Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror by J. Alan Hartman

was long and matted, and his eyes wild. His teeth rotten and sticking out of his mouth in every direction, while his tongue was covered with a red pus from a persistent rash.
    He sat back in his wooden rocking chair next to the table, the only piece of furniture in his hut besides the rocking chair and a broken down bed with a lice covered mattress. On the table was a framed photograph of his squadron from thirty years ago. It was a picture of him with Juan Cobo, Joaquin Rojas, Lucas Rossi, Antonio Castillo and Nicholas Baer. They were the ones who had reported him as a deserter after he’d refused to go on a fighter run against the British at Port Stanley during the Falklands War. They were the ones who’d made him flee to the ends of the earth and hide there, fearful of prosecution and the firing squad.
    And now, all those years later, he’d seen the former members of his squadron riding on horseback through the pampas. They hadn’t been content to turn him in as a deserter all those years before, but had shot at him and tried to kill him on the spot.
    Well, he’d taken his revenge. And if any of the other men ever returned, they’d meet the same fate as Juan Cobo.
    Leopold Florencia took a gulp of wine to toast the rapidly approaching New Year. It tasted sweet and he savored it for a moment. Then he rummaged around at his feet and lifted Juan Cobo’s head up by the hair. He stared into Juan’s face, at his expression, frozen in terror at the unimaginable realization that death had arrived suddenly and early to claim its due.
    Then, in the silence of the hut, Leopold placed Juan Cobo’s head on the table so that it faced the framed photograph of their squadron in its heyday. Juan Cobo was in the center of the photograph, his arms around two of his buddies’ shoulders, back in the old days when Juan had been a dashing, virile and handsome young fighter pilot.

Deadly Secrets
    Steve Shrott
    Angela stopped putting on her makeup and glared at me. “They want to see you tonight, New Year’s Eve?”
    I shrugged, brushed my hair back, thinking how small a bathroom we had. “They told me it’s the way they work. Walters, the one I spoke to, said if I truly want to make my resolutions happen, I have to go there this evening around six.”
    The corners of her mouth turned downward as they often did. “Okay, fine. Just make sure you meet me at the restaurant by nine. And don’t be late, Randy, ’cause…”
    “I won’t be.”
    “…the Bergsons are meeting us at the hotel at eleven. That only gives us two hours to…”
    I nodded, opened the door and left, not wanting to hear the rest of it.
    I got in my Toyota, several years past it’s prime, and began driving to “Happy Resolutions.” Angela had found it on the Internet. In truth, I didn’t really want to go, but she’d worn me down.
    The place was located in the east end of town. Not my favorite location. The shops and people always seemed a bit stranger here.
    I stopped at a light and watched a hunchbacked man roll a shopping cart across the road. I swear I saw a headless body inside and started to breath heavy. A moment later, however, I realized it was a broken mannequin a clothing store must have thrown out.
    I’d have to watch that imagination.
    I passed several tattoo parlours, gun shops and police stations. Then, above a martial arts studio, I saw a sign with the words, “Make your Resolutions Come True—Today.”
    I parked, walked up the rickety stairs.
    The door at the top had been left open and I found myself in a dark, empty room. I looked around, but didn’t see anyone.
    “Hello? Hello?” No answer.
    This was crazy. He knew what time I was coming—he should have been here. I wasn’t going to wait. I walked back toward the door.
    “Mr. Lambert?”
    I swivelled around to see an older man with short white hair. He was thin and seemed to almost swim in his black checked jacket. A long face made his wide smile appear almost too big, giving