'Twas the fright before Christmas; when all through the town.
Not a walker was shuffling; they'd all been gunned down.
The shotguns were hung on the mantel with a sigh; knowing that this year, St. Nick would pass by.
The children were bulwark'd all armed in their room; no illusions of presents, just visions of doom.
And mom with her Shockwave, and me with my Wesson; popped off some more shots, teaching zombies a lesson.
When on the front lawn there came such a clatter; I jumped from my station, all covered in splatter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash; tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon lit the bodies strewn on the snow; blood glistened like garnet in the pale light's white glow.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear; but a miniature sleigh and eight rotting brain-deer.
With a zombified driver so festered and wrinkled; I knew in a moment he must be Kris Kringle.
More fetid than crawlers his coursers they came; voice raspy, he shouted, and called them by name.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the corpse on the porch! To the dead by the wall! Now gnash away! Gnash away! Gnash away all!"
They ate like a whirlwind, the gore on the lawn; snow now pure and sparkling, the horror all gone.
Then over the housetops, the coursers they flew; with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in an inkling, I heard on the roof; the shuffling and clawing of each putrid hoof.
As I took up my Weaver while spinning around; out of the Fireplace, St. Nick came with a bound.
His jacket was ripped, hair matted with rot; and his face was all mottled, nose streaming with snot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back; like nothing was wrong, he just opened his pack.
His eyes—how they blistered! His dimples now chafed! Were we to be eaten or somehow still safe?
What remained of his lips had drawn up in a smile; and soon then I realized we might live a while.
The rib of a crawler, he gnawed with his teeth; bits of the carcass now dropped at his feet.
He had a gray face and a hole in his belly; guts shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was gaunt but yet chubby, a right jolly old elf; and I laughed when I saw him, but barfed on myself.
A wink of his eye and the snap of his head; soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He came after us not, but went straight to his work; he filled the kids' stockings; then turned with a smirk.
He lost a few fingers while tying the bows; then giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, shouting at the lead; and away they all flew like runners on speed.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—"Happy Zompoc to all, and to all a good fright!"
THE END
YOU ARE READING
The Fright Before Christmas
HorrorA fun zombie apocalypse horror parody of "A Visit from St. Nicholas," which was first published anonymously in the early 1800s. The original poem has been credited to Clement Clarke Moore.
