by Tim Curran
It’s me… I’m ringing.
Latching onto one, I try to pull it free. Locks of hair are interwoven within the tiny bell’s metal casing, and it refuses to budge, jerking at my scalp. Gripping it harder, I try again, trembling from the pain. The quivering sets all the bells to ringing. There are so many, I can’t believe it.
“Sound carries, Inuk,” Ikiaq’s words remind me. “Stay silent and downwind.”
Letting go, I glance out my foot-wide opening. While Ikiaq had warned me so as not to scare away our prey, the same sound could alert predators. In Alaska, grizzly bears and wolves are always looking for an easy meal. If they’re hungry enough, frozen human is better than a chocolate-covered ice cream. Thankfully, I don’t hear anything approaching.
Where am I? I wonder again. Why’d they leave me out here?
In this enclosed space, I’m starting to warm up... a little. As a result, the fuzziness shrouding my mind seems to be falling away. Night owls hoot outside as I consider my situation. I was selected, chosen. My life is the village’s gift to the Saumen Kar, our great beast and protector. And then I found myself here, no clothes or weapons, my hair braided with bells. The only explanation I can find comes from the old-timers who fish the local rivers. Some use fake bugs or minnows that make sounds to lure the fish in.
What if that’s what I am, bait, and these bells are lures? But for what exactly? As panic seeps into my thoughts for a second time this holiday, Ikiaq’s words come back to me again and I regulate my breathing. In, out. In, out.
The calming mantra helps, and I still myself against it from happening again. But that’s when I notice something else. I’m thawing, the numbness from the cold that previously infused my body seeping away. What is left aches all over, from head to toes. The snow and dirt beneath me are uneven, rocks or roots digging into my side and butt. Even spots on my arms flare up. Placing my left forearm under the opening, there’s just enough light to see slices of red skin periodically spaced up and down it. The sliced spots aren’t bleeding, but the skin is inflamed from what appears to be cauterization marks. Testing one red spot with a finger, I feel a hard lump beneath the skin. Pushing it ever so slightly to try and break the sealed burn and force the object out, a small jingle echoes from within my arm. Astonished, I quickly check the other spots. They all match, as do small incisions in my chest, stomach, and legs. Giving my arm a shake, all the inserted bells rattle together.
“Oh God!” I whisper. “What did they do to me?”
Gazing at my pained body through the dim light filtering between tree limbs, a thought strikes. If they inserted them in every part of my body all the way to my feet, why stop there? Hesitantly, I feel my neck, cheeks, and forehead, halting each time I come across a tender spot. Bells had been inserted in my neck and forehead. “The cheeks must be a little difficult for surgery,” I mumble, “even for them.” Then it occurs to me that the tender bumps digging into my butt and side from the ground probably aren’t roots or rocks. “Guess those cheeks are simple enough.” Sadly, a part of me wants to laugh at the epiphany, while everything else just makes me want tear up and cry.
Taking a deep breath, I turn my attention back to the raw, sealed wound on my arm. The bell is the size of a nickel between my fingers. Shoving it toward the original insertion point with a thumb, I wince but keep going, attempting to force the wound open and eject the damnable bell. The wound opens, sending streams of blood pouring out, along with the bell, but the pain is so intense that I can barely see through the tears.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I can’t help but say. Grabbing the damnable thing, I try to send it flying out the opening, anywhere away from me, but the force of my throw jerks both arms forward and causes my eyes to bulge from the pain. “Jesus!” I cry, sucking in a deep breath and cradling my further injured arm. Amidst the bloody mess, four threads of filament still tether the damned bell to me somewhere within the wound. “Really? They seriously attached it inside? Fuck! And with fishing line. Who does that?”
After I regain my composure, I scour my small shelter for a severed limb or rock with a sharp edge, something to cut the lines. After a few minutes, I dig up a rock from the snow and hack at the lines of filament until they finally give way. Rolling onto my back, I hold my arm close. Throbbing pain from tender wounds in my back remind me of how many times I will have to attempt this and how many awkward places on my body the bells have been imbedded.
Really? I wonder silently. This is hopeless. I close my eyes and as my breathing returns to normal, I can’t help but drift back into nothingness.
A minute later, or hours for all I know, I’m jolted awake by an ungodly howl more like a guttural scream than any sound a wolf would make. As it echoes across the snow-covered trees and mountains, I scuttle further into my shelter. I’ve never heard such a noise before. Unsure exactly where it originated from, I decide to remain where I am for now. Maybe it’ll pass me by or go the other way, I hope. Knowledge that such a creature is out prowling the forest does not motivate me to venture out into the night--far from it.
I remain still, waiting for further sounds of the creature’s location, but nothing comes. Unfortunately, the natural sounds of the night do not return either. Aside from limbs periodically dumping overloaded piles of snow to the ground floor, silence permeates the air.
What to do? I ask myself. Can I wait here till daybreak?
While the idea of remaining in the shelter is much more attractive than venturing into the night of biting wind, the fact of the matter is that I’m freezing. Some sensations have returned without the wind making matters simply intolerable, but the cold will get to me eventually. The only way I have a chance to survive is if I leave the shelter and head back for town.
But what’s waiting for me there? I argue. They’ll probably throw me back into the forest if they find me.
What else can I do though? The nearest town is over a hundred miles away and I’ve got on nothing but a shift.
Memories of this day’s events return: the look in my pa’s eyes, the fact that he couldn’t even look at me as he handed me off to that bastard Chokoteh. Anger fills my stomach, seeming to form a rock the size of a bowling ball, while more tears threaten to come every time I remember the shamed look on Pa’s face. “No matter what, I’m getting out of this,” I promise myself, needing to hear the words. “And Chokoteh, you’ve made my naughty list.” Saying it felt good.
Summoning my courage and working the knots that formed in my legs and back out, I crawl back into the howling wind. Casting around the sky overhead for the subtle glow of lights illuminating my village, I can barely see them amidst the distracting Northern Lights. As soon as I do though, a large weight lifts from my shoulders. Ikiaq taught me to track and navigate through the woods but primarily during the day, not at night or during a heavy snow such as this. Finding the right direction is the first step in my journey. With that done, it’s time to go home.
The journey starts with difficulty, and more merrily than I would like with the sound of jingling bells ringing literally from inside my body, but soon my bare feet grow numb. This isn’t good, for it is one of the major indications of frostbite, but there is no alternative.
An hour passes as I slog through, slowly closing the gap between the village and myself until another ungodly howl permeates the air, silencing every creature within miles. Swallowing the frog that crept into my throat at the startling sound, I continue onward. While closer, the creature is still quite a distance away. My path of deep tracks grows longer. I even notice streaks of red left in the snow from where my feet have been rubbed raw and cut, but without shoes or anything to wrap them in beyond the thin shift attempting to keep me warm, I have no choice but to plod onward.
The howl comes again another hour later, this time much closer, stopping me in my tracks. The beast is undoubtedly tracking me, the “bait”. Determined to overcome whatever the night holds, I simply tell myself, We’ll see what kind of bait I really am.
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nbsp; Stripping off the shift, I rip it in two and sit naked on the snow, wrapping my feet. At this point the garment is doing little to help my warmth and will be more help cushioning what remains of my feet. They are red, raw, and torn up in more than a dozen places. If I have any hope of salvaging them when this is over, it must be done. The abrupt immersion in snow should have set my teeth to chattering, but at this point the cold has suffused my bones. Standing, my trim body quivers as a blast of arctic wind tears through the trees, tossing snow and eating into every part of my bared body. Licking my chapped lips and firming my determination, I step forward with one thought, At least the sound of my chattering teeth is drowning out the ringing bells.
While I am making progress, it’s slow and I can’t feel my body. Slogging through the foot-deep snow pack, the next time the howl comes I’m forced to pick up the pace. It is far from a run, more of a drunken stumble than anything; the sound behind me is far too near. I can hardly keep my eyes open, and amidst the falling snow and coarse winds, I can barely make out trees within ten feet, but from behind comes the sound of heavy, plodding feet. A glance back ignites a fire deep in my gut. Out of the darkness what must be Saumen Kar strides, white fur covering its entire body and framing blue, hungry eyes.
The panic I’ve tried to stamp down for so long thrusts itself to the forefront of my mind. The creature is enormous, nearly ten feet tall with arms the size of tree trunks and two large canines that would intimidate a rottweiler. It seems to smile upon seeing me, wicked and looming. Falling forward onto its long arms and bulbous fists, the creature lets out a more impassioned howl than before. A split-second later it’s charging on all fours, closing the short distance at a maddening rate.
“No, no, no! Please no!” I scream, scampering as far away as I can, but the deep snow drift absorbs every numb foot I place, sending me sprawling to the ground just as the giant creature pins me under its weight. The force bearing down is excruciating, along with its putrid breath. It snarls, its great yellow fangs engulfing my vision. For a second the weight shifts, until Saumen Kar grips my left leg and a narrow arm in each hand, lifting me with a shake as though I’m nothing more than a doll. The bells jingle, and the creature grins. It feels as though I’m about to be torn apart, pulling a gut-wrenching scream from the depths of my soul.
Saumen Kar gruffly mumbles, “Bow-bow,” then shakes me again and again, each time grinning wider.
A bloodcurdling scream stretches from my lips as he lets go of my leg and swings me over his head like a giant child with a lasso. Tendons stretch and break instantly, suffusing me in a pain like no other. A moment later muscle and skin rip and I hurtle into the trees two dozen feet away. Tree limbs scour every part of me as I crash deeper into a large tree, barely conscious as I fall to the snow-laden ground below. As arterial flow gushes from my armless shoulder, staining the white floor crimson, I barely catch sight of Saumen Kar’s angry snarl as he approaches. Thankfully, darkness is seeping into my vision too, overwhelming the vision with a growing black haze.
The last thought to cross my mind as the pain subsides is, He doesn’t look happy. I think he broke his toy.
The morning of Christmas day, Umi Yazzie struggles from his lounge chair where he’s sat all night. The limited belongings that had been arranged in the house are now strewn across the wood floors. Nothing went untouched. Everything in the Yazzie household had been turned upside down with the selection of Inuk the previous evening. Umi had lost his wife fourteen years before on that same very night, and now his daughter. Certain he can’t take any more, a Colt 45 sits waiting on the side table, barely an inch from his hovering hand.
What about Miki? a voice inside his head asks.
Miki? He’s better off without me. What’ve I ever done for him? he tells himself. Part of Umi’s shame delves deeper with the realization, resignation gripping him tighter. Finally, he mumbles, “It’s for the best.”
Taking hold of the revolver, Umi lifts it to his temple. His hand trembles, wavering ever so slightly. Readjusting for just the right grip, a knock at the door startles him, his finger almost pulling the trigger. Glancing to the door, then back at the wood-paneled wall across the living room, Umi’s curiosity wins out. Fear grips him for a moment, and his gaze steals to the mantle above the fireplace where an aged wooden box sits.
No, no one would be that cruel twice, he tells himself, setting the gun down and heading for the door. Opening it to find no one there, something pulls Umi’s gaze down to his snow-covered doormat. Atop it sits a tented note. As Umi leans down to pick it up, the words “Merry Christmas” are clearly legible. He flips the note open, only to find it blank. Umi looks on the back but still finds nothing, no message, until something glints at his feet. Beneath the tented paper, four small bells sit, dirt encrusted and bloody.
Eyes widening, Umi scoops them up, slams the door shut and deposits the bells into the box on the mantle next to four more, although these are aged and rusting. “Why’d you leave me, Tikaani? You didn’t have to volunteer. I would’ve gone. I really would’ve,” he promised, but even now he knows it is a lie.
A moment later, a gunshot wakes the sleepy village to start Christmas morning.
Author’s Bio:
Weston Kincade has helped invest in future writers for years while teaching. He also writes fantasy and horror novels which have hit Amazon's best seller lists. His non-fiction works have been published in the Ohio Journal of English Language Arts and Cleveland.com, his fiction published by Books of the Dead Press and in anthologies by Alucard Press and TPP Presents. When not writing, Weston makes time for his wife and Maine Coon cat Hermes, who talks so much he must be a speaker for the gods.
The End
About the Author
Weston Kincade has helped invest in future writers for years while teaching. He also writes fantasy and horror novels which have hit Amazon's best seller lists. His non-fiction works have been published in the Ohio Journal of English Language Arts and Cleveland.com, his fiction published by Books of the Dead Press and in anthologies by Alucard Press and TPP Presents. When not writing, Weston makes time for his wife and Maine Coon cat Hermes, who talks so much he must be a speaker for the gods.
Author Site - http://kincadefiction.blogspot.com
Twitter - https://twitter.com/WestonKincade
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/WAKincade
Santa’s Midnight Feast
By
J. L. Lane.
The sound of a creaking step seems heightened in the dead of the night, especially for a little girl creeping down to spy on Santa on a cold Christmas Eve.
It was nearing bedtime and Emily was helping her parents put up the last of the decorations for Christmas. She was rather sad it had taken so long for her mother to get a tree; it wasn't a very impressive tree, either. But, at least now it finally felt like Christmas; it should, it was Christmas Eve after all. She placed the last bauble on the tree and stepped back and awaited her father to switch the lights on. Finally, as all the lights illuminated, she felt a warm glow in her heart-it was perfect! She went to move the empty boxes into the hall, when she noticed one still felt quite heavy. Fumbling around, she pulled out a heavy wooden box; it felt like something was rattling inside. There was a message engraved into the front of it, saying “Do not open, Crampus resides!” She had never heard of Crampus, maybe it was a type of decoration.
“Mommy what's this?” she asked as she held it.
Her mother looked over, only half paying attention, “I don't know, Sweetie, a lot of these decorations were left here by the previous owners.”
“Yes, but what does this name, Crampus, mean?” Emily persisted.
“Oh, sweetie, just some old legend about a creature the very opposite of Santa; nonsense, of course, so pay it no mind. Now we must get finished!”
Emily was very curious to see what was inside of the wooden box she had found...maybe it was treasure! As her mother left the room to check on the mince pies in the
oven, Emily lifted the little latch keeping it closed. She was a little disappointed to find it was only a decoration- a glowing red bauble. Then as she reached up as high as she could to reach the bald patch on the tree, she tripped over the stand and dropped the decoration. It landed with a shattering smash and a puff of red smoke escaped the bauble. The lights flickered and Emily could have sworn she saw her mothers shadow grow up the wall, but as she quickly spun around, no one was there. Scared she would get into trouble for breaking an expensive-looking decoration, she quickly brushed it behind the tree; maybe once they finally found it whilst taking the tree down, they'd think the dog did it.
Emily helped her mother place a mince pie and glass of milk on the mantelpiece and kissed her parents goodnight before rushing up to bed. There was no way she would sleep though, not tonight. Tonight she would finally meet Santa!
Emily placed her tiny, slippered foot upon the top step trying not to wake her parents. Every year she snuck down to catch a glimpse of Santa, but by the time she made it down the stairs he was gone and left nothing but presents and crumbs in his absence. This year was going to be different. She had sat up and waited for him and the moment she heard the thud on the roof, she quickly stepped into her fluffy cat slippers and pulled on her robe. She could hear the jingling of bells as she crept out of her room with Mr Hops – her favourite plush toy – in hand.
Each step seemed to squeak louder than the last, almost as if little mice were being squished underneath them.
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was worried she had already missed the wonder that is Santa Claus, but when the Christmas tree rustled and shook, she knew she had finally caught him! For most of the eight years of her life on this earth and all those Christmas Eves missing her chance, finally she was going to meet the most magical person in the world!