by Brom
The sleigh shot upward, spinning even faster, and Jesse could no longer see what was happening, could only hear screams and yowls as the sleigh spun up, and up, and up. He stepped out from the truck, craning his neck, tracking the diminishing silhouette. The clouds had moved in and it was snowing again. The sleigh quickly disappeared into the night sky.
Silence.
Jesse let out a long exhale. “Fuck.” He clawed out a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jean jacket. About the time he located his lighter, he caught a sound and glanced back up—someone was screaming. The screaming grew in volume and he caught sight of a black speck tumbling earthward.
THE DEVIL MAN landed on the front windshield of the Tucker boy’s Camaro, smashing into the hood and setting off the horn. The horn blared up and down the snowy lane.
Jesse took a step toward the car when something crashed down through the trees and slammed through the roof of his mobile home. He turned in time to see the back window shatter and his Christmas lights fall off—that one damnable red bulb finally going dark. Jesse looked back and forth, unsure which way to go, then continued toward the man on the car hood.
Lights came on and a few heads poked out from windows and doors.
As Jesse approached, the horn made a final sputtering bleat like a dying goat and cut off. He stared at the black devil man, only the man wasn’t really black or really a devil. He wore a crude hand-stitched cloak made from what must be bear hide, and his hair and ragged clothing were smeared in what appeared to be soot and tar. His skin reminded Jesse of the miners heading home at the end of their shifts, their faces and hands streaked and crusted in layers of coal dust. The horns were just cow horns stitched into the sides of the hood, but his eyes, his eyes flared, glowing a deep, burning orange with tiny, pulsing black pupils. They followed Jesse as he walked around the vehicle. Jesse hesitated, unsure if he should come any closer. The strange man raised a hand, reached for Jesse with long, jagged fingernails. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, and a mouthful of blood bubbled from his lips. The man’s hand fell and his eyes froze, staring, unblinking, at Jesse. Slowly, those vexing eyes lost their glow, changed from orange to brown, into normal, unremarkable brown eyes.
“Now that was weird,” a woman said.
Jesse started, realizing that Phyllis Tucker stood right next to him in her nightgown, house slippers, and husband’s hunting jacket. Phyllis was in her seventies, a small lady, and the hunting jacket all but swallowed her up.
“Huh?”
“I said, that was really weird.”
He nodded absently.
“See the way his eyes changed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That was really weird.”
“Yes, ma’am, it sure was.”
Several other people were venturing out, coming over to see what was going on.
“Think he’s dead?” she asked.
“I believe he might be.”
“He looks dead.”
“Does look that way.”
“Hey, Wade,” Phyllis cried. “Call an ambulance! Wade, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Wade called back. “Be hard not to. They’re already on their way. Fiddle-fuck, it’s cold out here. You seen my jacket?”
From three trailers over, the Powells’ two teenage daughters, Tina and Tracy, came walking up, followed by Tom and his wife, Pam. Pam was trying to light a cigarette and hold on to a beer, all while talking on her cell phone.
“Why’s he all black like that?” Tina asked, and without giving anyone a chance to answer she added, “Where’d he come from?”
“He ain’t from around here,” Phyllis said. “I can sure tell you that.”
“Looks to me like he must’ve fell off something,” Tom said. “Something really high up.”
Everyone looked up except Jesse.
“Like maybe out of a plane?” Tina asked.
“Or Santa’s sleigh,” Jesse put in.
Phyllis gave him a sour look. “Don’t believe the Good Lord approves of folks disrespecting the dead.”
Jesse pulled the unlit cigarette from his mouth and gave Phyllis a grin. “The Good Lord don’t seem to approve of most things I do, Mrs. Tucker. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Billy Tucker arrived, hitching up his jeans. “Shit! My car! Would you just look at what he done to my car!”
Jesse heard a distant siren. Too soon for an EMT. Must be a patrol car. His jaw tightened. He sure didn’t need any more trouble, not tonight. And if Chief Dillard was on duty, that could be a bad scene indeed. Jesse ducked away and headed back toward his trailer.
About halfway back he remembered that something else had fallen from the sky, had crashed through his roof, as a matter of fact, and the odds were pretty good that that something might well still be in there—waiting. Another one of them? He couldn’t stop thinking about the thing’s eyes, those creepy orange eyes. He knew one thing for certain: he didn’t want to be in a room with one of those whatever-the-fucks if it was still kicking around. He reached through his truck window and plucked the revolver up off the seat. It didn’t feel so solid or dependable all of a sudden, it felt small. He let out a mean laugh. Scared? Really? Afraid something’s gonna kill you? Weren’t you the one that was about to blow your own damn head off? Yes, he was, but somehow that was different. He knew what that bullet would do to him, but this thing in his trailer? There was just no telling.
He gently inserted and twisted the key, trying to throw the deadbolt as quietly as possible. The deadbolt flipped with a loud clack. Might as well have rung the goddang doorbell. Holding the gun out before him, he tugged the door open; the hinges protested loudly. Darkness greeted him. He started to reach in and turn on the lights—stopped. Fuck, don’t really want to do that. He bit his lip and stepped up onto the cinder-block step, then, holding the gun in his right hand, he reached across into the darkness with his left. He ran his hand up and down the wall, pawing for the switch, sure at any moment something would bite off his fingers. He hit the switch and the overhead fluorescent flickered on.
His trailer was basically three small rooms: a kitchen-dinette, a bathroom, and a bedroom. He peered in from the step. There was nothing in the kitchen other than a week’s worth of dirty utensils, soiled paper plates, and a couple of Styrofoam cups. The bathroom was open and unoccupied, but his bedroom door was shut and he couldn’t remember if he had left it that way or not. You’re gonna have to go take a look. But his feet decided they were just fine where they were, so he continued standing there staring stupidly at that shut door.
Red and blue flashing lights caught his eye; a patrol car was coming down the hill. He thought what a pretty picture he painted, standing there pointing a gun into a trailer. Okay, Jesse told himself, this is the part where you don’t be a screw-up. He stepped up into the trailer, pulling the door to but not shutting it.
It took another full minute of staring at his bedroom door before he said, “Fuck it,” and walked over and turned the knob. The door opened halfway in and stopped. Something blocked it. Jesse realized he’d bitten his cigarette in two and spat it out. Don’t like this . . . not one bit. Holding the gun at eye level, he nudged the door inward with the toe of his boot. He could just make out a hunched dark shape on the far side of his bed. “Don’t you fucking move,” he said, trying to sound stern, but he couldn’t hide the shake in his voice. Keeping the gun trained on the shape, he batted at the wall switch. The lamp lay on the floor, the shade smashed, but the bulb still lit, casting eerie shadows up the wall.
Jesse let out a long breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
There was no orange-eyed demon waiting to devour him, only a sack—a large red sack, tied shut with a gold cord. It had smashed through the roof and ended up on his bed.
Jesse held the sack at gunpoint as he plucked out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with his free hand. He inhaled deeply and watched the snow accumulate in his bedroom. A few deep drags, and his nerves began to settle. He
set a foot on his bed, leaned forward, and poked the sack with the gun barrel as though it might be full of snakes.
Nothing happened.
Jesse jigged the gold cord loose, pulled the sack open, and took a peek.
“I’ll be damned.”
Chapter Two
The Santa Sack
Where are my Belsnickels?”
Krampus strained against his chains, the ancient collar biting into his throat. He craned his neck upward, and there, far up the shaft, he caught a faint glow reflecting off the cavern roof. Moonlight, or the first traces of dawn?
He scratched at the lice plaguing his filthy hide, studied the bits of crusty flesh and scabby hair clinging to the tips of his broken fingernails. I am rotting away. While he indulges in life’s pleasures, I die a little more each day. He noticed the tremor in his fingers. Am I shaking? Do I stand here and quiver like a child? He clutched his hands together.
And what if they should never return? What then? What chance do I have without my children? There would be no hope, no chance to once again spread my name across the land, and without hope, even I, the great Yule Lord, would eventually succumb to madness. Would wither and fade and he would win after all.
“No!” he snarled. “Never! I shall never let him win. If I lie here nothing but a shriveled carcass then so be it, for my spirit shall never rest. I will become a plague upon his house. I will vex him. I will . . . I will . . .” His voice drifted off. He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold cavern wall. He pressed his palms against the moist stone and listened, hoping to sense the vibrations of their running feet through the layers of earth.
“The Belsnickels will return,” he said. “They must return. Must bring Loki’s sack home to me.”
The light above flickered and his heart sped up. He waited, watched, but knew it was his wishful fancy and nothing more. A draft of cool air drifted down the shaft. Krampus inhaled deeply, catching the faintest hint of pine needles and damp rotting leaves. He closed his eyes, tried to remember what winter dawn in the forest looked like, what it felt like to run and dance among the trees with the crisp cold air biting at his throat.
“Soon,” he whispered. “I shall walk sweet Mother Earth once more and they will celebrate my return. There will be festivals and celebrations, like before, and so much more.”
Memories unfolded, a kaleidoscope of images piling atop one another, a thousand Yuletides past: the drums calling him from the forest; the horns heralding his arrival; the boys and girls, their eyes full of fear and fascination as they adorned him with circlets of feathers and mistletoe and crowned him with holly leaves; twirling maidens that strew his path with fresh pine needles, perfumed him with crushed spruce, and led him through the maze of huts, the parade of boisterous men clanging sword and shield and yodeling women following in his wake. The doors of the lord’s house opening to him, the smell of roasting boar inviting him in. They would seat him upon a giant wicker throne at the head of the long table and there lavish him with feast and drink—all the honey mead one could hold. Then they would parade their plumpest young women before him, and to the cheers and laughter of all he would mount them, one after another, rutting with them like the beasts in the woods, blessing them with fertile, healthy wombs.
And with the people’s devotion and fervor pulsing in his heart, he would herald in Yuletide, usher in the rebirth of the land, and chase away the spirits of famine and pestilence. And the cycle of life would continue ever onward.
And soon, he thought, I will be blessing mankind again. But this time it will be these lost peoples of the Virginias. For this new land of America has dire need of me, need for me to be great and terrible, to chase away their dark spirits, to beat the wicked amongst them. And I shall, for the Yule Lord knows how to be terrible, and I shall be terrible, and they will come to worship me, lavish me with celebration and feast and . . . and again line up their young women for me to glorify. He nodded and smiled, his eyes focused on something far away. They will love me. They will all come to love me.
“WELL, I’LL BE damned,” Jesse said again, then once more for good measure.
He could see the corner of a box just inside the Santa sack. He stuck his gun in his jacket pocket and pulled out the box. He grinned. It was a brand-new Teen Tiger doll.
“Yes, Abigail, dear, there is indeed a Santa Claus.”
He examined the doll. A seductive pair of blue cat eyes surrounded by heavy eyeliner looked back at him from beneath an explosion of glittery hair. He was contemplating the appropriateness of the doll’s pouty, cherry-red lips, tiger-striped miniskirt, and exposed midriff, when it struck him how very odd that the doll should be there in the first place. This being Santa’s sack, he’d hoped there’d be toys inside, sure, and he’d also hoped there’d be a Teen Tiger doll, too, hadn’t he? And which one had he been thinking of? He looked at the doll again. “Tina Tiger,” the one his daughter wanted. And there she was, sitting right on top, as though the sack were handing her to him. It’s like the thing read my mind. The hair on his arms prickled and he gave the bag a suspicious look. Okay, settle down. You’re already weirded out enough. He took in a deep breath.
He lifted the sack, surprised at how light it was; he could hold it at arm’s length with just one hand. It was about the size of one of those Hefty lawn bags. He shook the snow off and carried it and the doll into his dining room, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him to keep the cold and snow out.
Outside, the EMT had arrived, bathing the room in flashing lights. Jesse tossed the bag on the floor, stared at it until he’d finished his cigarette, then pulled over a kitchen chair and sat down. He hooked a thumb into the lip of the sack and held it open, peering cautiously in, as though expecting something to spring out at him. The inside of the sack was dark, the black velvet lining quickly disappearing into shadows, allowing him to see no farther than three or four inches within. There was something unnatural about those shadows and the more he studied the dimness the more convinced he became that he wasn’t seeing shadows at all, but a sort of smoke, a dense, swirling vapor. The smoke ebbed and flowed, yet didn’t leave the sack.
He prodded the outside of the bag. It felt substantial, similar to the lumpy beanbag chair he’d had as a kid. He could push it this way and that, but it always regained its form. He really wanted to know what else was in there, but felt in no hurry to go sticking his arm into that smoky goo to find out.
He peered back inside, thought about how delighted Abigail would be if he brought her not one but maybe a couple of those little slutty dolls. He swallowed and eased his hand into the mouth of the bag. His fingers disappeared into the smoke, then his hand, then his forearm. He noticed a change in temperature, the inside of the bag being much warmer, and all at once he had an overwhelming notion that the bag itself was alive, that he had his hand in the thing’s mouth, and that the thing might chomp down on his arm like a bear trap. Something bumped his wrist and he cried out, yanking his hand from the bag. He examined his hand and arm like they might be covered in leeches, but they were fine.
“Damn it. Stop being such a pussy.”
He thought of another one of the dolls—the Asian one with the dragon tattoo—bit his lip and slid his hand back in, pushed inward until his arm disappeared up to the elbow, praying his fingers would still be attached when he pulled them back out. He fished about until he found the object again. It felt like a box. He pulled it from the sack and wasn’t the least surprised to find himself looking into Ting Tiger’s exotic purple eyes.
Jesse grunted. Okay, I get it. He thought of the Goth one, then the redhead, retrieving both of them. He didn’t stop there. Just the week before, Abigail had sat in his lap with the Toys “R” Us circular, naming all six of the Teen Tigers, had explained all their superpowers, had told him which ones she liked best and which accessories were must-haves. She went on to clarify just how hard it was for a girl her age to eat, sleep, or even breathe without having at least one of these aw
esome dolls in her possession.
A minute later, Jesse had the full gang of Tiger girls lined up across the table, as well as a tiger-striped, red Corvette and two accessory blister packs. And it didn’t take any great shakes to see that all those toys couldn’t have possibly fit in that bag together. The sack’s making ’em somehow. Then it struck him. The bag is making whatever I wish for! His eyes grew wide and he stopped breathing for a moment. Really? Had the heavens really just dropped a magic sack into his lap? He leapt to his feet, jumped over, and bolted the door, then peeked out the front window. The ambulance and patrol car were still out there, but the neighbors had all gone home, well, all except for Phyllis, who was gabbing on a mile a minute to the EMT driver.
Jesse pulled the shades shut and dropped down in front of the sack, his hand hovering over the opening. He closed his eyes, pictured a diamond ring, and slipped in his hand. There! He clasped a small velvet case, holding his breath as he slowly withdrew it from the bag. His fingers shook so bad it took three tries to pry it open. “Oh, fuck yeah!” he said, holding the ring up to the light.
His smile fell.
It was a toy—nothing but plastic and painted aluminum. “Dang it!” He shook his head. “Must’ve done something wrong?” He tossed the ring over his shoulder, closed his eyes again, concentrating this time on a watch. He specifically thought of the gold Rolex he’d recently seen down at the pawn shop. The watch he pulled out did indeed say Rolex on its face, but it was still a toy. “Aw, c’mon! C’mon!” Three tin rings, four plastic watches, and a tall stack of play money later, he got the message: the sack only made toys.
He slid back against the wall. “Well, crap.” He leaned his head against the paneling and stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. “Shit never seems to wanna go my way.” All at once everything that had happened this long, strange evening caught up with him and he just wanted to crawl in bed and stay there. He glanced toward the bedroom. “Probably build a snowman in there by now.” He sighed, plucked the seat cushion from the chair, propped it behind his head, and lay down right there on the floor. He watched the emergency lights flicking through the shades. His eyes wandered over to the dolls. He managed a smile. “I got every one of those little super-tramps . . . every single one.” He thought of Abigail’s face and his smile turned into a grin. “For once, baby doll, your daddy’s not gonna be a loser. For once your daddy’s gonna be a hero.” He closed his eyes. “Abigail, darling . . . just you hold on to your britches, ’cause Santa Claus is coming to town.”