Winterwood

by JG Faherty

  You’d better watch out!

  No one in Anders Bach’s family believed his old tales of Winterwood, a place where Krampus and his Wild Hunt rule a frozen land and where bad children don’t get coal for Christmas, they get baked into pies or forced into slavery. But now the Yule Lads have kidnapped Anders’s grandsons, and he has to rescue them before they’re lost forever. Anders and his daughter must cross the divide between worlds and enter Winterwood, where evil holds sway and even the reindeer have a taste for human flesh. By the time the sun rises, they’ll learn the awful truth about Winterwood: there is no escape without sacrifice.

  Winterwood

  JG Faherty

  Dedication

  To my wife, Andrea, my parents, and my friends who continue to have my back through thick and thin in this crazy world.

  To my second eyes: Rena Mason, Patrick Freivald, Erinn Kemper, Peter Salomon, and Chantal Noordeloos – as always, you helped shave off the rough edges!

  To writers everywhere: you are the ones who are the story tellers, who keep the tales and traditions and legends alive.

  And to the editors and artists at Samhain, especially Don D’Auria, who continue to put out exceptional quality for all those readers who enjoy a shiver and a nightmare with their reading.

  Winterwood

  Dec. 24, 1911

  Death pursued Anders Bach and his friends through the freezing night.

  “Faster! Faster!”

  Anders needed no urging from his companions to hurry. Not when the Yule Cat had them in its sights. They’d thought the tales of the Jólaköttur nothing but silly bedtime stories, tales to terrify little children.

  They were wrong.

  He sped down the street as if swept along by the winter winds that carried the ice and snow from the mountains. Two of his classmates veered to the left. He couldn’t tell who, thanks to the tears in his eyes from the wind and cold. The rest of them flew as fast as their legs could carry them down the slick cobbled stones of the empty street. Someone shouted for help—“Hilfe! Hilfe mir!”—but to no effect. The words only bounced off the battened shutters and locked doors of the village homes. If anyone inside was awake to hear, they prudently paid no heed. Not during the nights of the Yule when the doors between worlds opened and the monsters roamed the earth.

  Behind them, the Yule Cat roared in anticipation of its kill, and warm liquid dampened Anders’s pants as his bladder let loose. He didn’t let it slow him. Better pants soaked with pisse than eaten alive.

  Somebody cried out, a high-pitched wail of pain and terror. Anders thought it might be Heinrich but he couldn’t be sure, not with his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Anders didn’t slow to find out. To slow or look back meant certain death. Or worse.

  He saw his street coming up and waited until the last second to make his turn, hoping the cat couldn’t stop in time. He twisted his body and cut left, only to have his boots slip on the icy stones. Pain flared in his knees and elbows where they struck the pavement, but he ignored it, pushing himself to his feet and forcing his legs to move again. Another scream, this one cut off midcry.

  That’s two it’s killed. Why won’t it stop?

  He knew the answer, even in his terror. Once the Yule Cat had the taste of human blood, it wouldn’t rest until it got every foolish child who’d dared to tempt fate.

  Three houses down, an open window beckoned to him. His bedroom. Once he got inside, he’d be safe. His papa would know what to—

  A long, wailing yowl so close he pictured the giant cat a step behind him, a massive paw raised and ready to strike. Anders put on a desperate burst of speed, hunching his body forward to make a smaller target. Something tore his hat away, and he prayed it was only the wind.

  Two more strides and he reached his window. He leaped up, grabbing the sill with both hands. He’d made it! He lifted one leg and—

  Agony exploded across his side and the world spun around. His head hit the side of the house and the world went dark.

  When he opened his eyes again, he lay on his back in the snow.

  Staring into the face of hell.

  The Yule Cat towered over him, twice the size of any jungle cat, its glowing, green eyes narrowed to slits and its ears laid back. A snarl rumbled up from its broad chest, and the stench of decayed meat fell on Anders like a foul sheet. The cat raised a paw, exposing claws as long as a boy’s hand. Shreds of bloody cloth hung from two of them.

  An explosion echoed through the street and the cat moved back a step, revealing a most welcome sight. His father, nightgown flapping in the wind, standing at the open window with a rifle in his hands.

  “Go away!” Josef Bach hollered at the cat and then fired the rifle once more. This time the shot had more of an effect. The giant cat roared and swatted at the window. Josef ducked, narrowly avoiding the lethal claws that shattered glass and carved thick gouges through wood. When he reappeared, he held something different in his hands.

  A box wrapped in red ribbon.

  “That’s enough, Cat,” he called out, waving the box. “This is new clothes for the boy.”

  The cat’s eyes narrowed and it looked from the window to Anders, one paw raised to strike again. For a moment, Anders feared the presence of the gift might not be enough to stay the beast’s killing blow, that the old tales were wrong and it really could kill a child who’d received a present of clothing from his family for Christmas.

  Then, with an angry growl still rumbling in its chest, the cat turned and slunk down the road. Anders remained on the ground as he watched it go, unable to believe he’d been spared. Only when it had disappeared into the night did he attempt to stand.

  As soon as he moved, his pain returned a thousand times worse than before. He cried out and grabbed at his wound. Blood, hot against his cold hands, seeped through his fingers. Puddles of it darkened the snow where he’d lain. From far away, his father’s voice called to him, “Anders? Anders!”

  Then the night closed in and claimed him.

  His last thought was that the Jólaköttur had won after all.

  Dec. 23, 1979

  “And that is how I came to have these.” Anders Bach pulled up his shirt, revealing three twisting, white scars that ran diagonally from his back to the tops of his ribs and down almost to his navel.

  His two grandsons let out simultaneous gasps and he nodded. “Ja, I’ve carried the mark of the cat all my life. A reminder that you must be good all year and earn your Christmas presents or the Yule Cat will come for you and eat you alive.”

  Anders formed his hands into claws and lunged at the boys, who yelped and jumped back right on cue.

  Despite the seriousness of his story, Anders had to fight back a grin at their wide-eyed looks. Twins in more than appearance, the boys reacted the same, moved the same and quite often thought the same. Which sometimes led to trouble since it meant neither of them had an opposite to advise caution when it came to making the kinds of bad decisions mischievous nine-year-olds were prone to.

  “What happened next?”

  “Did the Yule Cat ever come back for you?”

  Anders shook his head. “I never saw it again. But then, I never disobeyed my—”

  “What the hell are you telling them now?”

  Anders looked up and saw his daughter, Anna, and her husband, Paul, in the opening between the living room and the kitchen, their arms filled with shopping bags. White flakes of snow decorated their hats and shoulders. He’d been so caught up in his story that he’d never heard them come home.

  “Grandpa says the Yule Cat is coming tonight, Mom.”

  “And it eats children who’ve been ba
d all year.”

  “Oh, for… That’s enough stories for tonight, I think.” Anna handed her bags to her husband and then pointed at the children. “Nick, Jake. Upstairs. Now. Time for bed. I’ll be up in ten minutes and you both better be under the covers with your teeth brushed.”

  “But Mommm…” they whined in unison.

  “No buts. March.”

  Anna waited until the boys were out of the room before turning to Anders.

  “How many times have I asked you to stop with all that fairy-tale nonsense? Thanks to your stories about Krampus and the Wild Hunt, they were so afraid of Santa last year they wouldn’t even pose for a picture at the mall. I finally had to tell them Santa isn’t real. Not that it mattered. Even after I took away that big chunk of their childhood before I wanted to, they still ended up having nightmares for weeks. Now you’re filling their heads with more bullshit to keep them up at night.”

  “The old tales are important.” Anders knew too well the futility of his argument but couldn’t help himself. “Otherwise, they die out and then people aren’t safe. Besides, they do keep children from misbehaving. Look at you. You never got into trouble as a girl. You parents today, you coddle the children. Too much entitlement leads to spoiled brats and bad grades. And this time of year, that’s not good.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Anna shook her head and sat down on the arm of the couch across from him. “Did you ever think that maybe all these superstitions aren’t good, either? Look at you. You grew up afraid of your own shadow and did your best to make me the same way. Of course I was good. I had phobias about everything, thanks to your gruesome stories. You know how many times I woke up in the middle of the night from bad dreams when I was their age?” She motioned toward the stairs.

  “Those phobias kept you from harm.”

  Anna’s brows turned down and her lips tightened. She took a deep breath before speaking. “They also made me a laughingstock at school. Other kids got toys at Christmas. I got holiday sweaters and warnings to watch out or the Yule Cat would eat me. Other kids got to trick-or-treat. I had to stay inside so the spirits of the dead wouldn’t steal my soul.”

  Anders opened his mouth but his daughter cut him off, her expression as sharp and cold as the icicles hanging from the gutters outside. “Listen to me. My kids aren’t going to grow up that way. And if you can’t abide by my rules, then maybe next year you shouldn’t come here for Christmas.”

  With a final glare, Anna stood and left the room, leaving Anders speechless.

  Not see the family at Christmas? But they were all he had left, with Willa lost to cancer and Johann, Anna’s brother, killed in Vietnam. The very thought of it drove a spike through his chest and made him want to reach for his heart pills. Why couldn’t Anna see he only had the best intentions? If only she’d get past her own fears, her anger.

  These are different times, Anders. Willa’s voice. How often had she said that to him when she was alive? Different times, yes. But the old dangers still existed. He knew it, even if Willa had never believed. Of course, she’d been born in the United States, raised in a city. My family left those things behind us when they came to this country, she’d always say. You should too. You no longer live in the Black Forest.

  No, he didn’t live in the Schwarzwald anymore, but that meant nothing. The Holly King and his vile creatures could appear anywhere. Just because the Wild Hunt favored the cold lands of Northern Europe didn’t guarantee safety in Pennsylvania, where winters could get mighty cold as well.

  But Anna would never consider that possibility. She’d outgrown the old stories despite how he’d tried to raise her. Gone to college, where they’d taught her about science and turned the legends of her people into fairy tales. And her husband, who’d grown up with stories of jolly old Santa and Rudolph and kindly elves, couldn’t even imagine a dark side to the holidays. No, they would never believe.

  Let’s hope they never have to.

  Anders pushed himself out of the chair, his old bones creaking and popping, and headed for the guest room. He still had things to do before bed. Anna and Paul might not believe, but he still did. Perhaps he couldn’t tell stories to the children anymore.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t do other things to keep them safe.

  “You know, you were kind of hard on him.”

  Anna Willis sighed and put down her book. She’d been expecting Paul to say something about the argument that had taken place earlier. He wouldn’t be the man she loved if he hadn’t.

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll apologize in the morning. But you can’t imagine what it was like growing up in that house.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. But I’ve heard his stories. Some of them are pretty dark.”

  “Dark isn’t the word for it. My father ruined every holiday with his stupid superstitions. Every single, goddamned holiday. Christmas in the Bach household wasn’t about Santa or parties or presents. Instead, we got tales of the Krampus, who wears red-and-black leather and hunts unwary souls during the nights before Christmas, riding through towns on a giant deer with his wild hounds by his side. And don’t forget the Yule Elf, who spied on you to make sure you weren’t lazy.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. My grandparents used to tell us all sorts of crazy fairy tales too. Some of them were damn scary. Kept me up all night.”

  “Did your parents tell you that the Catholic Church made up Santa so people would forget the old ways?”

  “That’s actually true,” Paul said.

  “I don’t care if it’s true. You’re not supposed to tell little kids that you grew up in the Black Forest surrounded by spirits and demons.”

  Paul propped himself on one arm and gave her one of his half smiles. When he spoke, the minty smell of mouthwash filled the space between them.

  “Those were different times. Your father did the best he could, especially after coming to a new country. He put a roof over your head and food on the table. That’s more than a lot of kids can say.”

  A pang of guilt dug into Anna’s stomach, joining the one already embedded there by her earlier overreaction to her father. He was right, as usual.

  “I know I shouldn’t complain,” she said, placing her hand over his. “But I can’t help it. Maybe nightmares and getting teased at school aren’t the worst things that can happen, but they sure as hell weren’t fun. And I don’t want our kids growing up frightened to go to bed at night. There’s enough in this world to be afraid of. They don’t need sick, twisted holiday stories to make things worse.”

  “Hey, it’s cool. I’m on your side. All I’m saying is maybe banning him from Christmas is overdoing it a bit.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good night, baby.”

  “Night.” Anna turned the light off and snuggled down farther into the covers, the twin daggers of her guilt digging even deeper into her guts. She’d gone overboard. And she would apologize in the morning.

  Unless my kids wake up screaming at 3:00 a.m. Then he can deal with them. And me.

  Jake Willis came awake in his bed with a gasp. He’d been sure a pair of giant, green eyes hovered over him. The eyes of the Yule Cat. Then the details of the bedroom became clear and he understood it had just been a bad dream, that the giant cat hadn’t been chasing him through the streets, ready to tear him apart and swallow the bloody pieces. What he’d imagined were glowing eyes were just the matching Charlie Brown night-lights across the room.

  A low moan made him jump, thinking maybe he hadn’t been dreaming after all. But it was only Nick, tossing and turning on his bed, caught up in his own dream. A second later, Nick’s eyes opened and he sat up. “No!”

  Jake watched the terror fade from his brother’s face, replaced by relief. “I had a nightmare too,” Jake whispered.

  Nick looked over at him. “The Yule Cat?”

  Jake nodded. “He was gonna eat me.”


  “Me too.”

  Neither of them spoke. Then Jake got up and sat on his brother’s bed. “I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”

  “Me either.”

  Another pause. Jake’s stomach gurgled.

  “I want some cookies.”

  Nick smiled. “Cookies are good. But I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What?”

  “You saw all those bags Mom and Dad came home with. I’ll bet they had presents in them. Wanna see what they got us?”

  “I don’t know.” Jake frowned. “We’re not supposed to. And I really want some cookies.”

  “We can do both. C’mon.” Nick pushed past his brother and stood. Jake hesitated for a second and then joined him.

  After quickly donning the sweaters and jeans they’d been wearing earlier, and checking to make sure the lights were off in their parents’ room, they tiptoed their way down the hall and then descended the stairs, careful to avoid any spots where the floor had a tendency to squeak. It wasn’t the first time they’d made a midnight raid on the kitchen, and they reached the living room faster and quieter than any burglar could have done.

  The raspy sounds of snoring coming from the guest room told them their grandfather was fast asleep.

  “Cookies,” Jake said, pointing at the kitchen.

  “Presents first,” Nick countered. “We can get the cookies after. If we get caught in the kitchen now, Mom and Dad will make us go back to bed and we’ll never get to the presents.”

  “Okay. Where should we start?”

  “The basement.”

  Their slippers shushing on the carpet, the twins crossed the living room, stopping just long enough to pick up and shake the two brightly wrapped boxes under the Christmas tree, boxes that hadn’t been there earlier. The gifts bore matching tags, one To Jake and the other To Nick, both signed with the illegible scrawl they deciphered as From Opa.

  “Another stupid sweater,” Jake whispered.

  “Lame. C’mon, the good stuff has to be downstairs.”