by Clyde Davis
Out in the highlands—where heath meets hearth, where the grey clouds inhabit the few who call this wilderness home—there are few occasions to dispel the cold-hearted, to banish the desolate woes roaming the rolling hills. Out in the highlands, beneath the ominous tones and tundra tides, Christmas Eve is held close, like a precious jewel against the winter dark.
Candles are lit and lanterns line the cobbled streets, whilst tinsel festoons the stoney walls of the croft cottage rows. The villages shed their dreary skin, and for one night, the weathered folk of the north allow cheer into their hearts, and reacquaint themselves with its forgotten friend, laughter. Trees are felled and trimmed, erected beneath thatched roofs and decorated with wooden baubles and sculpted cones. As the evening falls, fires spring to life and crackle like amber glass; the running colours spilling through the night, pouring through splintered shutters and roughened doors. Families congregate to feast on venison stew; the deep taste of mountain herbs sits subtly on their tongues, and the bitter embrace of ale coils around their teeth. Bread is broken, and merriment shared. Tarts are cut, and memories handed down. Eggnog is sipped, and stories told. Out in the highlands, these are the rituals of Christmas Eve. The rites of joyful souls.
Yet, there is one tale never muttered about the festive table. A tale hardly told, for each word is true. It is the tale of the Bodegraven Man. As the cheer is churned and laughter echoes through streets, the Bodegraven Man is called down from the hills. From all the light his shadow is cast, and down he lopes, naked legs and sagging skin, towards the villages, towards the homes. But in the darkness he won’t be found, for he skulks in through the shadows, and stands behind the Christmas tree. There he waits, the old wrinkled suit of pale flesh. His long hands fiddle behind the leaves, his sour breath whistles through crooked teeth, and saucer eyes black as hellish night, crowned by red rings, stare through unblinking lids. There he waits, and watches the families feast. A wretched tongue licks his lips, while he looks for the saddest one. Despite the merriment and hallow songs, the Bodegraven Man knows, there is always a heavy heart, or a secret kept, a gloomy soul unsatisfied. He has come for them, and when the fires burn down, he will come out from behind the tree, and creep towards the beds of the unhappy ones. There, he will have his own merry feast. Blood and marrow, bone and grits, hair and nails, sometimes even the pillow slips.
The Bodegraven Man. He is always there, standing behind the Christmas tree, watching and waiting. No one tells the tale, and no one looks, but if you pause, you may catch a glimpse of his fetid skin peeping through the evergreen, and if you listen, you’ll hear his creaking bones beneath the chilly highland winds.
CLYDE DAVIS is an author of gothic, dark fantasy, horror and speculative fiction. He currently manages a weekly flash fiction newsletter titled Narrativ, and his debut novel “Blackwood” is currently being produced into a podcast series. Clyde currently resides in the Netherlands, where he is working on his sophomore novel. You can find him on Twitter @_ClydeDavis