Krampus

by Brom

  Jesse waited.

  Krampus continued to stare at the stove.

  “Are you giving up then? Is the Yule Lord turning his back on Yuletide?”

  He saw Krampus stiffen, knew the beast heard him.

  “I guess he won after all. Santa Claus . . . he beat you.”

  Krampus’s troubled frown deepened and the end of his tail twitched.

  Jesse sat the sack down on the box next to Krampus. “You might have your sack, your freedom . . . might have his head, but it appears he still won.”

  Krampus took a sip from the flask.

  “You were asking earlier how to go about making people believe. Well, I say if you want them to believe . . . you have to give them something to believe in. You have to get out there and be great and terrible. You have to make them believe.”

  Krampus shifted his weight as though suddenly very uncomfortable.

  “Well, shit sure ain’t happening so long as you’re moping around, so long as you’re sucking on that bottle like it’s your mama’s tit.”

  Krampus took another swig, a long swig, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes as though the world didn’t exist.

  Jesse snatched the flask from Krampus’s hand.

  Krampus’s eyes popped open; he stared at Jesse, utterly stunned.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Jesse cried and smashed the clay bottle to bits upon the floor. “Merry fucking Christmas!”

  Krampus leapt up, gave Jesse a tremendous shove, knocking Jesse off his feet, sending him sliding backward across the floor and into Freki. The wolf yelped, hobbled to its feet, and limped away from the fray.

  “I will tear your heart from your chest for that!” Krampus snarled and stomped after Jesse. Jesse sat up, met Krampus’s burning eyes, grinned. “There! That’s it!” Jesse cried. “Be terrible! Come on. That’s what you do, be the Yule Lord, not some sulking brat!”

  Krampus stopped, glared. “Who are you to lecture me about giving up?” He sneered. “You, a music-maker who is afraid to face his own muse. Who turns his back on the great gifts bestowed upon him, and denies the very core of his soul.”

  “Yeah . . . okay, great. You’re a loser like me. Way to go.”

  “Bah,” Krampus growled, throwing his hands up in disgust. He turned away, headed back to the stove, and snatched the sack up off the chair. He held it a minute, crushing the lush velvet in his hands, appeared to be carrying on a silent conversation with it, his head nodding slightly. He let out a grunt, picked up the birch switches. “Let’s go.” He tromped out the door and into the night.

  The two Shawnee exchanged a troubled glance, but hopped up and rushed out after the Yule Lord.

  Vernon slapped his marbles down on the checkerboard, glared at Jesse. “Thanks! Y’know, this was probably the first enjoyable evening I’ve had in . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a hundred years. Now instead of playing games around a warm fire, I get to go creeping into people’s houses out in the freezing cold. Gosh, somebody pinch me.”

  Jesse gave Chet a kick. “Wake up, fuckhead. Time to go.”

  Chet groaned, sat up, looked around as though trying to figure out where he was. Once he caught on, he let out a pitiful moan.

  “Tall, Dark and Ugly is waiting for you outside,” Jesse said.

  Chet looked as though he wanted to curl up and cry, but managed to crawl to his feet and zombie-shuffle his way out the door.

  Isabel grabbed Lacy’s jacket, quickly bundled her up, wrapping a thick scarf around her neck and face and tying the panda cap earflaps securely under her chin. Lacy had to pull the scarf down and push the hat up in order to see. “Are we going for another ride in the sleigh?” she mumbled through the scarf.

  “We sure are, dumpling.”

  “You can’t bring her,” Vernon said.

  “Well, I ain’t gonna be leaving her here.”

  “Isabel,” Jesse said carefully. “You know we’re gonna have to find someplace for her.”

  Isabel shot him a cutting look. “We’ll just have to see.”

  Lacy clutched Isabel, clung tightly to her waist.

  “Don’t you worry, shug,” Isabel said. “You can stay with me if that’s what you want.”

  Lacy nodded that she did.

  Jesse sighed. “Isabel, you know this won’t work.” And he saw by her face that she did, but he also saw how much Isabel needed this little girl right now.

  “We better get going,” Vernon said and headed out the door.

  The wolves came out on the steps and watched them load up. Isabel and Lacy hopped up front, Vernon in the back, Jesse started to climb aboard, stopped. “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?” Isabel asked, following his hard stare over to the fallen downspout.

  “Santa’s head.”

  They all looked, but there was no trace of the trophy.

  “Coyote must’ve got it,” Chet said.

  “No,” Jesse said. “Not with them wolves around.”

  “Must’ve sprouted legs and wandered off on its own then,” Chet said with a snort.

  Jesse noticed something even more disturbing: footprints in the snow, human in size and shape, they led a few steps away, then ended. As though the owner had just flown off.

  Krampus stared at the spot where Santa’s head had been, stared for a long time, his face troubled. “It seems my time . . . it grows short,” he said under his breath. Then he slapped the reins and once again the Yule goats leapt forward and pulled them into the sky.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Christmas Demon

  Dillard pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. He tugged the plastic bag open, peered in at the gloves, the duct tape, the knife, and the ball-peen hammer he’d taken from the General’s shop, at the hat and screwdriver from Jesse’s truck, and the wad of hair he’d plucked from the brush he’d found in the glove compartment—enough evidence to place Jesse at both crime scenes. Dillard knew investigators wouldn’t dig much further once they had all the pieces, and he planned on making it real easy to find all the pieces.

  Dillard took a moment to gaze at the white Christmas lights illuminating his front porch, sparkling across the snow and ice, at the pretty evergreen wreath perched on his red front door—a picture-perfect Christmas scene. They’re in there, waiting, got no idea what’s heading their way.

  He’d killed plenty of people over the years; some died easy, some died bad, but regardless, once the act was done, he’d never felt much of anything. Things were different with Ellen: not a single day passed that he didn’t think of her. Would it be the same with Linda? He didn’t think so. He loved Linda, but he could never love anyone like Ellen. He felt that, with time, Linda’s ghost would fade and he’d move on. He hoped so, because this wouldn’t be a clean, execution-style death: their deaths would have to match those at the General’s compound, would have to look like the work of an enraged, jealous spouse. That sort of thing just might haunt a man.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tried to turn his feelings off. Linda would no longer be the woman he’d made love to, nor Abigail the little girl he’d made smile and giggle. Once he walked in that door, they were meat, to be bled and cut up.

  He exhaled, opened his eyes, plucked the plastic bag off the seat, and got out of the car. “Try not to feel,” he told himself as he strolled up the stone path. “Try not to feel.”

  He eased the front door open and stepped quietly inside. He found three grocery sacks stacked along the wall, Linda’s and Abigail’s clothes folded neatly within, and two plastic garbage bags with the dolls Jesse had given Abigail along with the rest of the things they’d brought over. The fact that she was gathering their things to leave bothered him less than the fact that she was paying no heed to his warnings. Her disregard only confirmed to him that she couldn’t be trusted, that he was doing the right thing. Doing what he had to do.

  The sound of the television drifted out from the living room and he caught Linda’s voice talking to Abigail. Good, he thought
, they’re together. He threw the bolt behind him and slid the bags in front of the door. He knew it wouldn’t keep anyone in, he just wanted something to slow a person down, say if they were in a real hurry to leave, for some reason.

  He walked down the short hall, past the bathroom on his left, and then into the living room. The living room contained a small dining room area separated from the kitchen by a bar-style counter. Abigail sat in one of the stools, her back to him, playing with two of her dolls. Linda stood in the kitchen, fixing something on the stove. She caught sight of him and started, her eyes turned cold, and she looked away.

  “See you got your things packed,” Dillard said.

  Abigail stopped playing, looked over at him, no trace of her usual joyful smile. She glanced anxiously at her mother.

  “I would like my keys back, please,” Linda said, she sounded tired and drained.

  “Okay,” he said, and walked across the living room to the dining room. He unclipped his police radio, turned it up, and sat it on the table, wanting to be sure he didn’t miss any calls on Jesse. He sat the plastic bag down next to it and dug her keys out of his pocket, dropping them on the table.

  Linda went about fixing Abigail a grilled cheese, keeping her back to him, going out of her way not to look at him. Dillard leaned over and slipped the locking pin into the sliding glass door—another precaution, should things get out of hand. He glanced out upon his backyard; a hint of sunset still outlined the hilltops. He owned close to five acres backing up to the river; his nearest neighbor was Tomsey through the woods to the south. Between the forest and old Tomsey being near deaf, he wasn’t too worried anyone would hear any screaming.

  Dillard knew he should get this show on the road, that every minute he spent was one more minute someone could come along and discover the slaughterhouse over at the General’s, or that Jesse might show up somewhere in town. But he found the next step much harder than he expected. He watched Linda flip the cheese sandwich over in the skillet, stared at the back of her head, at her beautiful hair, and imagined the look on her face when the first blow landed, the pain, the confusion, the horror. He would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

  He clenched his jaw. Now’s not the time to get weak.

  He picked up the plastic bag and headed back to the hall and into the bathroom. He emptied his bladder, then stripped down to only his socks. Footprints in the blood could be used the same as fingerprints; it would be easier to just burn the socks later. He didn’t worry about his DNA evidence, it was his house, they’d be expecting that, but blood, blood was a different matter. If he planned on matching the brutality of the murders at the General’s place, then there’d be plenty of blood and he had to make sure none of it got on his clothes. He stacked the clothes, his watch, and his shoes on the floor next to the sink. After he was done killing the girls and planting Jesse’s evidence, he would shower and then come back down and dress.

  He opened the sack, pulled out the gloves, slipped them on, then took out the ball-peen hammer. Figured that’d be the right tool to start with. He’d hit Linda hard, but not too hard, just enough to knock her down, maybe a kneecap next, something to keep her from running while he took care of Abigail. Then he would get the knife and do the job right.

  He opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air tingling against his nakedness. “Meat,” he whispered. “They’re just meat.”

  NOTHING.

  Blackness.

  Light.

  Adrift, the current tugging him down, down, down.

  Drowning. Choking. Weight. The pain of flesh. Santa Claus felt cold stone beneath his back, opened his eyes. All was bathed in golden light. Blurry shapes shifted about him.

  His wife’s face slowly came into focus, hovering over him, not Nanna, but Perchta, his earthborn wife. She clutched his hand, worry etched into her ageless eyes.

  “He lives,” she whispered, then, loudly, “Santa Claus has returned to us!” A great clamor echoed about the chamber. Santa blinked; he lay in the chapel, encircled by his lesser wives. All of them weeping and wailing with joy. The sounds stabbing into his head like knives.

  So that was death. No thoughts. No memories. No regrets. Nothing. So very sweet.

  Two beings—neither male nor female—in golden robes stood at his feet, their white wings almost too bright to look upon. One of them spoke. “It seems God does not wish you dead.”

  “Why?” he coughed, clearing his throat. “How do I matter to God?”

  The two angels exchanged a surprised smile. “Why? Because you amuse her.”

  “Amuse?” Santa sat up. The world spun about him. He clutched the slab to steady himself. “Amuse? Do I serve no higher purpose than to entertain?”

  “You bring a smile to God’s lips. Is that not enough?”

  Santa swung his feet off the slab, tried to stand. His knees buckled and Perchta caught him, kept him from falling. “I am not but a plaything.”

  “You are upset?”

  “I am done amusing the gods. Done with this song and dance.”

  “You wish to be done?” The angel’s brow furrowed. “But there is no greater calling than to serve the Lord. Is it not an honor?”

  Bells, far away, growing louder, voices, it was that song, that silly, silly song: “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Santa glanced around at the women, none of them seemed to hear. “I am done, I said. Done with all of it. Tell God to leave me be!”

  “You would give it all up?” The angel shrugged. “If it is your wish to let it go, to become mortal, it can be made so.” The song, the bells, they began to wane. “Your name, like your song, will fade, and eventually the name Santa Claus will be forgotten.”

  The song ceased; his breath the only sound. The silence chilled his heart.

  “What name shall you be called henceforth?” the angel asked. “I would guess not Baldr. Bob? Mike? Tom? Who will you be now?”

  “Stop it. Why do you torment me?”

  The angel laughed. “You only torment yourself. Do you truly believe you are an equal to the likes of Jesus, or any of the great prophets? You are a curio, a man in a red suit handing out gifts.”

  Santa ground his teeth.

  “We will honor your wish. But remember, it was you that turned your back on God.” The angels withdrew, left the chapel, headed up the path.

  “No,” Santa said.

  They kept walking.

  “No,” he called. “No . . . do not leave!” He took a step after them, clutching the slab to keep upright. “I take it back!” he cried. “I take it back!” His voice broke into a sob. “I take it back.”

  They stopped, studied him, their eyes full of pity. They returned. “Who are you?”

  He glared at them. “I am Santa Claus.”

  They smiled. “Take heart, Santa Claus. You spread hope and cheer in a world of darkness. You please God in a universe where so many do not. Be happy with that.”

  The bells returned, they warmed him, reached to his core, touched his very soul. A great weight lifted from his chest. He inhaled deeply and once again felt whole.

  “Now, enough of this silliness,” the angel said. “The world needs Santa Claus and God wishes to know if there is anything she can do for you.”

  Santa started to shake his head, stopped, met the angel’s eyes. “Yes, most certainly. There is a devil in need of killing.”

  “THERE, THAT’S AS good a place as any.” Jesse pointed to the steeple below. “Lights are on. Appears to be plenty of folks around.”

  Isabel bit her lip. She’d already vetoed the previous two churches they’d flown over. She shook her head and hugged Lacy.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t know that church.”

  “They’re Methodists, Isabel.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “What, you don’t like Methodists now? First Pentecostal, now Methodist. Whoever heard of anyone having a problem with Methodists? Isabel, I think you’re just look
ing for an excuse. Now you got to think about Lacy.”

  Isabel frowned. “Okay,” she said, in little more than a whisper.

  “What?” Jesse asked. “Did you say okay? Okay, for the church?”

  She nodded, her lips tight and drawn.

  “Okay,” Jesse said to Krampus. “We can take her there.”

  Krampus landed them in a small field behind the church. A line of hedges afforded a reasonable amount of cover from the homes just across the street. Krampus didn’t seem to care much one way or another, not having spoken a single word since leaving. He stared at the church as though it were a blight upon the land.

  Jesse helped Lacy down while keeping his eye on Isabel, who continued to scrutinize the church. He knew she was looking for the slightest reason to call the whole thing off.

  Isabel took Lacy’s hand. After a good minute went by without anyone saying a word, without Isabel taking a single step forward, Jesse sat his hand on Isabel’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re doing the right thing.”

  Isabel nodded, “I know. I know.” Yet, still, she stood there.

  “I’d be glad to come with you.”

  “No. Don’t want anyone to see us . . . any of us. Would only make things harder on Lacy.” She looked down at the little girl. “Okay, Lace, let’s go find a really nice person for you to stay with awhile.” Isabel made an obvious effort to sound upbeat, but Jesse could hear the strain in her voice. “Okay?”

  Lacy looked scared and unsure, but when Isabel pulled her along she came readily enough, and the two of them headed up the walkway, sticking to the shadows as they made their way toward the front of the church.

  Jesse could see people through the windows; they appeared to be decorating the chapel in preparations for New Year’s Eve. A tall Christmas tree stood in front of one of the windows, its lights blinking. Krampus stared at it, a thunderous scowl upon his face.

  Vernon slipped through the hedges, over to a row of mailboxes. Plastic newspaper bins with the Boone Standard logo hung beneath the boxes. One still held a paper and Vernon helped himself, opened it, scanning the pages as he walked back over.