by Johnny Miles
Jackson stared at the opening of the cell. It had no bars, unlike the one across the narrow corridor, which had iron bars.
Maybe I can just walk out, Jackson thought. But that didn’t sound right. It seemed too…easy. He shuffled toward the opening and peered out. The long narrow passageway was lit with torches interspersed along the walls. Along either side of the hallway were other similar openings where Jackson could only assume more prisoners were being held.
Jackson reached out tentatively. He met with a zap that shocked but at the same time cleared his mind.
North Carolina. I was there, seeing to Michael. And then—
His mind went fuzzy. Jackson tried to remember, but the more he struggled, the more elusive his memory. Frustrated, he reached out again, thinking another jolt might jar his memory once more.
Zap!
Jackson gasped. His body jerked, even as his memory came flooding back: the mall, the breakup with Michael, Griffin’s unexpected cry for help, the police station and the odd things happening inside. Observing Michael from the other side of the one-way in the interrogation room with his ex.
Black Pete had suddenly appeared.
And now I’m here. Fuck.
Jackson sighed with the realization he’d been kidnapped. But where was he? It didn’t feel like Earth. This was a somber, mysterious, and mystical place. It was a place one might come to on a spiritual quest. But also a place where one might come to die. It reminded him of Arizona.
Pushing the thoughts from his mind, Jackson forced himself to think of the police station. He’d fought Black Pete, of that he was sure. Beyond that there was nothing.
Sniffing at the air, Jackson determined he was indeed in a desolate, barren place. The unearthly quiet and stillness told him he was far underground. There were others—some dead, some dying. Others still held on to hope.
I’ll find a way out. I’ll get back home somehow.
But how? If only it wasn’t so damn cold. Why was he so cold? He wasn’t supposed to be cold. He was a child of winter! He’d experienced subzero temperatures and was more than capable of withstanding Arctic weather.
And yet, he shivered. Uncontrollably.
Jackson’s teeth chattered. His mind wandered. He sank to the ground, in part because he was suddenly too tired to stand but also to retain some warmth. He pulled the sheet tight around him as he struggled against the oncoming slide into the onset of disease. He slept. Or thought he did. He dreamed. Or perhaps he hallucinated?
In his dream, someone stood over him.
“Griffin, is that you?” Jackson fluttered his eyes open. The man stood with his back to the light, his face in darkness. Still, Jackson could see the life force beating within the man standing watch over him. It sure felt like Griffin.
“I’m so cold and…frightened.” Jackson tried to sit up but found he had no energy. His body felt like a limp, useless arm. He looked up and blinked in confusion at the man who knelt. Whoever he was, he most definitely was not Griffin.
And yet…
“Wait. You’re not…you’re not Griffin.” Jackson stared deep into the man’s eyes, at the lines on his face, at the grungy, matted-down red hair. He took in the state of the red-and-white suit, greasy and dirty with what looked like decades of grime and in some places little more than shreds. He stank of piss and human excrement, a prisoner for months, if not years.
Something about his eyes made Jackson remember suddenly.
“Oh…it’s you.”
The realization that it was Griffin’s father whom Jackson had recognized faded as Jackson shivered and shook with great force. His teeth rattled. He slipped into unconsciousness, reliving the harrowing moments with Black Pete in his true form, raping and infecting him with his hate-filled demon seed. He tried to scream, tried to fight Black Pete off he were actually there, but Jackson went under, lost in the delirium of fever, chased by a sinister laugh that made him cringe.
* * * *
Griffin paced, obsessed with trying to figure out a way up the mountain. With no visible incline, steps, or elevator, let alone an entryway, it shot straight up from the ground. Griffin was baffled. How could anyone have built a three-story fortress so high up with no visible means of getting there? Not unless you came toward it from the other side.
It didn’t help that what little light shone far off on the horizon had now begun to disappear. With the loss of light came a steadier wind than before. Layers of sand kicked up and blew across the plains in large swirls. Several times Griffin had to shield his eyes.
As he paced, the wind grew even stronger, carrying with it the mournful sound of a thousand trapped souls that set Griffin on edge. He stopped in his tracks and turned to Kris, who stood several feet away in an outcropping of rock in the shape of a C. The formation was large enough to shield them all from the increasing wind. As Griffin watched, Kris gently propped Bucket into a sitting position against one of the large boulders. Kris then struck rocks together, using a portion of the fluffy white hem from his suit to ignite the material. Lazy tendrils of smoke soon gave way to tiny flames that quickly jumped and danced in the wind, as if happy to be alive.
Griffin then turned his attention to Woden. The man tilted his head this way and that, observing cracks and fissures along the stone surface of the mountain. He looked like an eccentric old art lover perusing paintings at a gallery.
“So? What’s the plan?” Griffin asked as he walked over.
“Plan?” Woden repeated absentmindedly, concentrating.
“Yes. Plan. We came to see this Krampus guy, didn’t we?”
Woden nodded, tracing a crack with his tips of his fingers.
“So how do we get in to see him?” Griffin continued. “This Krampus guy. How do we get up there from down here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The entry is clearly hidden by an ancient Magic even I don’t understand. Then again…”
Woden stepped back about six feet and glanced about.
“Now what are you looking for?” Griffin asked impatiently.
“The entry. Haven’t you been listening?”
“In the sand?” Griffin cried, exasperated.
Woden shot him an indignant look. “Do you see where we are and what surrounds us? Sand.”
“Yeah, so?”
“With so much sand and so much wind, it’s possible the entry might lay hidden in the ground beneath us.”
Griffin thought for a moment.
“So what you’re saying is, you don’t know.” Letting out a derisive snort, Griffin stormed away from Woden and toward the wall. He put his hands flat on the rock. It was cold and gritty to the touch. And yet it vibrated as though it were alive.
“Griffin, what are you doing?” Kris trotted toward him. “You can’t just—”
“No. What I can’t just is wait for this Krampus person to show up or call us to him. He might not even be home.”
“Griffin, look around. This is the most desolate place I’ve ever been, and that’s saying a lot. There’s nothing here. Where do you think he’d be? The mall?”
“He could be out hunting. Exploring. I don’t know!”
“Woden will figure out a way in.”
“But, Kris. We don’t have that much time. That’s what you said. In fact, both of you did. And urgently, I might add.”
“Yes, but these things take time.”
“Time we don’t have.”
“We’re talking about an ancient form of Magic, Griffin. I assure you if anyone can figure out a way to get inside—”
“But look at him! Does he even know what he’s doing?”
Kris and Griffin watched as Woden placed a hand and an ear against the stone. He closed his eyes and mumbled gibberish they could actually hear but didn’t understand.
“It’s like he’s friggin’ Gandalf. He didn’t know how to get inside the mountain, either.” Griffin gasped suddenly.
“Whoa. Wait a minute. I know that look. Griffin? What are
you thinking?” Kris asked with apprehension in his voice.
“Writing.” Griffin stepped back and fixed his gaze on the mountain. He scanned the surface for anything resembling letters or symbols. “In all the fantasy movies I’ve ever seen, in all the books I’ve ever read, there are always symbols. Runes, I think. Or some sort of ancient handwriting to keep people out. All we have to do is find it. And like…I don’t know. Touch it or blow on it or something.”
Griffin jogged back and forth, frantically searching. But after several minutes, in a fit of anger he turned and walked away before doing an about-face and racing toward the mountain as if he were going to tackle the opposing team.
“Griffin, stop!” Kris cried. “You can’t just throw yourself at a place protected by Magic.”
Griffin stopped short, skidding on the sand.
“You don’t know what spells have been placed,” Kris continued. “You don’t know what they’ll do to you. To us. We could end up changed. Transformed into something other than what we are. Or worse.”
“Worse? How could it be any worse?”
“We could be dead.” Woden approached with a smirk on his face. “Magic is nothing to be trifled with, but you go right on ahead and poke around if you feel you must. Throw yourself at the mountain the way you were planning to. Maybe the mountain will move.” Woden stood with a sarcastic smile on his face.
“Woden, you can’t—” Kris warned.
“Let him have at it, Kris. If Griffin thinks he knows so much… Go ahead, young man! Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Woden crossed his arms and cocked his head.
Taking it as a challenge, Griffin snarled and stormed away in a huff. He stood before the mountain and muttered. “All right. Let’s see now. If this were a movie—”
“Which it isn’t,” Woden spoke, infuriatingly calm.
“If I were a Hobbit,” Griffin continued nonplussed.
“Which you are not,” Woden snidely reminded him.
Griffin ignored him. “I’d be able to see some form of ancient writing somewhere. But since there doesn’t seem to be any, that means there must be a secret button or…or some sort of…hidden platform. Or maybe a platform and buttons.” Griffin paced, darting his gaze here and there. He thought he saw an indentation that looked like a hand imprint on the rock’s surface and grinned.
“Aha!” Griffin stepped toward the mountain and placed a hand against the stone. Nothing happened. With a sigh, Griffin walked away. He rushed at the mountain, fully intending to smack his shoulder against it, but at the last minute realized it might hurt. He skidded to a stop and paced some more, growing more irritated by the minute at the way Kris and Woden—especially Woden—glared at him.
If Jackson and I ever end up living together, I’m going to make sure his father’s an infrequent visitor.
Woden snorted with derision. Had he overheard? Even if he had, Griffin didn’t care.
Inches away from the oddly vibrating surface, which Griffin could still feel without even touching, he pushed the thought of Woden aside and lost himself. He closed his eyes and listened to the vibration, trying to see if there was any sort of pattern. He opened his eyes. He tapped, knocked, then rapped his fist on the surface. Every once in a while, he pressed his hands along indentations in the wall. He even kicked at the mountain, mostly out of frustration, but only ended up hopping on one foot and howling in pain.
“Owww! Shit. Son of a bitch. That hurt!”
“What did you expect? It is stone.” Woden laughed. Even Kris suppressed a chuckle by pretending to clear his throat.
Griffin bit his tongue to keep from mouthing off and stared up toward a castle he could not see because he was too close to the steep mountain.
Suddenly, uncertain if he’d become possessed with a rash impatience, the urge to scream with frustration, or if it were simply a hunch, Griffin yelled.
“Krampus? This is Griffin Kloss from Earth Realm!”
“Griffin, no!” Kris whispered harshly, but Griffin ignored him.
He called out again. “I demand entry into your castle! Are you listening to me, Krampus? Krampus! I’m Griffin Kloss, and I demand you…”
A loud rumble like thunder drowned out the wind. The ground shook. Griffin struggled to retain his balance. He spun around to see Kris and Woden running toward him. Their mouths moved, but Griffin couldn’t hear what they said for the whoosh in his ears. The terrain shifted, and Griffin soon realized it was he who had begun to move.
As the ground beneath his feet rose, he fell to all fours. He remained low in order to avoid falling over the edge as he left the others behind. His vision blurred as he continued to spin faster and faster. His insides turned to mush, and he feared he might lose control of his bowels. And just when he thought he’d hurl or scream or pee or poop or all of the above at once, everything stopped. The world around him grew silent.
Griffin remained on hands and knees, the cold, hard, and compact dirt beneath him the only thing keeping him in touch with reality. Then he noticed the cloven hooves before him.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” A low, rumbling voice chuckled with malicious intent. From the sound of it, Griffin could tell whomever had spoken was behind whatever creatures stood before Griffin. Filled with dread at the deep voice, he gulped.
Chapter Sixteen
As sand and dust settled, Griffin slowly gazed up. Standing before him were six monstrosities. Half men, half bull, they had cloven feet, nose rings, and ear tags, like they were cattle that belonged to a farm. The tips of their horns had been sawn halfway—Griffin imagined it might be so they wouldn’t gore someone—but they were no less intimidating for all their brawn and muscle.
Eyes on the minotaurs, Griffin stood shakily. As large as he was, he felt puny before them. Vaguely aware he was in a cavernous room filled to the brim, Griffin purposely avoided looking at any of them. Instead, he focused on what was before him. He gathered his courage and spoke clearly, making sure not to stammer or stutter.
“Krampus!”
“No. Minotaurs,” a disembodied voice, the voice that had greeted him when he arrived, said. The creatures stepped to either side in formation, revealing an even more jaw-dropping sight.
Something massive sat on a large, rough-hewn throne. Something gray with scaly skin, muscles upon muscles, and eyes that were gold and reptilian like those of a dragon. Like the minotaurs, this creature also had large horns. They were thick at the base where they emerged from his skull and curled in on themselves. He, or it—perhaps the devil himself—looked as though his head might wobble if he moved too quickly. Unlike the minotaurs’ however, the tips of this creature’s horns were sharp and frightening.
He wore what appeared to be a funky pair of extremely hairy pants that made him look like a goat from the waist down with hooves instead of feet, like the minotaurs.
And yet he was clearly human or had been at some point.
“I am Krampus. You wished to see me?”
Rooted to the spot, Griffin eventually found his voice.
“Yes, your…Krampusness. I’m Griff—”
“I know who you are.” Krampus spoke in a low, smooth tone. His was a voice so rich, with a bass so deep, Griffin felt it in his chest. “What I don’t know is why you’ve come here.”
“I’m—we—are here because you have my…” Griffin knit his brow. What could he say? Jackson wasn’t exactly his boyfriend. And yet they were more than friends. In the end, he satisfied himself with a simple: “You have my friend.”
“Friend. Hmmm. How…sweet.”
Krampus rose, and Griffin swallowed. He had to be at least nine feet tall. Truly an awesome and amazing sight to behold! A creature Griffin might have found cool if he hadn’t been so terrified.
Beads of sweat formed on Griffin’s forehead. His insides grew cold and his knees buckled, but he remained firm as the man-creature slowly clomped toward him. That was when Griffin realized Krampus wasn’t wearing hairy pants as he�
��d originally thought. What Griffin had mistaken for pants were, in actuality, extremely hairy legs. From the waist down, Krampus was a goat!
Then Griffin noticed the pendulous cock and bull balls swaying as the giant half-man, half-goat, minotaur-like creature drew near and stopped less than two feet away. Griffin forced himself to look away, told himself not to stare. And yet it was like driving past a traffic accident on the highway.
“Are you envious? Or…interested?” Krampus teased with a sexual growl, then chuckled in amusement.
Standing so close, Krampus seemed even taller, stronger. He reeked of rot and waste. Griffin breathed through his mouth as he fought the urge to gag, but the stench was so much more than odor. It was something Griffin could taste.
Krampus sniffed and snorted, like a dog picking up a scent.
“Griffin Kloss. Son of former Santa Claus, Gavin Kloss.”
Griffin’s jaw did drop. “You…you know my father?”
“I knew your father.”
In the silence that followed, Griffin was painfully aware of the flames crackling inside the fireplaces, the torches. He knew the people and creatures in the room still watched him intently. He could feel their gaze on him. Krampus turned his back on Griffin and stepped away, and Griffin took the opportunity to glance about. He was indeed in a cavernous room lit by a handful of fireplaces on either side. Blazing torches had been ensconced in crumbling columns that held up the ceiling.
A smattering of humans and creatures—unicorns, fairies, elves, and dwarves—or were they leprechauns? Griffin couldn’t tell. They looked similar but with subtle differences. Insects flew past. He swatted at them in annoyance, noting that those standing had one thing in common, regardless of whether they were creature or human. They looked broken and afraid, drowning in a sea of oppressive emotion. Except for the fact that Griffin could tell they would have preferred to be anywhere but where they were, it was like something out of a fairy tale.
Standing amid the hopeless and downtrodden, trolls and ogres stared at Griffin with blank curiosity. The flittering creatures he’d thought were insects dove and hummed like bloodthirsty mosquitos. On closer inspection, they appeared to be dragonflies. When one brazenly stopped before him, making him go cross-eyed, Griffin realized the flying things had smooshed-in faces. They had arms and legs, and their bodies were dingy brown. Whatever they were—Brownies? Pixies?—the flying creatures sneered at Griffin, lips peeled back to reveal razor-sharp teeth as they licked at the air and hissed.