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Good evening. I'm storyteller, oldest Jairie,

and hi, each your grandfather. From where I'm from, you know, do bedtime stories.

And if that's what you were expecting, you're in the wrong place.

If its terrifying tells you're after, well then, I've got just the thing.

Get comfortable, settle in, turn off the lights, Mr. Dare.

Your night is about to get a whole lot darker.

Who needs sleep anyway?

Our first tale tonight comes from author Michael Whitehouse, entitled The Christmas Feast.

He first suspected that they were going to eat him when he noticed the distinct lack of

dual-tied smells. It wasn't perhaps conscious thought, at least not one which had been fully

realized, but there was a clear, growing uneasiness within him. Somehow he just knew.

Surely if a family invited you for Christmas dinner, the house would be filled with the wonderful

aromas associated with that annual feast. Succulent, roast turkey, honey glazed vegetables,

perhaps the fumes of mold wine or a brandy covered Christmas pudding. But no, all of these were

absent. Yet the table was set. It was a particularly bleak Christmas, and while snow was often

welcome at that festive time of year, the penetrating cold and frost, which seemed to sabotage both

...