By Joshua Vise – January 30, 2026

Published in Yulehide: Holiday Horror Stories – The Green Book by Wicked Shadow Press. Lulu: Paperback

Roger Gibb surveyed the view from his porch and still couldn’t believe it. After forty years as a mechanical engineer in the aerospace industry, he was finally retired. The coffee in his hand, once a necessary component of his morning office life, could now be savored. He held the mug just under his chin and closed his eyes, allowing the steam to curl around his cheeks as the pleasantly bitter smell filled his nostrils before he took a sip. Roger again opened his eyes, the rich greenery of his surroundings perfectly complementing the fresh, cool air that ran across his skin. He inhaled deeply and held his breath, enjoying the complementary scents of pine needles and roasted coffee for a moment before exhaling into a full body stretch.

This is it, he thought. I’ve made it. Everything is finally in place.

Though the vision of this moment had long occupied his mind, getting here had been much more of an ordeal than either Roger or his wife could have anticipated. It had been a dozen years since they had purchased this land. The house itself had cost half a million dollars, not including surveying and architectural drafting. Being this far from town meant no connections to utilities, and digging the well, installing the septic system, and wiring the dual wind and solar power supply had added to the cost and complexity of the project. Of course, Roger’s work meant that he had the money. It was more the painfully slow and bureaucratic process of obtaining permits, working with contractors, waiting on materials and labor, and dealing with the weather that had caused them so much consternation.

Then there was the farm itself. Twenty acres of Fraser Fir trees sown at 8-foot intervals; nine hundred trees per acre, planted in rotation to ensure continuous availability throughout the years. Clearing the land of the original old-growth forest had taken nearly a year in itself, though he was able to sell some of the trees for lumber. Now, after ten years of planting, irrigation, spreading fertilizer, shearing and pruning, and pest control, all work that had to be completed in addition to his full-time job as an engineer, the first batch of Christmas trees was finally ready to be harvested. Roger and his team of hired laborers would cut and bundle two acres, all to be sent into the city to be sold.

He peered around the corner of his house, smiling as he spotted the large wooden sign adorned with festive Christmas lights beside the road: Hanover Christmas Tree Farm. He had given the farm his wife’s maiden name, a token of both his affection for her and as a sign of his appreciation. She had, after all, gave him the green light to pursue his retirement dream. Christmas had been Roger’s favorite holiday ever since he was a young boy, and this time of year always brought to mind cherished memories of days spent with his parents and grandparents, of ham and pumpkin pie, and of stories and song. Cultivating Christmas trees was his way of carrying the spirit of the season with him always, and would also keep him healthy, useful, and productive well into his silver years.

In the distance, between rows of trees, Ronny Linton drove his ATV towards Roger’s house. The wagon he towed contained two trees, tied up tightly with bright yellow nylon string. Ronny drove slowly, carefully maneuvering around irrigation paths in the soft earth, not wanting to lose his payload. Roger took another sip as Ronny finally exited the man-made forest and pulled up next to the porch.

“Whattaya say, Ronny?” asked Roger. “How’s it looking out there?”

“I dunno,” he answered, his tone offering an unpleasant contrast to what had been a perfect moment for Roger. “We might have a problem.”

Roger set his coffee on the balustrade and hopped down from the porch.

“What kind of problem?” he probed. His thoughts turned to the aphid infestation they had to deal with in the farm’s infancy, one that had threatened a quarter of his saplings.

“Well,” Ronny hesitated. “It’s really hard to tell.”

“So show me,” said Roger, approaching the wagon. Ronny dismounted and followed him.

“I was out in field two, looking for a tree for you like you asked,” Ronny began. “I found me a good one, so I started up the chainsaw and cut this one here, just above where the roots flare.”

Ronny gestured to one of the trees.

“So what’s the problem?” Roger asked again.

“Yeah, well when I was cutting,” Ronny continued, “the chainsaw didn’t really cut. It kind of ripped through it, almost like it was meat or something. See?”

Ronny pointed at the base of the tree nearest to him. The stump was ragged, and the inner pulp itself looked as if it had been gnawed on rather than cut through cleanly.

Roger leaned in closely.

“Is it the chainsaw? Too low or too high.”

“No,” Ronny answered. “Touch it.”

Roger prodded the uneven surface near the core, and the soft, spongy wood gave easily under his finger.

“What the hell is that?” Roger muttered in bafflement.

“Soft, right?”

“Is it a disease?” asked Roger.

“Not one I’m familiar with. Other than that, the tree looks healthy. Green. No parasites or anything.”

Ronny pointed to the second, smaller tree.

“That one’s from field five. Same thing.”

Roger pulled a chunk of wood from the second stump. He made a fist, squeezing the chip in his palm. It molded to the contour of his grip like semi-dry modeling clay, with red sap oozing from its pores.

“Well, shit,” said Roger. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” offered Ronny, shaking his head.

“They’re not so mangled that we can’t still sell ‘em,” said Roger, his words to Ronny as much a question as a statement.

“Yeah, I think we can still sell ‘em. The tree holder will cover it up. Nobody gives a shit about the stump,” confirmed Ronny.

“Let’s get to it, and then figure out what’s going on after.”

“Right, boss,” said Ronny. “What should I do with these two?”

Roger thought for a moment.

“We’ll put one up in the house, of course,” he answered. “Just hold on to the other one. I’ll call Jake at the Farmer’s Supply to come down and have a look at it. Maybe he’ll know what’s going on.”

*****

That morning, Roger and his eight-man group headed out into field one. The plan was to split into two, three-man teams. One man would cut, and the second and third man would feed the tree through a funnel that wrapped it in netting. The remaining two men would run the ATV, hauling twenty trees at a time back to an empty lot near the house. There, they would be stacked, to await the shipping truck that would haul them into town. With this setup, Roger estimated that they could clear two acres in roughly three days. It would be work, though, with each team expected to cut and bale a tree every two minutes for as long as daylight would hold out.

That first day went nearly perfectly to plan. The teams worked quickly, and they switched roles every hour to keep things interesting and reduce fatigue. As they cut, Roger could see that each tree was afflicted with the same condition as the first two trees he had examined that morning. Roger would have been more concerned had it impacted their ability to harvest, but the day’s success diminished his feelings of disquietude. After a lifetime of offices, the outdoor environment suited him perfectly. He enjoyed the gasoline smell of the chainsaws intermingling with the scent of freshly cut trees. The warmth of the sun and constant movement, occasionally punctuated by a chilly breeze, left Roger feeling a dozen years younger. By the time he made it into bed that night, his mood was much as it had been that morning before talking to Ronny.

The positive energy carried into the next day. Again, Roger took in the still-new sights, sounds, and smells of his pastoral setting from his front porch as he awaited the arrival of his men, coffee cup in hand. Roger and Ronny hopped onto each of two ATVs, while the other men piled onto the wagons the powerful vehicles towed, and together, they headed out to field three, the most distant of the farm’s twenty, one-acre fields. They meandered slowly through the rows of trees, until finally entering a clearing.

“Woah!” shouted Roger over the sound of the engine. “Pull over!”

The command was entirely unnecessary, as the shock of the sight in front of them had produced the same reaction in Ronny. He slammed on the brakes, the men in back lurching precariously at the sudden stop.

Roger hopped from the vehicle, and stared into the clearing of field one, the field that they had harvested just the day before. There, six hundred stumps sat in neat rows, resembling tombstones in an ancient cemetery, just as they had when Roger and his team had finished their work yesterday. Now, each stump rested in the center of a sticky, red puddle that encircled the short wooden pillars perfectly. He approached the nearest one, and knelt at the edge of the pool of crimson liquid.

“What the hell is going on?” Roger asked aloud, shocked at the overnight development.

The others stared, each person just as bewildered as their boss. Their silence unnerved Roger, and he spun around to face Ronny.

“Ronny, what the hell is this?”

The direct question shook him out of his stupefaction. He hopped from his ATV, approached Roger, and knelt beside him next to the thick secretion.

“Is it sap?” asked Roger, the concern evident in his voice.

“I don’t think so, boss,” answered Ronny. “It looks too thin.”

He stuck a finger in the red liquid, brought his hand to his nose, and sniffed.

“It’s coppery. Not sweet.”

Roger copied Ronny’s actions, and crinkled his nose in confirmation.

“Well if it isn’t sap, what the hell is it? Where did it come from?”

“The stump,” answered one of the men in the wagon. “It’s still coming from the stump. See?”

Sure enough, the ragged surface of the stump frothed lightly as the mystery liquid slowly pooled in its crevices before spilling over its side, giving the bark a red sheen. Even now, the men could see new bubbles percolating at the top.

“Why would it still be coming out?” asked Roger, his voice cracking. He didn’t expect an answer. It was evident to him that none of his men had ever experienced anything like this before. He stood and stared out into field one, scanning from the near edge of the land back to as far as his eyes could make out. Without exception, each stump was coated in red.

Roger turned to the group.

“Ronny, you take the men to field three and get started. I’ll join you later.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ronny.

“I’m going to the Farmer’s Supply. I wanna get someone to look at this. I’ll join you after.”

*****

Jake Hargreve raised his hand to his mouth and sniffed. Coppery, just as Roger had reported.

“Beats the hell outta me, Roger,” said Jake. “I never saw nuthin’ like this before, not in a whole field, and I been in business for thirty-five years.”

“What do you mean ‘not in a whole field’?” asked Roger.

“Well,” began Jake, grunting a bit as he stood. “Closest I ever saw to this is nutrient burn.”

“What’s that?” asked Roger.

“You been using any chemicals? Any fertilizer beyond what I been sellin’ ya?” Jake asked, his matter-of-fact rural style managing to sound direct without being accusatory.

“None,” blustered Roger. “I’ve been trying to keep things as natural as possible.”

“Yeah,” answered Jake. “Ya see, when something dies, all the liquids in its body eventually leak out into the ground. That liquid, it’s too rich in nutrients, and the nitrogen, phosphorus, and stuff ends up burnin’ the soil, killin’ any grass or plants around it.”

He paused, putting his hands on his hips as he stared at the ground.

“‘Course that don’t come from trees.”

“Where does it come from?” questioned Roger.

“Nutrient burn? Comes from animals. A cow dies in a pasture, and its shape gets burnt into the grass. A dog pisses in your garden and kills all your begonias. Don’t come from dead trees. And it certainly…”

He strode out into the red muck and touched the top of the nearest stump.

“It certainly don’t come leaking out of the tops of no trunk.”

Jake’s brow furrowed, and he pushed his thumb into the spongy wood.

“You felt this?” he asked Roger.

“Yeah. Spongy, right?”

“Yeah, soft, like…”

Jake’s scowl deepened as he forced his thumb deeper into the pulp.

“…like hamburger or something.”

Roger stared out into his field, the glistening red emanations appearing almost purple amid the reflections of the intense blue midday sky.

“So what do I do about it?” Roger asked Jake.

“Hell, I gotta be honest with ya, Rog. I ain’t ever seen anything like this before,” Jake admitted. “But if it is anything like nutrient burn, you dilute its effects with water.”

“Meaning I gotta wait ‘till it rains?” asked Roger.

“Tell you what,” Jake said. “Tommy Walcott’s got a field sprayer he ain’t usin’ this time of year. Suppose he’d let you rent it from him for cheap.”

“Yeah,” thought Roger aloud. “That may be the way to go.”

“I’ll leave you his number. You can try it out on a patch. If it works, you can do the whole thing.”

“Think it could wait until after the harvest?” probed Roger. “We got two more days of cutting and bundling to do, and pickup is supposed to be this Friday.

Jake sucked his teeth for a moment as he thought it over.

“I suppose so.”

“Good.”

“But don’t be takin’ that for God’s truth,” Jake added quickly. “Told ya’ I ain’t ever seen this before.”

“Alright. I’ll keep that in mind,” answered Roger, the anxious tone of his voice lessening somewhat. Though he was far from relieved, it appealed to his conscientiousness to have a course of action to follow. “Thank’s for coming out and taking a look.”

“Sorry I couldn’t do more,” answered Jake. “You do figure this out, you let me know.”

“Sure thing,” said Roger, gesturing to his ATV. “I’ll take you back.”

*****

 After taking Jake back, Roger rejoined the group out in field three, and the men were able to meet their quota for the day. This accomplishment helped him push his concerns about field one to the back of his mind. He was confident that someone must have encountered this strange phenomenon before, and once the problem was properly identified, it could be addressed. Whatever it was, it had not impeded their progress in the fields, nor had it diminished the overall quality of their final product.

The start of the third day of harvest began the same as the day before. Roger leaned over the balustrade and peered out at the once-empty lot next to his home, now piled high with over a thousand trees. The cloudless sky and unseasonal warmth promised good working conditions, and he anticipated the successful closure of their first season’s harvest. Spirits were high among his men as they jumped onto the ATVs and wagons and headed out for field two, weaving their vehicles down access paths lined with next year’s crop of Fraser fir trees.

“Goddamn,” shouted Ronny. He released the throttle, and the vehicle coasted to a stop. Roger, following from behind, did the same, and all of the men stared out into the bloody massacre that had once been field one.

Overnight, the stumps had continued to secrete their sanguine discharge, and the red rings that had circled each had merged into one fetid, coppery coating of muck that enveloped the entire field. This oozing discharge had filled the irrigation dike along their path, and spilled over onto their dirt trail.

Roger’s jaw dropped as his eyes took in the grisly sight. What had once been a festering leak had turned into a gushing outflow of the mysterious red liquid. It poured from the tops of every stump, as if each of them was an overflowing sink.

Ronny turned and looked back at Roger, a look of alarm on his face.

“Do we drive through it?” he asked.

Roger dismounted and approached the pool of goop, kneeling down at its edge. From this vantage point, he could see it slowly expanding. It rolled across the dirt road, creeping almost like lava spilling down the side of a volcano. Without thinking, he touched it with his gloved hand. The liquid immediately clung to the glove’s fingers, sticking like super glue, and he struggled to wipe it on his jeans before pulling off the glove and tossing it away.

“No,” Roger finally answered. “I think we’d better go around.”

“Sir,” replied one of the workers in the wagon. “What if it spills over?”

The man gestured to the adjacent field, and the implications triggered a fresh wave of anxiety in Roger. If this pool continued to grow, it would soon spill over into field seven, potentially killing trees meant to be harvested in two years’ time.

“Ronny, you take your guys to field two. Do what you can. The rest of you…”

He turned to the men in his wagon.

“We need the backhoe and some shovels. We gotta see if we can stop this thing before it gets to seven. Understand?”

The men nodded.

“Alright, let’s get to it. And for God’s sake, don’t touch this crap!”

*****

Roger twisted the controls, and the backhoe rumbled as it scooped bucketfuls of dirt from the ground. He turned slightly, and deposited the load at the edge of field one, hoping that the combination ditch and dirt wall would arrest the spread of the glistening sludge. His men worked just behind him, using shovels and rakes to spread out the piles and fill gaps in the earthen barricade. Even as they worked, Roger could see that the flow was accelerating. The wooden protrusions in the field were now completely covered in red as they vomited out their bloody discharge.

By the end of the day, Roger and his team had carved a two-foot deep ditch running the entire length of the field, with an earthen wall nearly as high just behind it. As he scooped the final few bucketfuls of earth from their makeshift barrier, the thick liquid began to spill over the lip of the ditch, cascading over the side in rivulets and pooling at the bottom.

This won’t be enough, thought Roger. Unless this shit stops flowing, this won’t be enough.

Still, it was all they could do for the moment, and they returned to the house exhausted from their efforts. Ronny was waiting for him there.

“How did you guys do?” asked Roger, hoping for some bit of good news.

“Nearly three hundred,” answered Ronny.

“That’s good enough for today. Do you think you and the guys can come in tomorrow and finish up? One more day should do it.”

“That’s not all,” Ronny reported seriously, shaking his head.

The bit of energy propping up Roger ebbed from him, and his shoulders sank in absolute exhaustion as he replied.

“What is it?”

“Field three,” replied Ronny solemnly.

“You’re shitting me,” said Roger. “The same as field one?”

“The same.”

Roger looked up at the sky. The sun had disappeared over the horizon, but there was still an hour of light before night completely fell.

“Let’s go and have a look.”

*****

Ronny drove the ATV slowly down the paths, while Roger held onto the sides of the wagon. Even at this speed, one errant bump could toss someone, and an injury was the last thing Roger needed at this point. The sky had dimmed, and the ATV’s headlights illuminated the trees on either side as they passed, an effect that he found dizzying. He shut his eyes until he heard the engine wind down, feeling the ATV suddenly turn as Ronny aimed the headlights out into the field.

“Here we are, boss,” Ronny muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

Roger opened his eyes.

“Holy hell,” he exclaimed in utter stupefaction.

Field three was afflicted with the same malady as field one. Roger could see bloody stumps spewing their gory discharge for as far as the headlights could illuminate. What’s more, it seemed to be flowing even faster than field one.

Both Roger and Ronny sat there in stunned silence, watching the mass slowly churn, appearing as a wet, black void in the absence of sunlight.

Suddenly, a faint cry emanated from the darkness.

“Did you hear that?” Ronny exclaimed.

They both sat, their ears turned to the field, waiting in anticipation. After a moment, the noise repeated itself, slightly louder than before.

“What is that?” Ronny asked.

“There’s a flashlight under the seat,” Roger said, gesturing for Ronny to hop off the ATV. Roger popped the seat compartment open and fished out the flashlight. He flicked it on and panned the bright beam out across the field slowly from left to right, until he discovered a pair of glowing eyes reflecting its light back to them.

A single exhausted deer lay in the center of field two. The animal had become mired in the muck, the sticky substance impeding its movement. It had fallen as it fought to free itself, becoming even further trapped in the liquid, which slowly enveloped it. As Roger steadied the light, the deer bleated again, its plaintive cry the only sound in an otherwise quiet field.

“Well, that girl’s fucked,” Ronny grumbled.

“And so are we, unless we can figure out what the hell is going on.”

*****

Roger awoke the next day with the first rays of dawn, but remained in bed, unmoving. The weariness he felt from the previous days’ events had taken its toll on him both mentally and physically.

We’ve only got 200 trees to cut and pack, he thought to himself as he stared at the ceiling. There’s no rush. I’m retired, after all, and the men won’t be here ‘till midday.

His inner monologue tussled with itself. The industrious part of his personality wanted to take action to figure out the true nature of the curse that afflicted his fields, and to rectify the problem once and for all, while the analytical side of himself knew that he was out of his depth and needed help. Even as he lay there, Roger felt his heart racing as his two halves grappled over the problem, posing questions he didn’t have answers for. What can I do? Who could I ask for help? Why is this happening to me?

As the morning rays pierced the gaps in his window curtains, Roger became aware of a faint odor, something that reminded him a bit of a wet dog, or of freezerburnt meat.

Rotten meat.

At once, Roger jumped from his bed and raced down the stairs. He barged his way through the front door and onto the porch, where the smell instantly intensified. His first breath of outdoor air left him gagging, and he leaned over the porch railing, coughing and sputtering. It was in that moment, doubled over the handrail, eyes watering, retching up sputum that leaked from the corners of his mouth, that he saw the source of the noxious stench.

In the lot next to his home, the thousand Christmas trees that his team had cut and netted over the past three days had begun to putrefy. Some trees that had been left upright drooped soggily, while others lay prone on the ground, their swollen trunks pressing tightly against the netting that contained them. A few had seemingly burst, and their pulpy red ‘entrails’ spilled through their nets and piled in wet clumps on the ground.

Roger pulled his shirt over his nose and wiped the tears from his eyes, then descended the porch and approached this mass of carcasses in stunned silence. As he got closer, a thick cloud of black flies rose from the nearest trees, their buzzing audible even from a dozen yards away. Once, when he still lived with his father, Roger had seen a deer carcass on the side of the road. He remembered its bloated corpse, and how the guts spilling out of its abdomen attracted flies in the same way. Now, as he reached the first tree, he was struck by how similar it appeared: bloated, rotten, meaty. In spite of his disgust, he couldn’t help but reach down and prod the bark. It tore apart immediately under the pressure of his finger, and viscous red liquid, the same that had overtaken his fields, drained from the wound, followed by clumps of soft pulp.

Roger turned away in a daze. Twelve years of work and nearly two million dollars invested towards a singular dream, something that was supposed to keep him occupied in retirement while providing him with a bit of extra income, had literally rotted away in three days. Not knowing what to do, he hopped on his ATV and headed out into the fields. He took the longest, most circuitous route, arriving at field three first.

Field three was now only a field in name, as the bloody lake that had materialized overnight completely covered the ground. The only hint as to its depth were the stumps that poked through the glistening surface, still spouting their gory discharge. The barely recognizable blood-streaked remnants of what had been a deer rested unmoving in the middle distance. The poor creature had laid its head down in exhaustion and, unable to tear itself from its sticky snare, drowned as the sap rose over its mouth and nose.

Roger pushed forward, navigating the pathways between cultivated rows of fir trees, unable to shake the coppery stink of the blood-sap from his nose. His mind played back a panoply of horrific still images of the decay that had beset his farm, leaving him numb to everything by the time he reached the edge of field one. Even from a distance, he could see the overflowing ditch and the collapsed earthen wall, his ruined attempt at saving what he could. The liquid itself seeped through the dirt and flowed outward into field seven, and the first rows of trees drooped limply at its touch.

Roger hopped from his ATV and crept towards the trees of field seven, careful not to touch the expanding crimson pool. Gently, he prodded one of the healthier looking trees, but the bark tore away like wet tissue paper, and the exposed wood immediately leaked the same red sap that would soon swallow its roots.

Returning to his vehicle, Roger backed away from the flood and turned his wheels uphill, arriving at the highest point on his property in less than a minute. He stopped at the top and released the clutch, and the engine sputtered and died. From here, he could ascertain the damage, and the sight added a hollowness to the numbness that still wracked his body. Field one and three were completely gone, not surprising given what he had seen earlier. Field four, which had been partially cleared the day before, was dotted with scarlet circles as the malady began to make its effects known there. He turned this way and that, scanning the entirety of his holdings, and sighed. In every direction, anything green that he had cultivated had begun to sag, from the seven-footers meant to be harvested next year to the saplings that had just been transplanted from the nursery only that summer. Together, they bowed towards the bloody wounds, as if in acceptance of their own impending sacrificial slaughter.

Roger sat on his vehicle and stared at his beautiful home on the furthest edge of his property, the Hanover Christmas Tree Farm sign barely visible save for the blinking lights framing it. He had been robbed, and not just of his money, his time, or his dream. No, he understood that this curse, whatever it would turn out to be, had obliterated all of his joyful nostalgia for the season. He revved the engine and headed back towards his home, knowing that the first thing he would do when he arrived would be to pull down that goddamn sign.