The Taxidermist

Partridge in a Pear Tree - A Dark Tidings Horror Story

Twelve Days of Christmas—Dark Tidings is a Substack special holiday event. Each day beginning Friday the 13th, we’ll count down to Christmas Eve with a dark tale featuring one of the gifts from the classic Christmas carol. A guide to all the stories can be found here.

---

#

“Out of all the reindeers you know you’re the mastermind-

“Run, run Rudolph, Randolph ain’t too far behind.”

Randolph “Ron” Mackenzie let 103.7-KCII’s festive radio fill the rattling cab of his truck, as he rolled along the snowy gravel.

“Drop everything,” Randolph muttered around a cigarette. “Drive an hour out to the lodge. What’s that? Awww, cmon. Don’t tell me you had Christmas Eve plans?”

Randolph blew a smokey sigh. Mort was okay. For a taxidermist.

Something beside the road caught Randolph’s eye. He slowed, braked, set the truck in park. He left the keys in the ignition as he opened the door and stepped into the crisp night. Dry snow crunched under his boots and he walked to the shoulder.

“Guess he didn’t listen,” said Randolph. He stared down at a jagged stump jutting from drifts left by the plows; all that remained of the gnarled pear tree. The cut looked uneven - more axe than chainsaw.

A slick, wet substance lacquered the stump. Sap? The stuff was too black for sap though. Oil? Randolph bent and touched the wood.

He hissed and drew his hand back sharply; the splintered wood had nicked him. “Bad luck,” Randolph whispered, as he held his cut palm against the leg of his jeans.

Behind, from the open truck door, the Christmas music played on - unheard over the rustle in the pines:

“Run, run Randolph, Santa’s gotta make it to town;

“Santa make him hurry, tell him he can take the freeway down;

“Run, run Randolph, ‘cause I'm reelin’ like a merry-go-round…”

#

The Tower Lake Lodge seemed as if it belonged in a snowglobe - round timber walls, roof of a thousand gables, snow-girt blue spruce needling up from surrounding hills - except for the huge bay windows. They added a modern garnish to the rustic structure. Not ‘ugly’, but unfitting; like Twinkies served in an alchemist’s mortar.

The air felt like a sauna as Randolph stepped inside the structure. “Anybody in?” he called. Crystalline Silence answered, so Randolph proceeded past the reception desk. As he stepped down a long hall, his cell-phone light twinkled off the marble eyes of mounted stag heads. The hall ended at a balcony, which overhung a broad reception area where The Tower often hosted weddings. Randolph leaned out from this ledge. He could see chairs stacked atop the tables, five chairs to a table. He could also see beyond the bay windows, all the way down the rolling, snowy slope to where moon and stars gleamed on the mirror lake.

To his right, where hall met balcony, a door stood slightly ajar. It led to Morten’s attached shop and house, Randolph knew. He reached to push it open.

Randolph stopped and sniffed - a cloying, rotten smell. He leaned over the balcony. He could only see a dim green-and-red glow from somewhere under the overhang. He heard, faintly, Christmas music.

“Mort?” Randolph called over the railing.

Something thudded in the shop.

“Hey, Mort?” Randolph called louder. He rushed to the door and shoved it open.

Bits of animal hair and feathers - many feathers - formed a downy carpet in the taxidermist’s shop. Randolph’s phone gleamed once more in a hundred differently-shaped glass eyes. Fish, and cats, and a severed moose head, and many, many odd-looking birds; beasts of feather and hoof and claw made an unnatural still-life of the space.

Randolph spotted something on the floor. He stepped in and picked it up.

It was a bird. A game bird of some kind; Randolph couldn’t tell the species. All the feathers had been pulled off. The preserved, goosepimpled bird flesh felt cold in his fingers. Randolph then noticed that all the bird sculptures in the workshop - every one - had been similarly plucked.

Behind Randolph, there was a vinyl scratch.

“Rockin' around the Christmas tree,

“At the Christmas party hop.”

Randolph set the plucked bird down and returned to the balcony. He walked a little way along the rail, until he reached a manorially-curved, descending stair. “Hey, Mort,” he called. “It’s Ron.”

Randolph crept down, each step colored in alternating red and green light; and as he neared the bottom, he beheld the Christmas Tree.

The pear tree.

The crooked tree waited on the floor below, the stairs curving around it. Lights and tinsel twisted betwixt barren branches. Randolph saw more of the crimson-black sap at the base, running down a tree stand - seemingly flowing out, and pooling across the floor. There were no presents under this tree. Only pears, hundreds of pears, heaped in half-a-dozen rotting cairns.

The rotten fruit’s musk swept over Randolph like a sea wave. He reeled. He stumbled down the last three steps, and moved toward the turntable on the opposite side of the tree.

The music seemed to swell, while the pitch sank several octaves: “EVERYONE DANCIN' MERRILY, IN THE NEW OLD-FASHIONED WAY.”

A shadow moved.

Flash. Something exploded against the back of Randolph’s head. His eyes beheld a sudden canvas of white. He felt himself hit the ground, his head turned sideways. The lights and tinsel of the Christmas pear tree came into focus again. Briefly.

Then the lights dwindled, on-by-one, replaced by blackness of mind.

#

Pine sol?

It was the first sense of Randolph’s waking consciousness, that caustic smell. Sterile. A smell of preservatives.

The second sense was pain. As Randolph’s neck rose, tendrils of pain wriggled across his skull. Tears were in his eyes well before vision. He groaned softly and - feeling his arms now - went to raise a hand to his head.

His hands were bound. Duct-taped behind his back.

Randolph felt he was sitting in a chair. A chair in a warm room; his face felt flushed. A vision tunnel grew in front of Randolph, but before he could see anything, he heard Morten’s voice.

“Buddy, about time you stirred.”

“Mort?” Randolph said. His throat felt parched.

“In the flesh.”

“Where are we?” Randolph swallowed; pain stung his throat and seared his skull. “Mort, why am I taped?”

Mort sighed. “It’s been a busy couple’a days, Ron.”

Slowly the scene came into focus. They were seated at Mort’s kitchen table. Randolph saw the door to the workshop standing open to his left, with the oil can he’d brought sitting beside it.

A little glow from a pellet stove made the only light in the kitchen. By it, Randolph saw that he and Mort weren’t alone. “Sue?” he asked of the shadow on his right.

“The old ball and chain,” Mort quipped. Sue said nothing. Mort added, “Sorry Doll.”

Randolph tried to reach out to Sue - she seemed stiff, her lips held shut - but then he remembered his bound hands. “Mort,” he started again, “what the he-”

Mort wasn’t listening. He’d risen and stepped over to the pellet stove. He opened the front; heat belched over the room in waves. There came a sound like falling gravel as Mort poured pellets in with a fire shovel.

Randolph stared at Sue. She hadn’t blinked, not that he’d seen. He said, “Sue, what’s wrong?”

Mort looked back. “She’s fine.”

“What’s wrong with her eyes?”

“They’re… they’re just too small.”

Mort stood, watching Randolph, dead-expression, deep breaths heaving his shoulders. Hoping to distract him, Randolph said, “Right. Hey- hey I saw your birds.”

The taxidermist glanced at the shop door. “Pheasants. Ducks. Geese. Tons of partridges too, between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“What’s with the plucked feathers?”

“Needed ‘em.”

Randolph had managed to draw his kubaton and keys out while Mort spoke, so that the latter missed the soft jingle. Randolph asked, “What did you need the feathers for?”

“Ron, I screwed up. I should’ve listened. When I chopped that pear tree, whatever was inside - making it gnarled and rotten - got out.”

“Uh huh,” said Randolph. He jerked his wrist, cutting tape with his garage key.

“It got inside Sue. Fear not, I got it out of her.” Mort laid a hand on Sue’s shoulder; under his hand, she slumped.

Randolph reeled. “Mort, where are the kids?”

“Upstairs.”

Randolph sawed furiously, hoping Mort wouldn’t see. “Are they alright?”

“Ron, why don’t you stay for Christmas Eve supper? Me and Sue’d be tickled to have you. Wouldn’t we, doll?” Mort gave Sue a wild shake by her shoulders. “The pear tree’s gone, and we’re a happy couple again. Birds of a- HAHAHAHAHA!”

Randolph ripped the tape with a sharp textile snap. He sprang to his feet, the chair skidding back. He reeled, head spinning, room spinning too. Blood brought pain rushing to his skull. Mort roared and sprang toward him. Randolph grabbed the stiff chair. He lifted and threw.

The chair struck Sue.

She tilted.

Toppled.

Flump.

Mort’s roar left Randolph no time to worry over Sue. From somewhere the taxidermist had grabbed a carving knife. Randolph bolted, grabbing the oil canister as he passed the door. He spun and raised it as a shield.

Just in time. Mort’s knife swung once, twice, three times. The knife punctured, getting stuck in the canister as Randolph retreated through the taxidermy shop. Now they wrestled with the canister between them, spilling oil. Randolph stumbled backward into The Lodge while Mort - stronger and heavier - smacked a fist against his head. White pain flashed. The taxidermist screamed again, “HAHAHAHAHA!” as they fought along the railing.

Then Randolph felt his ankle twist.

The stairs.

He staggered sharply sideways, taking the howling taxidermist with him. With a rolling crash the two toppled down the first three steps of the circular stairs, struck the rounded wall, rebounded, and fell through air.

There was cracking of branches, and a shattering of glass. Then Randolph had the breath blasted from him as he hit the hardwood floor.

#

Randolph’s chest convulsed through a series of hyperventilations, which slowly evened into a soft groan. Silent Night drifted from the nearby turntable.

As he raised his head, Randolph saw that the pear tree had fallen; already-twisted branches, now bent and snapped; tar-colored sap seeping from raw wood. One string of bulbs shone on, stuttering rubies and emeralds.

Mort lay atop the pear tree. One of the jagged limbs had speared the taxidermist, punching straight through his spine and abdomen. Blood mixed with a pool of oil and sap on the hardwood floor. His grey eyes stared without seeing from the tilted head.

“Oh Mort,” Randolph groaned. Grief, anger, and pain lumped in his throat. “Why-”

Randolph stopped.

Was that a sound from above?

That same moment, the song on the turntable changed:

“I… don’t want a lot for Christmas,

“There is just one thing I need.”

“Chris? Sarah?” Randolph called the names of Mort’s kids.

This time the sound was unmistakable, a soft thud, followed by another, then another. Padded footsteps, on hard floor. Randolph hesitated, swallowed, then called, “Sue?”

In reply there came a choked, rasping noise. Then another footstep.

Randolph rose shakily. He took a step toward the stairs. He stumbled over a broken, heavy-looking piece of pear tree. On an impulse he picked it up and held it before him. “Sue?” He called again as he started up the steps. “It’s Ron.”

He heard the hinges of the shoproom door squeal. Someone above stepped onto the balcony.

“I just want you for my own.”

Randolph neared the top step. His heart thundered.

“More than you can ever know.”

His knuckles whitened around the broken branch as he edged to where the stairs met the balcony. He heard another soft footstep around the corner.

“Make my wish come true.”

With three quick breaths Randolph rounded the landing.

“All I want for Christmas is-”

Not two steps away, Sue stood.

“-Yooooouuuuuuu.”

At least, Sue’s skin.

Loose and wrinkled in the arms, stretching in the narrow neck, with her oddly lumpy shape covered in a crookedly-hanging, reindeer-patterned green dress, the Sue-monster stood, swaying. Her face had been damaged when she fell in the chair. The jaw hung wide, with mottled grey-brown feathers sticking out like a bouquet. Her head listed to one side. She stared blankly at Randolph through two, unseeing glass eyes.

“What in the evil world?” Randolph mumbled.

The Sue-monster tore its mouth wider - partridge feathers filling the skin hole between dead lips - and released a muffled shriek. It lunged.

Randolph brought an arm up to block the creature’s swinging hand. It smacked his shoulder. With only the weight of feather-stuffed skin, it felt like being struck by a pillow. The other arm came in and batted his ribs.

“Get back,” Randolph yelled. He shoved. Sue stumbled a few steps; stumbled right back in. Her de-muscled legs wobbled with each step. This time when she lurched for Randolph, he swung at her with the pear branch.

The splintered wood shattered Sue’s clavicle. It tore through the cured skin with a sound like ripping leather. Feathers burst from the gash.

“I won’t ask for much this Christmas,

“I won’t even wish for snow.”

“Die!” Randolph shouted as she came on again. This time he swung with an overhead chop. Down came the branch; the skull cracked. The soft, stuffed head collapsed. Jagged bone and plumage mixed with hair on her diveted crown, bursting through the seam. One of the glass eyes popped loose - it rolled across the floor.

The monster only screeched higher. Randolph stabbed with the splintered branch, trying to drive her backward.

The branch popped right through her gutskin. Sue squeezed closer. She threw her stuffed arms around the back of Randolph’s head. She knotted her fingers. Then, she slammed her broken face against Randolph’s. He tried to scream; she squeezed harder, smothering him. Randolph thrashed, flailed, unable to find air, choked by the cold dead skin.

“I just want you here tonight,

“Holding on to me so tight,

“What more can I do?”

Randolph grabbed the branch and heaved, rolling his shoulder. Branch, and monster with it, rose over Randolph’s head. He followed through with the motion, hurling Sue right over the banister railing.

“All I want for Christmas is-”

Record scratch.

Cracking branches.

Thud.

…

Randolph stood for a moment, gasping. He caught his breath. Then, slowly and against trembling fear, he leaned out, and looked down.

The branch-weapon had come free in the fall and smacked the turntable arm; the table turned soundlessly. The Sue-thing lay atop the pear tree, right above Mort’s body, impaled on the same broken branch. Red and green lights flickered all around her, reflecting off the mixed pool of oil, sap, and blood. Silver tinsel crowned her broken, tilted head.

The thing stared up at Randolph. From the feathered lips in the one-glass-eyed face, there rose the hateful shriek of a ten-thousand year old bird.

Randolph’s attention turned suddenly to the stuttering Christmas lights reflecting on the floor. On the oil. He fished his smokes and matches from a pocket. He set a bent cigarette to his lips, struck a match, and took a long drag. He stared down at the writhing monster impaled on the pear tree.

As he pulled the cigarette from his lips, flicked it, and watched the glowing tip turn end-over-end toward the oil, Randolph muttered under his breath:

“Merry Christmas.”

---

Return to 2 Turtle Doves, by Shaina Read.

Or, Start Over at 12 Drummers Drumming, by Jon T.

This story marks the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas - Dark Tidings special holiday event. Final ‘thank you’s go to Mark of the Brand for the original artwork, and especially to Garen Marie for organizing the event.

Thank you for reading; and Merry Christmas, everyone.