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You're listening to a morbid network podcast. Listen as I launch a campaign against Christmas cheer, grilling celebrity guests, like chestnuts on an open fire.

They'll try to get my heart to grow a few sizes, but it's not going to work, honey.

Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Talk Show on the Wundria

or wherever you get your podcasts.

October 31st, 1866, Winthrop Falls, Massachusetts.

Rebecca McClure stood trembling at the top of the cellar stairs.

Her breath curdled thick in her throat, like a congealed lump of sour milk.

Swallowing hard, she cautiously peered down to the bottom of the cellar.

Where her eyes were met with a black impenetrable mass of darkness pulling beneath her.

All at once her satin evening slippers grew slick with a cold damp sweat.

Rebecca turned backwards. with a cold damp sweat.

Rebecca turned backwards so that the creaky wooden steps descended behind her. Looking up through the doorway, she saw their silent mocking faces staring back for just a moment

before they firmly but gently closed the door.

Leaving her alone in near darkness, save for the unsteady lights of the flickering candle she held in her hand.

Rebecca raised the brass-handled looking glass she held up to her face,

but the reflection gazing back was strangely distorted, made

unrecognizable by the play of shadow and light in the wavering flame of her candle.

Carefully, Rebecca took her first step. of her

first step down the stairs backwards as she began to whisper an incantation into the mirror

she took another step and then another.

...