus cheer. As a youngling, He bawled every Chrissmus Eve; as a pint-sized babe, He torn down th’ tree an’ threw bricks when t’other chillun threw snowballs.”
I was enthralled, captivated by the revelation. “Where did He come from, Nanna?”
Nanna’s wrinkled lips twitched, either in a small smile or a touch of regret, and she briefly stroked a silver necklace hanging from her neck. “Many places,” she mused. “Some say he lay wit’ the Witch-Queen. Others that he were th’ offspring o’th’ Nether-King.”
Nanna rocked gently in her chair as she gazed out the window at the snowstorm raging outside. I strained my head to follow her gaze, wondering what she saw out there in the broiling darkness, but I saw nothing by dark and snow and frost.
“He come from th’ Black, f’sure, laws yes.”
“An’…” I swallowed. “An’ he did bad things?”
Nanna slowly turned her head towards me; I could hear her tendons creak above the crackling of the fire, and I withdrew further under the duvet to ward off her reproachful stare. “Didde?” she spat. “Or didde do as was dun t’Him? As was foretold in th’ beginnin’?”
Presently, Nanna’s gaze softened. My eyes widened in awe as she continued her story with the whimsical musing of one reliving a cherished memory.
“They condemned Him when He come; slanderin’ Him at every turn. So, when He was full-grown, the Hooved-One spread despair an’ darkness through th’ hearts of all men, good and bad. It dinnunt madder that some dinnunt want to turn, jus’ like it don’t madder now how good you bin, child. The Hooved-One turned ‘em all, an’ the light o’Chrissmus died out with each word He spoke and each heart He touched.”
“What’re we to do, Nanna?”
Nanna reached out and gently stroked my chin with her skeletal hand; her touch was ice cold despite the blazing heat filling the room. “Same thing we always do, child,” she cooed lovingly. “Jus’ as you was taught, as we have all been taught. We praise Him.”
I turned my dark eyes up to meet Nanna’s vacant gaze. “Praise Him?”
“Yes,” she croaked. “Praise Him. Praise the Hooved-One. Praise His name.”
As the snow fall, I spoke my praises, hoping that He would hear them…and be pleased.