A Ghoulish Christmas Eve Fiction By @ChrisK
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    'Twas the night before Christmas. We'd locked up the house.
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    The kids were both sleeping. Not me and my spouse.
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    We barb-wired windows, propped doorknobs with chairs
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    To keep safe from zombies that soon would be there.
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    Shotguns loaded, we waited to see the undead.
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    As soon as we saw one, we'd blow off its head.
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    My wife, in her helmet, was watching my back
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    as I took a turn at a ten minute nap.
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    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
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    I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
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    Away to the window I flew like a flash,
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    Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
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    The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
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    Gave the lustre of mid-day to zombies below.
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    They walked with a gait that was crippled and queer
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    And with every slide-step they drew near. Do you hear?
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    Seems they had a leader: 'twas our north-neighbor Nick.
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    He had no lower jaw. Oh, it made me feel sick.
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    Faster than nine WingΓ©d NazgΓ»l, they came.
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    They frothed and they shouted. They called us by name;
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    "Come, Esmerelda! Come Neville and Chrissy!
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    We'll eat your head last, Charles. Just send out your sissy!
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    To the brains now, my zombies. Bash skulls to the wall,
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    then gnash away! gnash away! gnash away, all!"
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    Like slow-moving slugs, zombies limped, crawled and crept
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    Toward our south-neighbor's house, its roof shingled and steep.
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    So up to the house-top, those zombies, they flew,
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    with dark, gaping mouths, and north-neighbor Nick, too.
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    Then, with a gasp, I spied on that roof
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    That the Johnsons had skylights that weren't zombie-proofed!
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    As I drew in my head, and was glancing around,
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    Through skylights dropped zombies with glass-breaking sounds.
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    I knew how this'd go. They'd eat head, hand and foot,
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    Johnson-Christmas-Eve plans were by zombies made moot.
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    Brain-Eaters had Fred Johnson down on his back;
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    They shattered his skull with a sick-sounding CRACK.
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    His eyes, they popped into their mouths, filled with glee!
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    Gray matter: the ice cream. Fred's nose: the cherry!
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    They gobbled his elbows, his fingers and toes.
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    Do zombies eat buttocks? God only knows.
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    The stumps of Fred's arms were held tight in their teeth,
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    While the kids were surrounded by a walking-dead wreath.
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    Mrs. Johnson's intestines flopped out of her belly,
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    As they slurped out kid brains like bone jars full of jelly.
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    The Johnsons weren't chubby; they'd all had their health,
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    And I wept as I thought this, in spite of myself;
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    The zombies, not full yet, loped off with some heads.
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    Some grim kind of trophies? It filled me with dread!
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    They spoke not a word, but continued their work,
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    Some fought over entrails. Some wandered. Some lurked.
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    The pockets of one zombie's tattered old clothes
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    Were stuffed with a tongue, half a liver, a nose.
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    The zombie boss, Nick, to his horde gave a whistle,
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    And away they all skulked as they gnawed human gristle,
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    But I heard him exclaim, ere he faded from sight,
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    β€œHappy brain-feast to all, and to all a dark night.”
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