Eleanor is abandoned by her fiancé, Eric, at the heart of the Edinburgh Christmas market, as he follows a mysterious woman back to a hotel she owns in the Highlands. There, he meets many more men on the staff, men like him, who seek to entertain the woman they serve. But it only gets stranger from there, and the doubt creeps in… Dive into the world of Joanna Corrance’s The Gingerbread Men below in this exclusive pre-publication extract. 

 The Gingerbread Men
By Joanna Corrance
Published by Haunt Publishing 

I decided to leave my fiancé on Christmas Eve, the very same day that I had proposed to her. 

We stood beneath a snow-filled sky at the Christmas market in Edinburgh, hot drinks clasped in our gloved hands and glowing from the thrill of our recent engagement. Eleanor, my fiancé, was choosing new baubles for our Christmas tree which, on her insistence, had been erected at the end of November. I had tried to explain that the needles would fall off and that by Christmas Day we would be left with balding branches and a clogged hoover. If it were up to her, she would probably have kept the tree up all year round. 

There was no hesitation. I made my decision in the seconds between her putting down a matt bauble and picking up a glossy red one, as she deliberated over which would suit our tree’s garish aesthetic better. 

When people spoke about leaving their long-term partner, it was usually after months, or even years, of painful deliberation, after the fighting had become too much or the indifference too lonely. It wasn’t like that for me. 

Oblivious, Eleanor continued to chatter away, radiating her usual rosy-cheeked chirpiness. She had recently qualified as a children’s art therapist, which had only seemed to enhance her sunny demeanour. Her family, all headmistresses or doctors in niche specialities, had the kind of relationships you see in nice, family-friendly films. I knew that was meant to be a good thing, but it could leave me feeling a bit inadequate. 

Our boots had sunk into the snow, which had become grey and slushy from the grit and hundreds of stomping, dirty soles. On either side of the path was crisp, untouched snow that had fallen during the day. Rows of identical wooden huts lined the path, decorated with gold fairy lights wound through holly. Eleanor clasped her paper cup of hot chocolate in one mittened hand and gestured with the other at some shiny, metallic baubles in their boxes, still debating the appropriate level of garishness. It seemed that, when it came to Christmas, the uglier the better. From late November onwards, our flat would be filled with tat, the kind of things we would never be caught dead with in our household at any time outside the festive season. I went along with it despite my feelings on the matter. We had planned to revisit the subject once I had moved in properly, when I was certain she would have come around to my way of thinking. 

I had only just handed in my notice on the lease for my grubby one bedroom on the outskirts of Edinburgh and was in the process of moving the few furnishings that belonged to me into Eleanor’s Stockbridge flat, which had more space between floor and ceiling than it did actual floor space. Things had been moving in the direction of a proposal for some time and, given that I had already been unofficially living with her, Christmas Eve had seemed as good a time as any to finally formalise it. Thankfully, she was delighted to be engaged and didn’t seem to mind that I couldn’t afford a proper ring. Apparently, her grandmother had promised her hers anyway. We had planned to bring up the topic of the ring when we made the announcement the following day over Christmas dinner at her grandparents’ house. They lived in a beautiful old Victorian house, within walking distance of all the galleries and parks. They were the kind of people who, when you commented on what an amazing place it was and in such an incredible location, would bristle and say ‘bought it for pennies back in our day’, but any sense of discomfort about their own wealth was notably absent when it came to the lavish spread on the dinner table and the number of professionally wrapped gifts under their ceiling-high Christmas tree, which had evidently been put up and decorated by their hired help. Tomorrow, the house would be glittering with tinsel and wealth. It would be my third Christmas with them. 

I knew exactly how her family would react when we announced our engagement. There would be a barely noticeable flash of concern quickly followed by gasps and congratulations; the popping of champagne corks would come just a moment too late. Eleanor wouldn’t notice the apprehension, but I would notice everything. When Eleanor’s mother first met me, her eyes had lit up and she commented on ‘what a handsome chap’ I was. Her gaze flickered curiously from me to her daughter and Eleanor pretended not to notice. Eleanor’s mother was of a generation that seemed to think it was acceptable to openly label people as ‘plain’. Later, when she asked me about my background and what I did for a living, she had smiled thinly. 

‘Eric.’ Eleanor waved an orange mitten in front of my face, obscuring my view. She hadn’t noticed that, throughout the entire debate about matt versus gloss, I had been staring at the woman standing several feet behind her. 

The woman was younger than me by a few years, perhaps the same age as Eleanor. She blinked a flash of powder blue and curled her dewy lips into a small smile that brightened her rounded cheeks, which flushed in the cold air into two almost comically pink circles. She was startlingly doll-like, with a face that looked like it was made of delicate, glistening china. It was as eerie as it was entrancing. I glanced behind me, wanting to make sure she wasn’t looking at someone else, and when I turned back her smile had widened, exposing two slightly too-large canines, one ever so slightly snaggled. Strangely, it only enhanced her appeal. 

With the grace of a dancer, she peeled off a grey glove and extended her open palm. Her index finger curled and beckoned me towards her. 

‘Eric,’ Eleanor repeated, irritably brushing a curly blonde strand from her eyes and tucking it back beneath her hat. ‘Are you listening to me?’

Glancing down, I blinked back to the present and placed a hand on her padded arm. 

‘Eleanor, I’m sorry.’ I wasn’t actually sorry, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Ignoring her bemused expression, I removed my hand from her arm and walked past her without looking back. 

The entrancing woman stood by the mulled wine hut with a small, triumphant smile. The strange combination of the thrill and the wickedness of what I was doing only drew me in further. As I got closer, a rich, woody, Christmas smell washed over me: spices, ginger and nutmeg as she stood by a steaming vat of mulled wine. I was intoxicated. 

Wordlessly, she took my arm and led me away. 

The Gingerbread Men by Joanna Corrance is published by Haunt Publishing, priced £9.99.