{"id":25356,"date":"2025-12-01T10:36:47","date_gmt":"2025-12-01T14:36:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=25356"},"modified":"2025-12-01T10:36:50","modified_gmt":"2025-12-01T14:36:50","slug":"robert-bloch-the-night-before-christmas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/robert-bloch-the-night-before-christmas\/25356\/","title":{"rendered":"Robert Bloch: The Night Before Christmas\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cThe Night Before Christmas\u201d is a short story by Robert Bloch published in 1980 in the anthology Dark Forces. Arnold Brandon, a struggling painter, receives a commission that could boost his career: to paint the portrait of Louise, the elegant wife of Carlos Santiago, an imposing and mysterious Argentine tycoon. From their first meeting, Santiago, with his commanding presence and shady past, provokes in Arnold a mixture of fascination and revulsion. As Arnold progresses with his work and Christmas approaches, the relationships between the three characters become increasingly complex, creating an atmosphere where power, jealousy, and secrets threaten to unleash a tragic storm.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Robert\u00a0Bloch<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Night Before Christmas <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Robert Bloch
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know how it ends. Maybe it ended when I heard the shot from behind the closed door to the living room\u2014or when I ran out and found him lying there. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps the ending came after the police arrived; after the interrogation and explanation and all that lurid publicity in the media. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Possibly the real end was my own breakdown and eventual recovery\u2014if indeed I ever fully recovered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It could be, of course, that something like this never truly ends as long as memory remains. And I remember it all, from the very beginning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything started on an autumn afternoon with Dirk Otjens, at his gallery on La Cienega. We met at the door just as he returned from lunch. Otjens was late; very probably he\u2019d been with one of his wealthy customers and such people seem to favor late luncheons. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBrandon!\u201d he said. \u201cWhere\u2019ve you been? I tried to get hold of you all morning.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry\u2014an appointment\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dirk shook his head impatiently. \u201cYou ought to get yourself an answering service.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

No sense telling him I couldn\u2019t afford one, or that my appointment had been with the unemployment office. Dirk may have known poverty himself at one time, but that was many expensive luncheons ago, and now he moved in a different milieu. The notion of a starving artist turned him off, and letting him picture me in that role was\u2014like hiring an answering service\u2014something I could not now afford. It had been a break for me to be taken on as one of his clients, even though nothing had happened so far. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or had it? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve made a sale?\u201d I tried to sound casual, but my heart was pounding. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. But I think I\u2019ve got you a commission. Ever hear of Carlos Santiago?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t say that I have.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCustomer of mine. In here all the time. He saw that oil you did\u2014you know, the one hanging in the upstairs gallery\u2014and he wants a portrait.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s he like?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dirk shrugged. \u201cForeigner. Heavy accent.\u201d He spoke with all of the disdain of a naturalized American citizen. \u201cSome kind of shipping magnate, I gather. But the money\u2019s there.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow much?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI quoted him twenty-five hundred. Not top dollar, but it\u2019s a start.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Indeed it was. Even allowing for his cut, I\u2019d still clear enough to keep me going. The roadblock had been broken, and somewhere up ahead was the enchanted realm where everybody has an answering service to take messages while they\u2019re out enjoying expensive lunches of their own. Still\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. \u201cMaybe he\u2019s not a good subject for me. A Spanish shipping tycoon doesn\u2019t sound like my line of work. You know I\u2019m not one of those artsy-craftsy temperamental types, but there has to be a certain chemistry between artist and sitter or it just doesn\u2019t come off.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

From Dirk\u2019s scowl I could see that what I was saying didn\u2019t come off, either, but it had to be stated. I am, after all, an artist. I spent nine years learning my craft here and abroad\u2014nine long hard years of self-sacrifice and self-discovery that I didn\u2019t intend to toss away the first time somebody waved a dollar bill in my direction. If that\u2019s all I cared about, I might as well go into mass-production, turning out thirty-five dollar clowns by the gross to sell in open-air shows on supermarket lots. On the other hand\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d have to see him first,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd so you shall.\u201d Dirk nodded. \u201cYou\u2019ve got a three-o\u2019clock appointment at his place.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOffice?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, the house. Up in Trousdale. Here, I wrote down the address for you. Now get going, and good luck.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember driving along Coldwater, then making a right turn onto one of those streets leading into the Trousdale Estates. I remember it very well, because the road ahead climbed steeply along the hillside and I kept wondering if the car would make the grade. The old heap had an inferiority complex and I could imagine how it felt, wheezing its way past the semicircular driveways clogged with shiny new Cadillacs, Lancias, Alfa-Romeos, and the inevitable Rolls. This was a neighborhood in which the Mercedes was the household\u2019s second car. I didn\u2019t much care for it myself, but Dirk was right; the money was here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so was Carlos Santiago. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The car in his driveway was a Ferrari. I parked behind it, hoping no one was watching from the picture window of the sprawling two-story pseudo-palazzo <\/em>towering above the cypress-lined drive. The house was new and the trees were still small, but who was I to pass judgment? The money was here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I rang the bell. Chimes susurrated softly from behind the heavy door; it opened, and a dark-haired, uniformed maid confronted me. \u201cYes, please?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cArnold Brandon. I have an appointment with Mr. Santiago.\u201d She nodded. \u201cThis way. The Se\u00f1or waits for you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I moved from warm afternoon sunlight into the air-conditioned chill of the shadowy hall, following the maid to the arched doorway of the living room at our left. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room, with its high ceiling and recessed fireplace, was larger than I\u2019d expected. And so was my host. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Carlos Santiago called himself a Spaniard; I later learned he\u2019d been born in Argentina and undoubtedly there was Indio blood in his veins. But he reminded me of a native of Crete. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Minotaur. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not literally, of course. Here was no hybrid, no man\u2019s body topped by the head of a bull. The greying curly hair fell over a forehead unadorned by horns, but the heavily lidded eyes, flaring nostrils, and neckless merging of huge head and barrel chest somehow suggested a mingling of the taurine and the human. As an artist, I saw in Santiago the image of the man-bull, the bull-man, the incarnation of macho. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I hated him at first sight. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The truth is, I\u2019ve always feared such men; the big, burly, arrogant men who swagger and bluster and brawl their way through life. I do not trust their kind, for they have always been the enemies of art, the book-burners, smashers of statues, contemptuous of all creation which does not spurt from their own loins. I fear them even more when they don the mask of cordiality for their own purposes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Carlos Santiago was cordial. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He seated me in a huge leather chair, poured drinks, inquired after my welfare, complimented the sample of my work he\u2019d seen at the gallery. But the fear remained, and so did the image of the Minotaur. Welcome to my labyrinth. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I must admit the labyrinth was elaborately and expensively designed and tastefully furnished. All of which only emphasized the discordant note in the d\u00e9cor\u2014the display above the fireplace mantel. The rusty, broad-bladed weapon affixed to the wall and flanked by grainy, poorly framed photographs seemed as out of place in this room as the hulking presence of my host. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He noted my stare, and his chuckle was a bovine rumble. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know what you are thinking, amigo. <\/em>The oh-so-proper interior decorator was shocked when I insisted on placing those objects in such a setting. But I am a man of sentiment, and I am not ashamed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe machete\u2014once it was all I possessed, except for the rags on my back. With it I sweated in the fields for three long years as a common laborer. At the end I still wore the same rags and it was still my only possession. But with the money I had saved I made my first investment \u2014a few tiny shares in a condemned oil tanker, making its last voyage. The success of its final venture proved the beginning of my own. I spare you details; the story is in those photographs. These are the ships I came to acquire over the years, the Santiago fleet. Many of them are old and rusty now, like the machete\u2014like myself, for that matter. But we belong together.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago poured another drink. \u201cBut I bore you, Mr. Brandon. Let us speak now of the portrait.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew what was coming. He would tell me what and how to paint,and insist that I include his ships in the background; perhaps he intended to be shown holding the machete in his hand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was entitled to his pride, but I had mine. God knows I needed the money, but I wasn\u2019t going to paint the Minotaur in any setting. No sense avoiding the issue; I\u2019d have to take the bull by the horns\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLouise!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago turned and rose, smiling as she entered. I stared at the girl\u2014tall, slim, tawny-haired, with flawless features dominated by hazel eyes. The room was radiant with her presence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAllow me to present my wife.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Both of us must have spoken, acknowledging the introduction, but I can\u2019t recall what we said. All I remember is that my mouth was dry, my words meaningless. It was Santiago\u2019s words that were important. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou will paint her portrait,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the beginning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sittings were arranged for in the den just beyond the living room; north light made afternoon sessions ideal. Three times a week I came\u2014first to sketch, then to fill in the background. Reversing the usual procedure, I reserved work on the actual portraiture until all of the other elements were resolved and completed. I wanted her flesh tones to subtly reflect the coloration of setting and costume. Only then would I concentrate on pose and expression, capturing the essence. But how to capture the sound of the soft voice, the elusive scent of perfume, the unconscious grace of movement, the totality of her sensual impact? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I must concede that Santiago, to his credit, proved cooperative. He never intruded upon the sittings, nor inquired as to their progress. I\u2019d stipulated that neither he nor my subject inspect the work before completion; the canvas was covered during my absence. He did not disturb me with questions, and after the second week he flew off to the Middle East on business, loading tankers for a voyage. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

While he poured oil across troubled waters, Louise and I were alone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were, of course, on a first-name basis now. And during our sessions we talked. She <\/em>talked, rather; I concentrated on my work. But in order to raise portraiture beyond mere representationalism the artist must come to know his subject, and so I encouraged such conversation in order to listen and learn. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inevitably, under such circumstances, a certain confidential relationship evolves. The exchange, if tape-recorded, might very well be mistaken for words spoken in psychiatric therapy or uttered within the confines of the confessional booth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But what Louise said was not recorded. And while I was an artist, exulting in the realization that I was working to the fullest extent of my powers, I was neither psychiatrist nor priest. I listened, but did not judge. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

What I heard was ordinary enough. She was not Mar\u00eda Cayetano, Duchess of Alba, any more than I was Francisco Jos\u00e9 de Goya y Lucientes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d already guessed something of her background, and my surmise proved correct. Hers was the usual story of the unusually attractive girl from a poor family. Cinderella at the high-school prom, graduating at the stroke of midnight to find herself right back in the kitchen. Then the frantic effort to escape\u2014runner-up in a beauty contest, failed fashion model, actress ambitions discouraged by the cattle-calls where she found herself to be merely one of a dozen duplicates. Of course there were many who volunteered their help as agents, business managers, or outright pimps; all of them expected servicing for their services. To her credit, Louise was too street-smart to comply. She still had hopes of finding her Prince. Instead, she met the Minotaur. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

One night she was escorted to an affair where she could meet \u201cimportant people.\u201d One of them proved to be Carlos Santiago, and before the evening ended he\u2019d made his intentions clear. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise had the sense to reject the obvious, and when he attempted to force the issue she raked his face with her nails. Apparently the impression she made was more than merely physical, and next day the flowers began to arrive. Once he progressed to earrings and bracelets, the ring was not far behind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So Cinderella married the Minotaur, only to find life in the labyrinth not to her liking. The bull, it seemed, did a great deal of bellowing, but in truth he was merely a steer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

All this, and a great deal more, gradually came out during our sessions together. And led, of course, to the expected conclusion. I put horns on the bull. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Justification? These things aren\u2019t a question of morality. In any case, Louise had no scruples. She\u2019d sold herself to the highest bidder and it proved a bad bargain; I neither condemned nor condoned her. Cinderella had wanted out of the kitchen and took the obvious steps to escape. She lacked the intellectual equipment to find another route, and in our society\u2014despite the earnest disclaimers of Women\u2019s Lib\u2014Beauty usually ends up with the Beast. Sometimes it\u2019s a young Beast with nothing to offer but a state of perpetual rut; more often it\u2019s an aging Beast who provides status and security in return for occasional coupling. But even that had been denied Louise; her Beast was an old bull whose pawings and snortings she could no longer endure. Meeting me had intensified natural need; it was lust at first sight. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As for me, I soon realized that behind the flawless fa\u00e7ade of face and form there was only a vain and greedy child. She\u2019d created Cinderella out of costume and coiffure and cosmetics; I\u2019d perpetuated the pretense in pigment. It was not Cinderella who writhed and panted in my arms. But knowing this, knowing the truth, didn\u2019t help me. I loved the scullery-maid. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Time was short, and we didn\u2019t waste it in idle declarations or decisions about the future. Afternoons prolonged into evenings and we welcomed each night, celebrating its concealing presence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harsh daylight followed quickly enough. It was on December eighteenth, just a week before Christmas, that Carlos Santiago returned. And on the following afternoon Louise and I met for a final sitting in the sunlit den. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She watched very quietly as I applied last-minute touches to the portrait\u2014a few highlights in the burnished halo of hair, a softening of feral fire in the emerald-flecked hazel eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlmost done?\u201d she murmured. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlmost.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen it\u2019s over.\u201d Her pose remained rigid but her voice trembled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I glanced quickly toward the doorway, my voice softening to a guarded whisper. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes he know?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course not.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe maid\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou always left after a sitting. She never suspected that you came back after she was gone for the night.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen we\u2019re safe.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that all you have to say?\u201d Her voice began to rise and I gestured quickly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease\u2014lower your head just a trifle\u2014there, that\u2019s it\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I put down my brush and stepped back. Louise glanced up at me. \u201cCan I look now?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She rose, moved to stand beside me. For a long moment she stared without speaking, her eyes troubled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d I said. \u201cDon\u2019t you like it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh yes\u2014it\u2019s wonderful\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen why so sad?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause it\u2019s finished.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll things come to an end,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMust they?\u201d she murmured. \u201cMust they?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Brandon is right.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Carlos Santiago stood in the doorway, nodding. \u201cIt has been finished for some time now,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I blinked. \u201cHow do you know?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is the business of every man to know what goes on in his own house.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou mean you looked at the portrait?\u201d Louise frowned. \u201cBut you gave Mr. Brandon your word\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy apologies.\u201d Santiago smiled at me. \u201cI could not rest until I satisfied myself as to just what you were doing.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I forced myself to return his smile. \u201cYou are satisfied now?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQuite.\u201d He glanced at the portrait. \u201cA magnificent achievement. You seem to have captured my wife in her happiest mood. I wish it were within my power to bring such a smile to her face.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Was there mockery in his voice, or just the echo of my own guilt? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe portrait can\u2019t be touched for several weeks now,\u201d I said. \u201cThe paint must dry. Then I\u2019ll varnish it and we can select the proper frame.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d said Santiago. \u201cBut first things first.\u201d He produced a check from his pocket and handed it to me. \u201cHere you are. Paid in full.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s very thoughtful of you\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou will find me a thoughtful man.\u201d He turned as the maid entered, carrying a tray which held a brandy decanter and globular glasses. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She set it down and withdrew. Santiago poured three drinks. \u201cAs you see, I anticipated this moment.\u201d He extended glasses to Louise and myself, then raised his own. \u201cA toast to you, Mr. Brandon. I appreciate your great talent, and your even greater wisdom.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWisdom?\u201d Louise gave him a puzzled glance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly.\u201d He nodded. \u201cI have no schooling in art, but I do know that a project such as this can be dangerous.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t understand.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere is always the temptation to go on, to overdo. But Mr. Brandon knows when to stop. He has demonstrated, shall we say, the artistic conscience. Let us drink to his decision.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago sipped his brandy. Louise took a token swallow and I followed suit. Again I wondered how much he knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou do not know just what this moment means to me,\u201d he said. \u201cTo stand here in this house, with this portrait of the one I love\u2014it is the dream of a poor boy come true.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you weren\u2019t always poor,\u201d Louise said. \u201cYou told me yourself that your father was a wealthy man.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo he was.\u201d Santiago paused to drink again. \u201cI passed my childhood in luxury; I lacked for nothing until my father died. But then my older brother inherited the estancia <\/em>and I left home to make my own way in the world. Perhaps it is just as well, for there is much in the past which does not bear looking into. But I have heard stories.\u201d He smiled at me. \u201cThere is one in particular which may interest you,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSeveral years after I left, my brother\u2019s wife died in childbirth. Naturally he married again, but no one anticipated his choice. A nobody, a girl without breeding or background, but one imagines her youth and beauty enticed him.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Did his sidelong glance at Louise hold a meaning or was that just my imagination? Now his eyes were fixed on me again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnlike his first wife, his new bride did not conceive, and it troubled him. To make certain he was not at fault, during this period he fathered several children by various serving-maids at the estancia. <\/em>But my brother did not reproach his wife for her defects; instead he summoned a physician. His examination was inconclusive, but during its course he made another discovery\u2014my brother\u2019s wife had the symptoms of an obscure eye condition, a malady which might some day bring blindness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe physician advised immediate surgery, but she was afraid the operation itself could blind her. So great was this fear that she made my brother swear a solemn oath upon the Blessed Virgin that, no matter what happened, no one would be allowed to touch her eyes.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPoor woman!\u201d Louise repressed a shudder. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNaturally, after learning of her condition, my brother abstained from the further exercise of his conjugal rights. According to the physician it was still possible she might conceive, and if so perhaps her malady might be transmitted to the child. Since my brother had no wish to bring suffering into the world he turned elsewhere for his pleasures. Never once did he complain of the inconvenience she caused him in this regard. His was the patience of a saint. One would expect her to be grateful for his thoughtfulness, but it is the nature of women to lack true understanding.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago took another swallow of his drink. \u201cTo his horror, my brother discovered that his wife had taken a lover. A young boy who worked as a gardener at the estancia. <\/em>The betrayal took place while he was away; he now spent much time in Buenos Aires, where he had business affairs and the consolation of a sympathetic and understanding mistress. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen the scandal was reported to him he at first refused to believe, but within weeks the evidence was unmistakable. His wife was pregnant.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe divorced her?\u201d Louise murmured. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago shrugged. \u201cImpossible. My brother was a religious man. But there was a need to deal with the gossip, the sly winks, the laughter behind his back. His reputation, his very honor, was at stake.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took advantage of his pause to jump in. \u201cLet me finish the story for you,\u201d I said. \u201c Knowing his wife\u2019s fear of blindness, he insisted on the operation and bribed the surgeon to destroy her eyesight.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago shook his head. \u201cYou forgot\u2014he had sworn to the pobrecita <\/em>that her eyes would not be touched.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did he do?\u201d Louise said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe sewed up her eyelids.\u201d Santiago nodded. \u201cNever once did he touch the eyes themselves. He sewed her eyelids shut with catgut and banished her to a guesthouse with a servingwoman to attend her every need.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHorrible!\u201d Louise whispered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am sure she suffered,\u201d Santiago said. \u201cBut mercifully, not for long. One night a fire broke out in the bedroom of the guesthouse while the servingwoman was away. No one knows how it started\u2014perhaps my brother\u2019s wife knocked over a candle. Unfortunately the door was locked and the servingwoman had the only key. A great tragedy.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I couldn\u2019t look at Louise, but I had to face him. \u201cAnd her lover?\u201d I asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe ran for his life, into the pampas. It was there that my brother tracked him down with the dogs and administered a suitable punishment.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat sort of punishment would that be?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago raised his glass. \u201cThe young man was stripped and tied to a tree. His genitals were smeared with wild honey. You have heard of the fire ants, amigo? <\/em>They swarmed in this area\u2014and they will devour anything which bears even the scent of honey.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise made a strangled sound in her throat, then turned and ran from the room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago gulped the rest of his drink. \u201cIt would seem I have upset her,\u201d he said. \u201cThis was not my intention\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust what was your intention?\u201d I met the bull-man\u2019s gaze. \u201cYour story doesn\u2019t upset me. This is not the jungle. And you are not your brother.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago smiled. \u201cI have no brother,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drove through dusk. Lights winked on along Hollywood Boulevard from the Christmas decorations festooning lampposts and arching overhead. Glare and glow could not completely conceal the shabbiness of sleazy storefronts or blot out the shadows moving past them. Twilight beckoned those shadows from their hiding places; no holiday halted the perpetual parade of pimps and pushers, chickenhawks and hookers, winos and heads. Christmas was coming, but the blaring of tape-deck carols held little promise for such as these, and none for me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stonewalling it with Santiago had settled nothing. The truth was that I\u2019d made a little token gesture of defiance, then ran off to let Louise face the music. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It hadn\u2019t been a pretty tune he\u2019d played for the two of us, and now that she was alone with him he\u2019d be free to orchestrate his fury. Was he really suspicious? How much did he actually know? And what would he do? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment I was prompted to turn and go back. But what then? Would I hold Santiago at bay with a tire iron while Louise packed her things? Suppose she didn\u2019t want to leave with me? Did I really love her enough to force the issue? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept to my course but the questions pursued me as I headed home. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The phone was ringing as I entered the apartment. My hand wasn\u2019t steady as I lifted the receiver and my voice wasn\u2019t steady either. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDarling, I\u2019ve been trying to reach you\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing\u2019s the matter. He\u2019s gone.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGone?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease\u2014I\u2019ll tell you all about it when I see you. But hurry\u2014\u201d I hurried. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And after I parked my car in the empty driveway, after we\u2019d clung to one another in the darkened hall, after we settled on the sofa before the fireplace, Louise dropped her bombshell. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m getting a divorce,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDivorce\u2026?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen you left he came to my room. He said he wanted to apologize for upsetting me, but that wasn\u2019t the real reason. What he really wanted to do was tell me how he\u2019d scared you off with that story he\u2019d made up.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you believed him?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course not, darling! I told him he was a liar. I told him you had nothing to be afraid of, and he had no right to humiliate me. I said I was fed up listening to his sick raving, and I was moving out. That wiped the grin off his face in a hurry. You should have seen him\u2014he looked like he\u2019d been hit with a club!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t say anything, because I hadn\u2019t seen him. But I was seeing Louise now. Not the ethereal Cinderella of the portrait, and not the scullery-maid\u2014this was another woman entirely; hot-eyed, harsh-voiced, implacable in her fury. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Santiago must have seen as much, and more. He blustered, he protested, but in the end he pleaded. And when he tried to embrace her, things came full circle again. Once more she raked his face with her nails, but this time in final farewell. And it was he who left, stunned and shaken, without even stopping to pack a bag. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe actually agreed to a divorce?\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise shrugged. \u201cOh, he told me he was going to fight it, but that\u2019s just talk. I warned him that if he tried to stop me in court I\u2019d let it all hang out\u2014the jealousy, the drinking, everything. I\u2019d even testify about how he couldn\u2019t get it up.\u201d She laughed. \u201cDon\u2019t worry, I know Carlos. That\u2019s one kind of publicity he\u2019d do anything to avoid.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere is he now?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know and I don\u2019t care.\u201d The hot eyes blazed, the harsh voice sounded huskily in my ear. \u201cYou\u2019re here,\u201d she whispered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And as her mouth met mine, I felt the fury. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I left before the maid arrived in the morning, just as I\u2019d always done, even though Louise wanted me to stay. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you understand?\u201d I said. \u201cIf you want an uncontested divorce, you can\u2019t afford to have me here.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dirk Otjens recommended an attorney named Bernie Prager; she went to him and he agreed. He warned Louise not to be seen privately or in public with another man unless there was a third party present. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise reported to me by phone. \u201cI don\u2019t think I can stand it, darling \u2014not seeing you\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you still have the maid?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJosefina? She comes in every day, as usual.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen so can I. As long as she\u2019s there we have no problem. I\u2019ll justshow up to put a few more finishing touches on the portrait in the afternoons.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd in the evenings\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s when we can blow the whole deal,\u201d I said. \u201cSantiago has probably hired somebody to check on you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo way.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow can you be sure?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrager\u2019s nobody\u2019s fool. He\u2019s used to handling messy divorce cases and he knows it\u2019s money in his pocket if he gets a good settlement.\u201d Louise laughed. \u201cTurns out he\u2019s got private investigators on his own payroll. So Carlos is the one being tailed.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere is your husband?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe moved into the Sepulveda Athletic Club last night, went to his office today\u2014business as usual.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuppose he hired a private eye by phone?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe office lines and the one in his room are already bugged. I told you, Prager\u2019s nobody\u2019s fool.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSounds like an expensive operation.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho cares? Darling, don\u2019t you understand? Carlos has money coming out of his ears. And we\u2019re going to squeeze out more. When this is over, I\u2019ll be set for life. We\u2019ll both be set for life.\u201d She laughed again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t share her amusement. Granted, Carlos Santiago wasn\u2019t exactly Mr. Nice. Maybe he deserved to be cuckolded, deserved to lose Louise. But was she really justified in taking him for a bundle under false pretenses? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And was I any better if I stood still for it? I thought about what would happen after the divorce settlement was made. No more painting, no more hustling for commissions. I could see myself with Louise, sharing the sweet life, the big house, big cars, travel, leisure, luxuries. And yet, as I sketched a mental portrait of my future, my artist\u2019s eye noted a shadow. The shadow of one of those pimps prowling Hollywood Boulevard. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t a pretty picture. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when I arrived in the afternoon sunshine of Louise\u2019s living room, the shadow vanished in the glow of her gaiety. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWonderful news, darling!\u201d she greeted me. \u201cCarlos is gone.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou already told me\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shook her head. \u201cI mean really gone,\u201d she said. \u201cPrager\u2019s people just came through with a report. He phoned in for reservations on the noon flight to New Orleans. One of his tankers is arriving there and he\u2019s going to supervise unloading operations. He won\u2019t be back until after the holidays.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you absolutely sure?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrager sent a man to LAX. He saw Carlos take off. And all his calls are being referred to the company office in New Orleans.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hugged me. \u201cIsn\u2019t that marvelous? Now we can spend Christmas together.\u201d Her eyes and voice softened. \u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019ve missed the most. A real old-fashioned Christmas, with a tree and everything.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut didn\u2019t you and Carlos\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise shook her head. \u201cSomething always came up at the last minute\u2014like this New Orleans trip. If we hadn\u2019t split, I\u2019d be on that plane with him right now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you ever celebrate Christmas in Kuwait? That\u2019s where we were last year, eating lamb curry with some greasy port official. Carlos promised, no more holiday business trips, this year we\u2019d stay home and have a regular Christmas together. You see how he kept his word.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBe reasonable,\u201d I said. \u201cUnder the circumstances what do you expect?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEven if this hadn\u2019t happened, it wouldn\u2019t change anything.\u201d Once again her eyes smoldered and her voice harshened. \u201cHe\u2019d still go and drag me with him, just to show off in front of his business friends. \u2018Look what I\u2019ve got\u2014hot stuff, isn\u2019t she? See how I dress her, cover her with fancy jewelry?\u2019 Oh yes, nothing\u2019s too good for Carlos Santiago\u2014he always buys the best!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly the hot eyes brimmed and the strident voice dissolved into a soft sobbing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held her very close. \u201cCome on,\u201d I said. \u201cFix your face and get your things.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShopping. For ornaments\u2014and the biggest damned Christmas tree in town.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you\u2019ve ever gone Christmas shopping with a child, perhaps you can understand what the next few days were like. We picked up our ornaments in the big stores along Wilshire; like Hollywood Boulevard, this street too was alive with holiday decorations and the sound of Yuletide carols. But there was nothing tawdry behind the tinsel, nothing mechanical about the music, no shadows to blur the sparkle in Louise\u2019s eyes. To her this make-believe was reality; each day she became a kid again, eager and expectant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nights found her eager and expectant too, but no longer a child. The contrast was exciting, and each mood held its special treasures. All but one. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It came upon her late in the afternoon of the twenty-third, when the tree arrived. The deliveryman set it up on a stand in the den and after he left we gazed at it together in the gathering twilight. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

All at once she was shivering in my arms. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d I murmured. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. Something\u2019s wrong\u2014it feels like there\u2019s someone watching us.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d I gestured toward the easel in the corner. \u201cIt\u2019s your portrait.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, not that.\u201d She glanced up at me. \u201cDarling, I\u2019m scared. Suppose Carlos comes back?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI phoned Prager an hour ago. He has transcripts of all your husband\u2019s calls up until noon today. Carlos phoned his secretary from New Orleans and said he\u2019ll be there through the twenty-seventh.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuppose he comes back without notifying the office?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf he does he\u2019ll be spotted\u2014Prager\u2019s keeping the airport staked out, just in case.\u201d I kissed her. \u201cNow stop worrying. There\u2019s no sense being paranoid\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cParanoid.\u201d I could feel her shivering again. \u201cCarlos is the one who\u2019s paranoid. Remember that horrible story he told us\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut it was only a story. He has no brother.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think it\u2019s true. He <\/em>did those things.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what he wanted us to think. It was a bluff, and it didn\u2019t work. And we\u2019re not going to let him spoil our holiday.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right.\u201d Louise nodded, brightening. \u201cWhen do we decorate the tree?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cChristmas Eve,\u201d I said. \u201cTomorrow night.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

**** <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was late the following morning when I left\u2014almost noon\u2014and already Josefina was getting ready to depart. She had some last-minute shopping to do, she said, for her family. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so did I. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen will you be back?\u201d Louise asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA few hours.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake me with you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t\u2014it\u2019s a surprise.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPromise you\u2019ll hurry then, darling.\u201d Her eyes were radiant. \u201cI can\u2019t wait to trim the tree.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll make it as soon as possible.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But \u201csoon\u201d is a relative term and\u2014when applied to parking and shopping on the day before Christmas\u2014an unrealistic one. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew exactly what I was looking for, but it was close to closing-time in the little custom-jewelry place where I finally found it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d never bought an engagement ring before and didn\u2019t know if Louise would approve of my choice. The stone was marquise-cut but it looked tiny and insignificant in comparison with the diamonds Santiago had given her. Still, people are always saying it\u2019s the sentiment that counts. I hoped she\u2019d feel that way. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I stepped out onto the street again it was already ablaze with lights and the sky above had dimmed from dusk to darkness. On the way to my car I found a phone booth and put in a call to Prager\u2019s office. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no answer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I might have anticipated his office would be closed\u2014if there\u2019d been a party, it was over now. Perhaps I could reach him at home after I got back to the house. On the other hand, why bother? If there\u2019d been anything to report he\u2019d have phoned Louise immediately. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real problem right now was fighting my way back to the parking lot, jockeying the car out into the street, and then enduring the start-stop torture of the traffic. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Celestial choirs sounded from the speaker system overhead. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSilent night, holy night, 
All is calm, all is bright\u2014\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The honking of horns shattered silence with an unholy din; none of my fellow drivers were calm and I doubted if they were bright. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But eventually I battled my way onto Beverly Drive, crawling toward Coldwater Canyon. Here traffic was once again bumper-to-bumper; the hands of my watch inched to seven-thirty. I should have called Louise from that phone booth while I was at it and told her not to worry. Too late now; no public phones in this residential area. Besides, I\u2019d be home soon. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I edged into the turnoff which led up through the hillside, the word echoed strangely. This was my home now, or soon would be. Our <\/em>home, that is. Our home, our cars, our money, Louise\u2019s and mine\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nothing is yours. It\u2019s his home, his money, his wife. You\u2019re a thief. Stealing his honor, his very life\u2014 <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shook my head. Crazy. That\u2019s the way Santiago would talk. He\u2019s the crazy one. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought about the expression on the bull-man\u2019s face as he\u2019d told me the story of his brother\u2019s betrayal and revenge. Was he really talking about himself? If so, he had to be insane. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And even if it was just a fantasy, its twisted logic only emphasized a madman\u2019s cunning. Swearing not to blind a woman by touching her eyes, and then sewing her eyelids shut\u2014a mind capable of such invention was capable of anything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly my foot was flooring the gas pedal; the car leaped forward, careening around the rising curves. I wrenched at the wheel with hands streaked by sweat, hurtling up the hillside past the big homes with their outdoor decorations and the tree-lights winking from the windows. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were no lights at all in the house at the crest of the hill\u2014but when I saw the Ferrari parked in the driveway, I knew. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I jammed to a stop behind it and ran to the front door. Louise had given me a duplicate house key and I twisted it in the lock with a shaking hand. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The door swung open on darkness. I moved down the hall toward the archway at my left. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLouise!\u201d I called. \u201cLouise\u2014where are you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or almost silence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I entered the living room I heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from the direction of the big chair near the fireplace. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My hand moved to the light switch. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t turn it on.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The voice was slurred, but I recognized it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSantiago\u2014what are you doing here?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWaiting for you, amigo.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I thought\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat I was gone? So did Louise.\u201d A chuckle rasped through the darkness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took a step forward, and now I could smell the reek of liquor as the slurred whisper sounded again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see, I know about the bugging of the phones and the surveillance. So when I returned this morning I took a different route, with a connecting flight from Denver. No one at the airport would be watching arrivals from that city. I meant to surprise Louise\u2014but it was she who surprised me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen did you get here?\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfter the maid had left. Our privacy was not interrupted.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did Louise tell you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe truth, amigo. <\/em>Ihad suspected, of course, but I could not be sure until she admitted it. No matter, for our differences are resolved.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere is Louise? Tell me\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course. I will be frank with you, as she was with me. She told me everything\u2014how much she loved you, what you planned to do together, even her foolish wish to decorate the tree in the den. Her pleading would have melted a heart of stone, amigo. <\/em>I found it impossible to resist.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you\u2019ve harmed her\u2014\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI granted her wish. She is in the den now.\u201d Santiago chuckled again, his voice trailing off into a spasm of coughing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I was already groping my way to the door of the den, flinging it open. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The light from the tree-bulbs was dim, barely enough for me to avoid stumbling over the machete on the floor. Quickly I looked up at the easel in the corner, half-expecting to see the painting slashed. But Louise\u2019s portrait was untouched. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I forced myself to gaze down at the floor again, dreading what I might see, then breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing on the floor but the machete. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stooping, I picked it up, and now I noticed the stains on the rusty blade\u2014the red stains slowly oozing in tiny droplets to the floor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment I fancied I could actually hear them fall, then realized they were too minute and too few to account for the steady dripping sound that came from\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was then that Santiago must have shot himself in the other room, but it was not the sudden sound which prompted my scream. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stared at the Christmas tree, at the twinkling lights twining gaily across its huge boughs, and at the oddly shaped ornaments draped and affixed to its spiky branches. Stared, and screamed, because the madman had told the truth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Louise was decorating the Christmas tree. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe Night Before Christmas\u201d is a short story by Robert Bloch published in 1980 in the anthology Dark Forces. Arnold Brandon, a struggling painter, receives a commission that could boost his career: to paint the portrait of Louise, the elegant wife of Carlos Santiago, an imposing and mysterious Argentine tycoon. From their first meeting, Santiago, with his commanding presence and shady past, provokes in Arnold a mixture of fascination and revulsion. As Arnold progresses with his work and Christmas approaches, the relationships between the three characters become increasingly complex, creating an atmosphere where power, jealousy, and secrets threaten to unleash a tragic storm.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":17579,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[581,591,630,935,570],"class_list":["post-25356","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-christmas","tag-crime","tag-realism","tag-robert-bloch-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":581,"label":"Christmas"},{"value":591,"label":"Crime"},{"value":630,"label":"Realism"},{"value":935,"label":"Robert Bloch"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/12\/Robert-Bloch-Nochebuena.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":581,"name":"Christmas","slug":"christmas","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":581,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":17,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":591,"name":"Crime","slug":"crime","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":591,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":8,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":630,"name":"Realism","slug":"realism","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":630,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":52,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":935,"name":"Robert Bloch","slug":"robert-bloch-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":935,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":3,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25356","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25356"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25356\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17579"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25356"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=25356"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=25356"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}