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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.

November, 1866, Winthrop Falls, Massachusetts.

As the door slowly creaked open, the drawn grief-stricken face of Alice McClure was revealed

from within the home's dark interior.

Shame swelled into a solid lump in Henry Winthrop's chest, which then rose to his throat

as he tried to speak.

Finally managing to stammer a few words of condolences

to Rebecca's mother, Alice quietly expressed her thanks

and opened the door wide to make room for Henry to enter.

Stepping over the threshold, Henry was enveloped into the dense shadows of the somber room.

Blinking his eyes until they adjusted to the darkness, Henry's attention was instantly

drawn to a mirror above the fireplace, which had been covered in a heavy black velvet.

The mere sight of the mirror started his heart racing and sweat to bead along his hairline.

Henry followed Alice to the kitchen table where she offered him refreshments and then poured him a generous glass of whiskey.

Drink it down lad. It's what we do at a Scottish like wake Alice explained.

Needing little persuasion Henry gulped the whiskey down in just a couple of swigs.

The welcome liquid heat filled his body like a numbing salve. Giving him a pat on the arm, Alice asked Henry to follow her upstairs.

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