A weekly newsletter that today offers gifts for you
In lieu of a newsletter this week, I humbly offer three gifts I hope you choose to enjoy over this holiday season:
- a new short story “Blue Christmas”
- a new Tell The Damn story episode featuring a panel discussion on writing holiday horror
- A two-part Monday Music column featuring author’s favorite Christmas songs.
All the best to you and yours this holiday.
***
Copyright © 2025 by Christopher Ryan/Seamus and Nunzio Productions, LLC
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is dedicated to those who struggled in 2025. Keep going.
And, as always, to the Glorious One who inspires me every day.
Blue Christmas – A Revenant Story Christopher Ryan
Not as many houses had holiday decorations up this year. It’s been a downer of a trip around the sun.
I hunched my shoulders slightly against the cold, gray dawn because, while this part of Cincinnati looked like so many other American neighborhoods, I don’t look like the neighbors.
Call me MacTavish. Been around awhile, doing what needs to be done for folks at the end of their ropes or communities past that point. I’m a revenant, of sorts. Selected by Pieta, a version of St. Peter best I can figure. She’s a spirit who actively recruits certain souls to fight for those who have lost that ability. Sometimes they’ve been murdered, or lost their minds, or spiraled until they became a danger to themselves and others. Other times they’ve been pushed so close to the edge of sanity by the cruel side of life they can no longer contain their actions.
My assignment this bleak morning is all of that with a side of danger. If I’m honest, that’s become sort of a pattern for me. Let’s say I’m well-suited to the work.
I should be, I’ve been doing this over eighty years.
Pieta recruited me on the beaches of Normandy way back on D-Day. I served my country for all of ten steps into that kill zone before Nazi sniper bullets ripped through me. One second, I was a young newlywed patriot just trying to do right by his country and the world. The next I just another casualty strewn across those lonely sands.
As I lay there bleeding out, thunderous insanity roaring all around me, I thought only about my Mary. People are supposed to see their own lives flash before their eyes as existence slips away, but I saw Mary alone in our tiny house, one delicate hand on her blessedly growing belly. Then my mind shifted impossibly, and I was watching a pick-up truck full of drunken teenagers. With a pain sharper than the bullet wounds that were ending my life, I suddenly knew they were heading for Mary with dark intentions. The possibility it was true so unnerved me that I tried standing, blood slicked arms holding my guts together, as if I could get to her. The ludicrous effort just earned me another slug of blistering Nazi metal through my back.
I dropped face-first into the blood-spoiled sand, so close to my demise that everything was growing dim.
My final thought was a desperate yearning to protect Mary.
All at once the chaos fell away to silence and calm. I pulled my wincing face out of the sand, squinting at a blue-tinted brightness.
When the light softened, a woman stood in the gentle glow, her gossamer gown swaying softly in a breeze I hadn’t noticed in the cacophony of battle. But now there was no screams of soldiers, no zing of bullets, no cacophony of war which had overwhelmed my senses only a second ago. There was just her.
She was tall but that could have been the angle from where I lay.
Except…
I wasn’t.
I was standing before her, painless, breathless, maybe. “Am I dead, ma’am? Have you come as a guide?”
She smiled gorgeously. A beauty second only to my Mary’s. “Both answers depend entirely on how our conversation goes,” she answered, sounding like mercy and hope. “You are, however, close to crossing over,” she paused, then said, “unless you would prefer a chance to help those who can’t help themselves, beginning with Mary.”
I accepted immediately. And while I had no clue whether what I saw of Mary’s danger was happening at the same moment I was dying, or a month earlier or later, it didn’t matter to me. What I did know was I instantly found myself on our road, standing in front of the approaching headlights of that pick-up truck. The drunk kids inside screamed. The driver slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to stop a few feet away.
I was on them, fear of what they could’ve done to Mary and our unborn baby driving my fury. I glimpsed odd physical differences in me that I didn’t have time to fully identify. I was too busy putting the fear of God into those fully panicked boys.
And then I saw a reflection in their windshield that froze my soul.
All at once I knew what terrified them.
Looking back at me in that grimy glass was a nightmare wearing my Army greens, a moving, living, completely unnerving human skeleton that was…me.
I watched my fatigue wearing arms grab for their pick-up, saw skeletal hands grip, then tear off the truck’s hood before those boys screeched away in reverse until they were far enough away to chance a reckless U-turn and then speed off.
Turned out that entering Pieta’s service altered how I presented myself. My words, gravelly as they were delivered, hadn’t been what chased those boys away. It was my mug. Or lack thereof.
Eventually, I learned that with effort and focused will I could mask my unnatural state and appear as an unremarkable, flesh-covered man, but ever since Pieta let me save Mary, my default state of being has been, let’s say, more striking.
I never presented myself to my wife for fear that any mask I willed might slip and she’d be traumatized by my new reality.
So yeah, for the last eighty years, I’ve walked this earth as some sort of supernatural horror show. Now, I’m not complaining; I’ve adjusted. And honestly, the tradeoff was worth it. Mary had a good life. She stayed safe. Raised our beautiful boy to become an honorable man.
I checked in on them occasionally as the years went by, from a distance, of course. Got sad for a month when she met someone. Learned about the blues first hand when she married the guy. Nice fella. Took good care of my family. Added two lovely daughters. And I got to see grandkids grow up and even great-grandchildren (somewhat removed, I admit) that I check in on these days, still from a distance, of course.
I continued to wear my old army jacket to remind me of where this all started, and that I am still in the service, just of a higher order.
But overall, yeah, my face tended to unnerve those I addressed. Made my job a bit easier. Sometimes it didn’t. I had other resources for those hard asses. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need anything beyond my eternally grinning face this morning.
I paused at 753 Hickory Street. Two-floor colonial. Faded mint siding that needed replacing.
Crossing the dried out, neglected lawn, I made a gesture with my bony fingers, creating a soft blue portal that took me through this guy’s locked door. I found myself standing across a darkened living room from the man of the hour.
Robert Pressman sat on a couch on top of a rumpled sheet, a worn out blanket, and beat-up pillow that confirmed he’d been taking the name of the room literally for a while now. A plate sat on an end table with the remains of some long-forgotten dinner next to a battered box of Cheerios. These were the only hints of nutrition near him. A near empty fifth of bourbon suggested he’d switched to a liquid diet.
None of that concerned me as much as the sawed-off shotgun he was holding point blank at his own face. His eyes moved with slow annoyance to meet mine, or at least where mine would be if it wasn’t a skull staring at him.
“You can’t wait to drag me to hell, can ya,” he accused more than asked. “Or are you here to witness my final humiliation?”
“Not here for any of that,” I said, impressed that my growly voice didn’t bother him a bit. “Would like to talk, if you have a minute.”
That line earned a dry, unamused grunt. But he did not lower the weapon. “Death wants to chat. Who am I to deny him?”
“That’s another guy entirely, you have my word on that one.” I jutted my jaw toward a chair. “You mind?”
“Planning on being here long? ‘Cause I’ve got something to do.”
I sat. Pulled my hood off. Left the American flag hat on. It tended to humanize my countenance a bit. “That’s what I’m hoping to talk to you about, Robert.”
“Rob. Thought you spirits would get the name right.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I gently waved my skeletal hand at the coffee table between us. From his left to right, there were a trio of troubling items:
Baby shoes, never worn.
His wife Theresa’s certificate of death.
A pile of bills.
Some suicides wrote notes; Rob had laid out his version of Christmases past, present, and future. His loss was more familiar than I wanted to acknowledge.
Rob looked at me looking at them, tightened his grip on the sawed-off, his right thumb hovering just above the trigger. “Tell me what we did wrong,” he sneered, eyes flaring. “Tell me why we deserved to miscarry our son? We would’ve loved and cared for Robbie Junior our entire lives!”
At the mention of the unborn child’s name, I flashed on a room upstairs painted baby blue, an almost completed crib abandoned, a soft, pillow-sized Captain America left unhugged in the corner.
I sat silently, thinking of missing out on raising my own little Mac.
Rob’s eyes were burning with tears. “Neither of us ever robbed or conned or murdered or raped or abused anyone. We didn’t lose ourselves to alcohol or drugs or even tobacco or junk food. We just lived simple American lives.”
Like living in a cozy little home with loved ones. I hated how close this guy’s pain was cutting.
“Tell me which one of you unearthly bastards condemned my wife to four years of slow, agonizing death. At 37! We weren’t even married for10 years! We had our whole lives ahead of us!”
The fist he had around the shotgun’s stock whitened at the knuckles. I needed to de-escalate this now. Yeah, I could disappear the shotgun or make it fly out of his hands, but he’d just get another one after I left. I needed to reason with him. But before I could try, he erupted again.
“Your God sent this! Decided to shatter the simple love of simple people living a simple life, taking nothing from anyone!”
“I underst―”
He shoved the gun harder against his skull. “No! You don’t,” he hollered. “She was a nurse’s aide at a pediatric doctor’s office, for Christ’s sake! You can’t get less harmful than that!”
I needed him to ease up. “And you?”
“I was a federal worker, using my state college accounting degree to ensure seniors got the proper amount on their Social Security checks. We were just tiny cogs in the legendary American Dream, and we were fine with that.”
“Both of you did honorable work.”
He was seething now. Each breath rushing out of him like it would burst into flame. “Then came a change in so-called leadership. My entire department was fired without cause. An entire service destroyed even though people still needed it. Not even considering that Terri and I, we still needed my paycheck, our medical coverage. Who fires an entire department without a thought about the lives they’re wrecking?”
His eyes were searching for something but his grip ease up, moved the gun’s muzzle away from digging into his skin above his eyebrows. Better still, his thumb had angled just slightly away from the trigger. Good.
Then his visual search landed on the bills, that thumb returning to just above that trigger.
Damn it.
“You go ahead and talk to me about how an honest person survives the loss of his son, and the love of his life, and then gets handed unimaginable bills to pay for treatments that just prolonged her suffering. Tell me how it’s justified. And how it’s okay that some douche and his frat boy minions killed my job and our medical benefits for no real reason.”
I wasn’t doing enough. I had to change the dynamic here or I was going to lose this guy. “Let’s take a breath―”
He ignored me. Gotta give credit where its due, very few people can ignore a living skeleton.
“And how does it makes sense that we’re gonna be punished by financial ruin because giving the hospital all the money we had still wasn’t enough to buy her life back.”
Suddenly he gripped the shotgun and held the shortened barrel to his grimacing face, his thumb lightly tapping the trigger now. “You tell me there’s another answer.”
“Let’s put the gun down and discuss exactly that.”
He ignored me. “You know what Terri’s sin was? She dared to be a good human being. Blasphemy punishable by the ruination of our entire lives. It’s not enough that you took my child. You took my wife, too. You tell me why it doesn’t make more sense to eat this shotgun than to continue eating such bullshit! I wanna hear what you have to say to that!”
I lowered my voice, tried to soften it, but the gravel of it vibrating through my bones kept the sound threatening. “I’m not the one you need to hear from.”
Rob’s arm shook with fury. I was concerned he might blow his head off accidentally. “You gotta collect my soul, right? Condemn me to Hell. Is that what you’re here for?”
I shook his head, boney hands up, palmless palms out. “I’m not here for any of those things. Think of me more as an escort.”
“How fancy, you’re gonna escort me to hell.”
“I’m not here to take you anywhere,” I rumbled, my sight fixated on his thumb, now lightly grazing the damned trigger. “I’m here to bring somebody to see you.”
With that came a shimmer in the entranceway between the living room and dining room. It glowed warm and soft. A circle of light grew to take up the entire space.
Within that glow was Terri. Not sick. Not dying. She looked as young and vibrant and lovely as she appeared in the wedding pictures on their wall.
Terri stood in a field of high grass and flowers. I glanced over Bob’s head and noticed the exact place in a print of some nature painting framed on the wall above his head.
For the first time, Bob moved his weapon away from his face. “T-Terri…?”
“Robert,” she all but whispered. “I felt your pain from where I am, and I begged and pleaded for a spirit to help. Then I met Pieta, who works with this gentleman, and who said it would be a good thing for me to have this moment with you.”
Rob lowered the shotgun a bit more. “I can’t keep going, Theresa. This world is so awful, honey, and it’s worse without you.”
“I know, Sweetie.” Her voice lessened Rob’s shaking. “All I’m asking you to do is to hold on.”
Rob dropped his eyes to the tragedies on the coffee table. “Without you, there’s nothing to hold onto.” His grip on the shotgun tightened again.
Theresa pressed on, her voice softly urgent. “If you do what you’re thinking, then it doesn’t matter how many eternities I stand in this field waiting for you, we’ll never be allowed to be together.”
Rob looked over the shortened shotgun barrel at the love of his life, clearly struggling to process what was happening.
“Believing there’s a chance for us to spend eternity as a family,” she spoke in a breathy, hopeful tone, “that’s what makes the waiting bearable. But if you do this, no matter where we are, it will be hell.”
“Family?”
Theresa reached down into the high grass and picked up a baby boy. “This is our heaven.” She kissed the beautiful boy who giggled. “We’re waiting, Robert. Please make sure you can come to us, please.”
With that the light around her began to fade.
“Terri! Don’t leave me again! Stay with me…”
The glow around her dimming, she spoke one last time. “We’re here, and will be forever, until you complete us. Just have faith that you can get to us.”
The light faded, the circle shrank away, the room darkened again.
Rob stared at the entrance to the dining room where his love had been for long, silent moments. I didn’t move. Just waited for his decision, hoping I’d be fast enough if he chose darkness. Eventually, Rob looked down at the shotgun. I tensed, poised to move quickly if this failed.
Rob broke open the weapon, ejected the shells. We both watched them clatter across the floor. Then Rob extended the shotgun to me. I nodded. With a bit of will, I turned it to dark smoke in his hands. We both watched those dark whisps dissipate into the shadows.
Rob considered my skull-faced presence sitting across from him, then asked, “What now?”
“This week you’ll hear from two life insurance companies regarding policies. One you both took out for each other when you were first married. The second one Theresa took out at her job long before she got sick. Both companies have been dragging their feet on payment. You’ll also hear from an attorney whom I helped in a similar way to you. She’s been on them to pay, and she will also help you negotiate down those bills. You won’t be rich, but you won’t be destitute, and you have a skill set she can place. That’ll help you start over.”
Rob considered all this, exhaling as he struggled to believe something good was still possible. After a long time, he nodded. “You are not at all what I expected. Thank you.”
“Just the job, my friend.”
“Weird job you got there.”
“Better than the one I had on Normandy beach.”
Rob sat back, even smiled a sad little smile. That was something at least. “All the lawyer things won’t happen until at least Monday. And as much as I appreciate all your help, and the visit from my wife which I’ll be processing for the rest of my life, honestly, I have to ask, how do I get through today?”
I leaned forward, two boney fingers going into the top left pocket of my army jacket. They came out with two tickets. “Another former client works for the NFL. The Bengals are playing at 1.”
Confusion crossed Rob’s face. “No offense but you’d scare the whole stadium.”
I laughed that gravely laugh of mine, passed a bony hand in front of my face. Both the hand and the face become ordinary and non-descript.
Rob grunted. “Couldn’t have come in with that look?”
“You needed my work mug.” I shrugged. “This takes a lot more effort to maintain.” I paused, then, “Wanna go?”
Rob smiled. “I’d really enjoy that.”
“So would I.” I grinned. “Let’s get sandwiches.”
***
***
Soul Screaming Music Monday
·
Dec 22
‘Tis the season for “Best of” lists and “Top Ten” lists and columnists expounding on their favorite everything from music to movies to political crimes to Christmas specials to fruit cakes (that last one is a very short list. No entries, actually). But who cares what I think? Let’s see what pulp and adventure and horror writers hold as their favorite ho…
Soul Screaming Music Monday, Part 2!
·
Dec 22
This morning, I posted my Music Monday column about authors’ favorite Christmas songs. Well, here’s more! Let’s see what pulp and adventure and horror writers hold as their favorite holiday tunes.
***
Alright, Merry Christmas and Happy holidays, all. Talk atcha next week.
Chris Ryan 