Welcome to a Tremorphonic Christmas special. Today's horror story, Satan's Claws, is a Christmas themed horror story. As always, it was written as a project of passion and is free to listen to. Please visit Tremorphonic.com, follow our @Tremorphonic social media and podcast accounts, and share our posts and stories to a wider audience. This is Satan's Claws. It's often been wondered why the small Yorkshire village of Penningham has
suffered such high rates of infant mortality. Over the course of history many have put it down to something in the water or something in the soil of the surrounding hills that has affected the babies themselves or in some way influenced the mothers to be neglectful. In more recent years the blame has moved on to 'those damned phone masts' and their 'deadly signals.'
However, these theories have been widely disproven. The neighboring communities, whose water is supplied from the same reservoir, have no similar issues of sudden infant death syndrome, and the nearest phone mast is in fact in one of the unaffected neighboring villages. Strange too is the frequency with which buildings of law and order suffer fire damage in Penningham.
In the last hundred years alone the town has seen three magistrates' courts and five police stations burned to the ground with fire departments helpless to stop the blaze. But nobody is willing to believe the history of the place, a story from around 1500 years ago which many have dismissed as a corrupted fairy tale. But the reason so many fairy tales tend to be so dark is to act as warnings to future generations to remind them of life lessons learned long ago, which still apply today.
Many of the stories are just that, fables of fanciful adventures but some... some are true. In the first half of the first millennium the village of Penningham (then named Poena-Inga-Ham)
a prime location near the river on a fertile valley floor where crops would grow. At the time its status was more than the village is today. It was the local market town, a central point for trade for the whole valley. As a result the town grew and grew, the residents spent their plentiful income frivolously, that was until one year the crops were affected by disease.
A disease that grew worse the next year and began to drive away the visiting trade leaving many of the townsfolk with nothing; no money, no food, and no way to make a living. Upon the hill behind the village next to a vast willow tree sat a rundown shack. Rumors in the town spoke of the old miser that used to live there who never showed his face and never spent a penny on local trade. He was said to have died 20 years ago, alone, and his property
had been left to rot by his estranged family. Part of this was true - the owner of the house had indeed been a lonely hermit, estranged from his family, who saved every penny he could and spent very little. He was hoping to move his life to a larger town where he could make a fresh start, however, he had not died. He had simply lived within his means, farming crops and chickens in his secluded garden. He had no desire to be around people.
Once per week, on market day, he ventured into town to sell his excess produce, but nobody knew him. Everyone assumed he was just another traveling salesman from a neighboring settlement. But when he heard of the town's struggle with disease and poverty he realized that his frivolous saving could be their salvation.
From his humble sales of his own produce he had saved more than enough money to make his move away from the town, but had grown a distaste for human company and had decided to stay put in Penningham. The hermit had amassed a sack full of gold coins, a sack so heavy it had to be supported on his back, and it was this sack that he hoped to use to save the village from famine. With just one gold coin a family could travel to a neighboring valley's market and stock themselves
with food to last a winter. The hermit, though, wished to remain unknown. The last thing he wanted was people knocking down his door in hope of more handouts, so he devised a plan. On Christmas Eve he would dress in green, paint his face in mud and wind ivy around his body - his plan was to blend in
with every bush and tree he passed so nobody would spot him. He would take his sack and creep to each house where he'd climbed the thatch upon their roof to the one space he could deliver a gift from - the chimney, or hole that let the fire's smoke escape the dwelling. From there he would drop each family a single gold coin into their fireplace to be found upon the embers in the morning.
And so, when Christmas Eve came, he enacted his plan, creeping unnoticed from rooftop to rooftop, sharing his wealth with his community. When he reached the town square, where rooftops were tiled, his disguise served him less well. Indeed, the tiles gave no purchase or handhold, and were slippery underfoot. One tile was loose and slid from under him, but while he caught himself from falling he had no way to stop the tile. The Roman
road below was cobbled and the tile shattered upon impact. A nearby night-watchman startled and turned. As he realized what had shattered he looked up to see a dark green suspicious figure upon the roof of the home of one of the wealthiest families in the town. Immediately he cried out 'Thief!' The watchmen turned and stumbled on the cobbles as he ran towards the town's assembly bell in the middle of the town square. 'Thief!' he shouted again as curtains began to
twitch and lanterns began to alight in the surrounding windows. The hermit froze. This was the opposite of his intention but how would he convince the people of his altruistic intent? He just wanted to give. His instinct kicked in and he began to run back across the rooftops as he heard the Bell start ringing behind him. As he jumped from tile to thatch he lost his footing and slid down to where the sloping roof met the ground, but now he was in the street. His sack of
coins... where was it now? He looked up to see its shadow upon the tiled roof he'd slipped upon, there was no fetching it now, that would have to wait. So he turned to run when... thud. All went black. All went silent. The hermit soon came round but when he did he could hear clamoring shouts from the townsfolk. His limbs were tied and a bag covered his head, so while he could not see the faces of
his accusers he could hear every dirty word they called him. The townsfolk were accusing him of trying to steal Christmas, taking from the families who already suffered with little to no possessions. When finally the sack was removed from his head he found that he was staged above them looking up at him. But when he looked down to his feet he realized that it was no stage he stood upon, but a pyre of broken wood, and his limbs were bound to a stake behind his back. 'Let me speak!'
he shouted to little avail. The townspeople were too angry to listen and continued their tumultuous cries of rage. 'Let me speak!' The watchman heard and raised a hand to the crowd, at which their noise fell to a murmur. 'Let's hear him before we lay final judgment.' The watchman said as if generously giving the hermit a chance. 'My name is Nicholas, I live at the house under the willow tree. I wanted to save your Christmas!'
The watchman leant in, 'Nicholas is dead! He's been gone 20 years. How dare you pretend to be one of us! We don't know you.' 'Remove the mud from my face, I sell at the market every week, you'll know me!' But by this time the clamor of the crowd had grown again and nobody could hear. Three men In black cloaks carried burning torches to different sides of the pyre and set the kindling alight. 'I'm one of you, I was trying to help, I have money to help you all!'
But it was too late. Nobody listened. The flames crept higher and higher, licking at Nicholas' feet As his toes and heels began to singe his cries of agony filled the town but the crowd got louder still with cheers of self-congratulation. Nicholas could barely breathe in enough flesh-flavored smoke to let out his cries of pain and despair. His clothes had melted to his skin and charred chunks of flesh fell away underneath
him. He thought his legs might have become free, but no, they simply had ceased to be under him. As his hair and beard singed and caught ablaze he found himself inhaling flames in his attempt to breathe. With his head tilted skyward, and every inch of skin blackened and ablaze, he gave in to his fate and breathed no more. His frozen screaming pose lasted seconds before his body crumbled to ash.
The cheers had climaxed, the crowd grew quieter, but then... they were silent. The watchman looking out at the crowd paused his grins of glory as they were replaced by a look of silent confusion. Every face in the crowd was looking up above the pyre into the thick billowing plume of smoke. As rain started to fall A deep, booming voice spoke, 'No good deed goes unpunished.'
The Watchman turned and peered through the thick black soot in front of him. There was nobody there, but when he stepped back a humanoid shape had formed from the blackened cloud, but this was no human. 'Your ignorance and desperation led you to burn an innocent, your friend and neighbor, a man who was trying to help this town out of its depression. All of you allowed this to happen with your inability to see the good in this world amongst the bad.
I have watched this town for a long time, longer than any of you could know, but this is far from the first time that judgment has been passed on the innocent without fair trial. But this instance is such an insult to the good people of your world. For that this town shall be
cursed. Whenever there is a supposed transgression in this town, if any member of a family misjudge the nice to be naughty, their last born child shall be collected on this night, Christmas Eve, and that child's pure soul shall be mine to punish for their families misdeeds.' With that the creature in the Smoke reached out a huge, scaly, three-fingered hand towards the crowd. As the hand hovered overhead, the three fingers each pointed to one of the only three children
that were present. 'I shall start tonight.' Each of the creature's fingertips opened slightly as razor sharp claws extended so suddenly the movement was barely perceptible. But in that instant the claws, four feet in length, impaled those children from head to toe. Many in the crowd tried to scream but found themselves unable, as if some force prevented them.
'Shh, quiet now. Your Christmas night should now be a silent time of reflection... and collection.' The creature withdrew its vast hand taking with it each child's limp and lifeless body, hanging from the claws. They disappeared into the smoke and then the creature was gone. The fire still raged but the townsfolk looked at each other in disbelief. Without a word, and with no cries, every person turned and walked towards their home. And there
the story ends... at least, the fairy tale. But every year since the creature collects on his promise, come to judge those who feel they have the right to declare the difference between the good and the bad in society. Records don't exist dating back to those times, but as soon as population records began in the 12th century it was already apparent that the young were not safe in Penningham.
Nobody knows for sure where legends are born from but be certain to remember the 'Naughty or Nice' list is not for you to write. Thank you for listening to Satan's Claws, a Christmas special from Tremorphonic.
Satan's Claws was written, performed, recorded, and edited by Richard Wilson, with music samples from Fesliyan Studios and Pixabay don't forget to follow Tremorphonic on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and tremophonic.com and keep an eye on podcast channels for our upcoming stories. As a self-funded project we would appreciate any support you might be willing to give us on www.patreon.com/tremorphonic. Thank you for listening.