Christmas Snake by William James Johnson

Many years ago, when I was a teenager, and knew almost everything, I experienced a strange encounter. It happened a few weeks before Christmas Eve, on an unusually heavy snow stormy night. My three friends and I were trucking through the deep drifts, on our way home after a choir practise for midnight Mass, when we saw the dark outline of a small cottage, a couple hundred feet back from the road, almost lost behind the broken wire fence, packed with snow.

We stopped and studied closely the mysterious shape that appeared to be barely able to keep its roof line above the drift which was rising along the north wall. The porch railings disappeared into the blowing whiteness. A dim light through the torn green window blinds was a sign there was still life in the shell of a house.

"Who do you think lives there?" asked Carol, my at-that-time girlfriend.

"I've heard that there is a weird witch, who uses herbs for healing. I'm not sure, and I don't think anyone knows for sure."

"My dad told us once to keep away from there. He said that her son was the guy who did the slasher murders."

"I remember that. Isn't he the guy who was going to kill all the queers he could, because he had been attacked by one when he was a kid. Didn't they lock him up in the nut house," commented Terry.

"Maybe we should take off", said Marie. "There's no way we are going to find out anything ourselves."

"We could always knock on the door, and ask them."

"Are you out of your mind."

"So what can happen? There's four of us. You guys wait here and I'll go and see what I can find out."

They waited outside the fence as I trudged towards the front porch. I was thinking about how I could approach. I knocked and waited. As the door squeeked open, I saw my friends running away, leaving me alone.

"How do you do sir. Is Mr. Kelly home?"

"There ain't no Kelly. I'm Sullivan. Joe Sullivan, and we've lived here since there were no houses between here and Sacred Heart Church. But I'm sorry there ain't no Kelly."

Joe Sullivan was a short, wiry man in his early 80s, dressed in long johns, covered with paint spattered overalls. His reddish Irish face had deep laugh lines, framing his bluish blod shot eyes. I had no fear of him. In fact he made me feel welcome from the sound of his Irish accent.

"Come in young fellow. Kinda miserable night to be looking for your friend Kelly."

It was then I realized that all the walls of this small cabin had been covered with old newspapers pasted in layers to keep out the drafts. But even more than that, were numerous primitive paintings of bizarre scenes, displayed on all the walls.

"My gawd! Who did these wonderful paintings?"

"What is your name son?"

"My friends call me wild Bill, but just Bill is enough."

"I spent most of my life on ships in the Merchant Marine. That's why there is so many different pictures. Do you know, I make my own brushes out of my collie dog's tail. I love painting."

"I do too Joe. But I have never seen such a wide collection of subjects."

"Many of these I have done from memory."

"You are incredible. I'm so glad I knocked on your door Joe."

"You weren't really looking for a Kelly now were you?"

"Sorry about that. I was just being nosey."

"That's what I figured. Now take a closer look at me pictures and tell me which one you like the most."

"Thats it Joe. The one with the snake eating the black native."

"Good choice. I actually saw that happen in South Africa during the Boer war. You've got good taste wild Bill." With that, he took the painting down and gave it to me. "Here you are lad. This way I know you'll always remember me."

"Oh I couldn't take your favorite picture Joe."

"Please take it and show it to all your friends. It's a Christmas present. You can tell them it is your Christmas Snake."