Blood and Eggnog

📅 Published on December 16, 2021

“Blood and Eggnog”

Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 10 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.
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Eggnog, the Guinness of dairy products, There are two types of people: those that hate it, and those that love it.

I was born on December 22nd, just three days before Christmas Day. I can remember my mother talking about how she drank it by the half-gallon the entire last trimester of her pregnancy with me. You can imagine all the weight she put on, not that my father ever said anything. He loved her unequivocally. Yes, that was one thing I was always able to say about my parents. They’d been in love for my entire life and well before then.

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, eggnog. The combination of egg, milk, vanilla, cream and spices that some people go crazy about. As mentioned earlier, I was exposed to it early on and haven’t had a like for it since. I can’t stand the shit if I’m candid about it- never been much of a milk drinker.

You probably think that this little tale of mine has something to do with ingesting it, right? Maybe a holiday version of a cult poisoning or eggnog that turns citizens into mindless zombies on the hunt for flesh?! Well, you’d be wrong. We aren’t pulling a Jim Jones here. Here’s what happened.

It was a little over a week before Christmas, and my dog Buckley was driving me crazy. I’d just gotten home from working the second shift and was desperately trying, and failing, to settle and unwind for the night. I’d worked four days straight at that point with another four to go before an actual day off. I’m not bitching or anything. The holidays are a busy time. I understand that.

The damn dog wouldn’t stop scratching at his bowl and whining at me. I’d been so busy with work that I’d completely forgotten to buy him food for the third day in a row. Well, I was beyond exhausted, and all the Instacart stores were closed down for the night. As much as I hated to go out, it wasn’t Buck’s fault I was a forgetful asshole. So I threw on my coat, headed out the door and got into my car.

My annoyance increased as my frigid fingers fumbled with the buttons to control the radio stations. Every goddamned year every station piled it on thicker than fuzz on old bullshit the day after Thanksgiving. But of course, the one year I actually felt like hearing it, there was none. Fuckin’ figures, I thought to myself bitterly.

I was pleased to see a mostly empty parking lot when I pulled into the 24-hour superstore. My contentment was short-lived, for I soon remembered that only the weirdos and drug addicts shopped this late at night—those not living in the parking lot in their vehicles, that is. I just needed to go in, get some dog food and get out. As long as I stuck to the plan, I didn’t see how things could become a problem.

That’s what I got for thinking.

So there I was, minding my business trying to locate the pet food aisle, narrowly avoiding the stocking clerks. They recently remodeled, and due to the wonders of online ordering, I hadn’t gotten a chance to stop in until that night. I can remember always getting pissed off when they’d be in my way stocking during the daytime. But now that they stocked overnight, I still faced the same problem. I guess what my ex-wife said is true: there’s just no pleasing some people.

Their new cream-colored tile made the spill almost impossible to see, especially with it being so shiny from recent waxing. I hadn’t been using a shopping cart. In my mind, that was the trick to overspending. If you say you’re only coming in, for one thing, you certainly don’t need a cart. However, it could have made all the difference in the world in this case.

The sole of my left shoe swiftly slipped out from under me, and my arms whirled as they struggled for something to hold onto. An entire dairy section flew in front of my eyes as I fell to the floor. I saw the overhead fluorescent lights and heard a crack followed by a brief moment of pain and nothing- only darkness.

My head radiated with a white-hot heat before I even opened my eyes. The pain was only made worse when the first thing I saw was the blinding white lights above my face. Everything around me was white, the walls, curtains, tables and chairs. I would have thought I had died if an exasperated nurse hadn’t come into the room. I had been taken to a nearby hospital. Shit, I thought. The ambulance bill is going to be incredible. And they hold that shit against you now. It didn’t use to be that way. An emergency used to be treated as such. After recuperating from a heart attack, the last thing you need is to come home and have a mandatory hospital bill send you right into a-damn-nother one. Hundreds of thousands of dollars for slipping in fucking egg nog.

According to her badge, Nurse Linda said that I had had a bad fall and had cracked my head open. A stocking clerk found me unconscious in a pool of my own blood. It prolly scared the shit out of him. Head wounds are like that, though. The skin is so damn thin, one little cut, and it looks like you’re bleeding out. Still, my head did hurt like hell, and I certainly didn’t feel right.

Her lips continued to move, but I couldn’t focus on listening for my life. I mean, I’m sure she was giving me essential aftercare instructions. Or at least was explaining how severe my head wound was. At that moment, though, I didn’t care.

Her body had become enshrouded in an orange glow, almost like a candle’s flame. It was like daylight, pure sunshine seeping out of her fingers, face and toes. It held a warmth to it, a comfort almost. I’d never experienced anything like it in all of my life. It was brought up awkwardly, in passing, and she said that it was entirely normal for some patients to have vision changes for a little while.

My neighbor was kind enough to pick me up and take me to my car. I still hadn’t gotten any damn dog food, but at least there was a less traumatic store to pick some up on the way home. Daylight savings time was still an issue after almost two months of it. So by the time he dropped me off, it was mostly dark outside. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that his shadow stayed close to his body even under the parking lot’s lights. Where the nurse held a light orange hue, my neighbor Phillip had only black. Well, I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and for all, I knew my head was just healing.

Well, an entire week had gone by. Buckley was fed good and proper several times without complaint or delay, and people’s ‘colors’ still weren’t fading. Not only that, but I was getting more familiar with what each of them meant. I felt like a mix between a Cocomelon colors episode and Anthony Michael Hall from The Dead Zone. It would have been different if I could do something useful with it. The only thing this did was help to tell me what type of person they were at their core on the inside. And honestly, at my age, I’d been around the block enough times to be able to assess that kind of thing on my own, without the help of this new…skill? I don’t know what the hell to call it. No, I can’t tell you what the winning Lotto numbers are, and I don’t know when or how you will die. It’s nothing like that. It could have been the onset of cataracts, for christ’s sake, but it hadn’t let me down yet.

Still, I always found it fascinating when finding color in someone I hadn’t seen before. It was like a mystery that was left for only me to unfold. Unfortunately, new colors didn’t always bring positive connotations or tones. Despite my silent journey into the ROYGBIV of the human soul, other things in town took precedence over my newfound ability.

I awoke early the Sunday morning before Christmas to police sirens. It seemed the entire neighborhood one block over was going through one hell of a time. I hastily threw on my bathrobe and slippers as I went outside to inspect the situation, and I wasn’t the only one. Half the neighborhood stood outside bleary-eyed and just as confused as I was. However, someone was missing. I scanned the crowd for a good two or three minutes before realizing who it was: Phillip. That son of a bitch can sleep through anything, I thought wryly.

My thoughts were interrupted by a woman named Tammy, who lived on the corner of our street. Tears made shining trails down her face, exaggerating the already smudged eye makeup from the night before. So what the hell was she so upset about? Well, I pondered, she didn’t have a significant other or any kids that I was aware of, and I didn’t smell a lick of smoke in the air that wasn’t coming through the filter of a cigarette. My curiosity wasn’t held in suspense for long.

Finn and Moira McKensie were a sweet couple who lived the next block over. I hadn’t had many interactions with them. But they’d always go door to door around the neighborhood caroling at Christmastime. The little girl would always give kind reminders to everyone to remember their Secret Santa gift this year because no one deserved empty arms on Christmas.

The young parents had woken up to discover their sweet little girl gone from her bed. Condensation from melted snow flurries settled over her pink dresser and her twin-sized princess bed frame. The window had been opened sometime in the night. Whoever the intruder was neglected to close it upon his retreat, their retreat, I should say. It’s not really fair of me to assume it was a man, I guess. Now is it? There have been just as many lady kidnappers as men, if not more.

Those new colors I mentioned earlier? That morning, I discovered grey, and it wasn’t just from the clouds outside. The parents were outside speaking with police, attempting to anyway. Moira was crying so hard that she couldn’t say much of anything. I’d never seen sadness or grief materialize like that before.

The entire town was heartbroken over the news of a missing child, especially so close to such a beloved holiday. They say the first 48 hours of any missing person’s cases were crucial. It had been close to 72 at this point. Even with no children of my own, I was still just as shocked as everyone else was that such an awful thing had happened so close to home. Everyone says that crimes in their town are such surprises because nothing bad ever happened there. And in our case, at least, it was true. Her colors were visible even through her photograph, vibrant swirls of pink and yellow. My heart ached for her parents, enrobed in swaths of grey and blue.

What’s worse is, the day was finally upon us. The Christmas Eve sun had risen high in the sky and was on its way down for the night. Families did their best to hold traditional celebrations at home, trying hard not to think of The McKensies and their little girl Ronda. There would surely be a pile of gifts laying cold and lonely under a Christmas tree, waiting patiently to be opened by a child who wouldn’t be there to open them Christmas morning.

We’d all been interviewed time and time again. No one had seen anything pertinent to the disappearance of the case. It was terrifying. After all, little girls don’t just vanish into thin air. Except, it seemed that this one did.

Our neighborhood had a little Christmas tradition, a Secret Santa type deal, if you could call it that. Something like that obviously didn’t seem appropriate this year. Safely, I had already gotten Phillip a gift. It seemed fitting to perform an act of goodwill with the neighborhood being in such a somber tone. Something in the pit of my gut made me hesitate. I found myself coming up with every excuse in the World not to go over there. I stared intently at his house across the street as if noticing it for the first time.

I’d almost talked myself out of it when his porch light flicked on. It seemed like an omen, an open invitation from the universe almost. It didn’t seem like something I could just ignore. So I grabbed his present off the counter and headed over. If one act of kindness could help someone on this damn street have a happy holiday, well, I guessed that wasn’t so bad. Five minutes of my time wasn’t much to bring a smile to someone’s face- from one lonely codger to another.

Phillip opened the door with a surprised look on his face. A drink was swirling in his left hand. And wouldn’t you know it, it smelled just like eggnog. “I got you a little somethin’ to go with that,” I smiled, holding up the wrapped bottle. He smiled widely as the apprehension melted away from his face. “Well, come on in, friend!” He exclaimed. The smell of pine and cranberry assaulted my senses when I stepped into the home. Phillip had gone all out in decorating, which was strange considering all the years he had lived here. I hadn’t seen many family or friends stopover. Santa decor was as far as the eye could see. He even had a milk and cookie station set up in the corner of his dingy and cluttered kitchen counter.

We sat a spell as we drank and talked. I attempted to forego the eggnog, but he forced his drink into my hand for a taste faster than I could politely protest. My teeth cringed, and my throat heaved at the spiked, creamy concoction. One sip was more than enough for me. So I just told him to give me my booze straight in a glass.

Unfortunately, after sitting with him for about twenty minutes, I realized I’d drank far more alcohol than I’d meant to. Before long, it was time to break the seal. You know what I’m talking about. When you’ve been drinking, and you take that first piss. It seems like once the first one comes, you can’t stop peeing after. I asked him where the bathroom was and excused myself to follow his directions.

My feet bumbled, and I stumbled down the semi- unfamiliar hallway. And I found myself opening the door to a spare bedroom. Instead of a much-needed toilet, I was greeted with a single twin bed, aging furniture and an old television set. Great. Embarrassment and drunkenness outweighed my curiosity, not to mention my fully engorged bladder. I was just about to close the door when something caught the corner of my eye.

An old dresser oddly placed in the center of the back wall seemed to be emanating light, which made less than no sense to me. Why would an inanimate object hold any kind of aura? Dread dried my mouth and knotted my stomach as I began moving it away from the wall. I had to take extra care to be as quiet as possible. I was already taking too long, even for a piss, even a drunken one.

To my horror, the dresser gave way to show a solid tan door, painted the exact same color as the walls surrounding it. Seeping out from under the door was a highly faint pink light. There was no yellow to it, but I recognized it all the same. It was guarded by two slide locks and a padlock device. I dialed 911 and whispered my location as discreetly as possible.

I moved the dresser back and walked into the living room area. I sat right down with that bastard like not a thing was wrong in the world, even had him pour me another drink. We talked about our favorite Christmas movies until the police arrived. The look of shock and betrayal on his face as our eyes met when they busted down the door is one I’ll never forget. Ronda McKensie shrieked in terror as officers carried her past her abuser, now face down on the ground in handcuffs.

It turns out, Phillip Turner didn’t see one day of jail time. His body took the easy way out, succumbing to a fatal heart attack in the back of the police cruiser on the way to the jail. Little Ronda is home safe and sound with her parents. Unfortunately, she still hasn’t uttered a word since the incident. I try to give the family their privacy, but we’ve become a lot closer since finding their daughter.

* * * * * *

Well, wouldn’t you fucking know it? Another year has passed, and it’s almost Christmas time again. Phillip across the street is still dead and rotting in the ground, and his house has sat empty like a lousy reminder every single day since. You’d think the graffiti and piles of shit scattered on his porch would have detracted anyone from wanting to move into this hell pit. But you’d be wrong. A car pulling a Uhaul storage pod behind it pulled into the house next door before a man got out to unload his belongings into his new home.

His aura was Vantablack.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: N.M. Brown


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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