by JG Faherty
At the bottom of the basement stairs, Nick flicked the lights on, revealing the long space of the main area, which their father liked to call his hangout. A pool table occupied the center of the room. To one side sat a cabinet that doubled as a bar, brown and green bottles occupying its shelves. Past the pool table, a dartboard hung on the wall and two couches sat in front of a wooden television cabinet. A green shag rug covered most of the floor and a lava lamp sat atop the TV.
It only took a few minutes of searching to reveal the complete absence of any gifts.
“Nothing,” Jake said, peering under the couches.
“Nothing,” Nick repeated, his head inside the cabinet under the bar.
“Let’s try the laundry room.” But a single glance told them that the small, square utility space contained no surprises except for a fat, brown spider that had somehow survived the first half of winter.
“Now what?” Jake asked.
“Now we get some cookies.” They returned to the main room, neither of them talking. In the silence, the humming of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling sounded unusually loud. As they neared the stairs, Jake spoke up.
“I don’t think Mom likes the stories Grandpa tells us.”
Before Nick could answer, a loud roar filled the air and made them both jump. Jake cried out and grabbed his brother.
“The Yule Cat!”
They turned as one, hearts pounding, expecting to see the ferocious man-eating beast coming toward them.
And found only an empty room.
The bellow of the imaginary cat changed into the whoosh of rushing air, and they understood how they’d been fooled.
“The furnace,” Nick said.
“Maybe we should go back to bed.” The safety of his bedroom suddenly seemed a lot more appealing to Jake than even a whole plate of cookies.
“Why? Afraid the Krampus is gonna get you?”
“That’s not funny. Grandpa says he’s real.”
“We used to think Santa was real too. So if Santa’s not real, how can any of the other stories be?”
“I guess.” Jake looked unconvinced. “But Grandpa said—”
“Grandpa says a lot of stuff because he thinks we’re still little kids. It’s all just made up. You don’t believe in ghosts or closet monsters, do you?”
“No…but that doesn’t mean he’s always wrong.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if the Krampus is real, how come nobody at school ever heard of him?”
“I dunno.” Jake wished his brother would just shut up. “But I still think we should go back to bed. If we get caught, we’ll be in big trouble.”
“You’re just being a baby. No one’s gonna—”
“Wait. Did you hear that?”
“What?” Nick looked around. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Shhhh. Listen.”
Both boys held their breath. Except for the deep hum of the furnace, the basement remained empty of sound. Jake began to wonder if his ears had played tricks on him
Then he heard it again.
Bells.
The cheerful tinkling of Christmas bells, like the ones at the bottom of the tree upstairs and in the cheery Christmas songs that played on the radio every ten minutes.
Jake glanced at the stairs, but no one was there.
“It’s coming from outside,” Nick said, pointing at one of the windows. The boys stood up and tried to see out, but the window was too high and the night too dark.
“Maybe it’s Santa!” Belief surged back to life inside Jake. Their parents had been wrong. Santa did exist.
“But it’s not Christmas.”
“So? He came early.”
Nick shook his head. “Santa doesn’t come early.”
“Then what is it?”
Nick shook his head and then stopped. His eyes lit up and he smiled.
“I’ll bet it’s Mom and Dad putting presents out in the garage. That’s where they’ve been hiding them.”
“Why would they do it at night?”
“I don’t know. But they’ll be back any minute. C’mon. We gotta get upstairs before they see us.”
“Why don’t we just hide here?”
“You can hide here. And when you get caught, I’ll get all your Christmas presents.” Nick made a face at him and then went up the stairs.
Jake hesitated then decided he’d rather be grounded with his brother than be alone in the basement, which suddenly seemed very dark and creepy, despite the lights. He tiptoed up the stairs and found Nick standing in the kitchen, frowning in the dim glow from the Christmas tree in the living room. No other lights were on, and the house was just as quiet as earlier.
“There’s nobody here,” Nick whispered.
Ring-a-ling-ling.
Nick turned. The bells were louder now, the jingling right outside the back door. He reached for the knob.
“Don’t!”
Nick stopped. “Why not?”
“What if it’s Krampus?” Saying the word sent a chill down Jake’s neck and made him shiver.
Nick rolled his eyes. “Krampus is just another dumb, old story. Besides, how could he sneak up on people if he went around ringing bells?”
Before Jake could object again, Nick opened the door. A gust of freezing wind blew in carrying the last of the night’s snowflakes with it. Nick stepped outside, Jake at his heels, arms crossed over his chest to block the cold. Fresh snow crunched under their slippers.
Jingle-ling-ding.
Jake looked to his left just in time to see a large shadow disappear around the corner of the house, leaving him with an empty yard and a fleeting image of an animal with long legs and dark fur and antlers.
“Did you see—?”
“A reindeer!” This time Jake led the way, running across the yard, unmindful of the frigid air biting at his face and neck.
They rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop at the sight of not a reindeer but a goat, the biggest goat they’d ever seen. Its horns pointed up like twin spikes and its amber eyes glowed in the silver moonlight seeping through the clouds. It shook its head and snorted, and the string of bells around its neck tinkled and chimed.
“Well, well, how lucky are we? Sneaking out to follow our bells when you should be fast asleep? You two lads must not be right in the head.”
Nick and Jake turned in unison at the rough, guttural voices. Standing behind them were two figures their own height but heavier. The strangers wore black pants and boots, and green leather coats whose tall, peaked hoods hid their faces.
“Who are you?” Nick asked.
One of the strangers laughed and pulled his hood back, revealing a nightmare face, lumpy and misshapen. Ragged tufts of hair sprouted at odd places on his chin and cheeks. His eyes shined yellow like the goat’s.
“Our names do not matter. But our good fortune does, finding two more fools for the feast.”
Jake tried to shout for help but something struck him in the back, knocking him into the snow. Strong hands grabbed him and pulled a heavy sack over his head. A muffled gasp and a thud told him the strangers had gotten Nick too. Someone lifted him into the air while he struggled to regain his breath.
No, not someone. They were elves. But not Santa’s elves. Something much worse.
He had time for one last thought before a heavy object hit the back of his head.
Grandpa was right.
Anders Bach knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. Despite the heat running full blast—he could hear the roar of the furnace through the grate next to his bed—the air had a nasty chill to it. His first thought was that a window had broken during the night. Over the years, he’d seen it happen more than once, old glass no longer able to take the strain of subzero temperatures. With a groan, he tossed the covers back and sat up, his sev
enty-seven-year-old bones protesting each movement, the way they did every morning before he took his arthritis medicine.
With his body no longer protected by three layers of blankets, the frosty air roused him to full wakefulness. It struck him that the draft he’d felt was more than chilly. It was downright cold. With the vision of a shattered picture window motivating him to move faster, he donned his robe and slippers and hurried towards the doorway, knowing he’d be the first person to discover the problem. The rest of the family had a tendency to sleep late on the weekends.
Lazy. The whole verdammt generation. In my day—
Anders stopped. From where he stood, he could see the entire living room. A dull-gray dawn struggled to get through the frost and snow covering the outside of the windows, leaving most of the room in shadows. However, it illuminated the glass well enough to show none of the panes were broken.
Yet the air had grown even colder.
Anders turned in a slow circle, his hands out to feel the direction of the draft.
The kitchen.
He paused, wondering if he’d been mistaken about a broken window. Perhaps Anna or Paul had simply gotten up early and stepped outside to get the paper, leaving the back door open in the process.
“Ah, it’s still a waste of heat. Do they think money grows on trees?” More annoyed now than worried, he entered the kitchen. Sure enough, the back door stood wide open, filling the room with chill winter air. Lazy. He went to close it, his eyes automatically scanning the driveway to see who’d been such a fool.
He froze before his hand reached the knob.
Clearly visible in the fresh snow were footprints. Footprints too small to be Anna’s or Paul’s.
The boys. They went outside. Why?
A new fear came to life inside him. Footprints leading out, but none coming in. A cold house, much too cold for the door to have been open for only a few minutes.
How long ago did they leave?
Anders tracked the twin line of prints. They went across the porch, down the stairs and out into the yard, where they curved around the side of the house and disappeared. He turned to grab his boots from the alcove by the door and his heart gave a painful flutter when he saw two pairs of rubber snow boots sitting on the mat. A cold feeling erupted inside him, one that had nothing to do with the winter wind already carving through the thin cotton of his robe.
Even more frightened now, he stuck his feet into his boots and hurried outside, not even bothering to buckle them. Ignoring the way the wind burned his cheeks and gnawed at his aching bones, he clutched his robe tighter and followed the tracks to the corner.
And then stopped when more prints joined them.
At least two other people. And…
No. It can’t be.
A third set of tracks, but not from any human foot.
Hoofprints.
Roughly oval in shape. The kind of prints a deer might make.
Or a goat?
Dread bloomed into full-blown panic, which only grew worse when he came to the flattened area of snow that told him there’d been a struggle. A struggle from which only one set of prints led away.
The ones that weren’t human.
Anders turned and raced for the house, shouting for Anna and Paul to wake up. Fear lent strength to his legs. Fear for the things to come, the things that would have to be done.
Fear that it might already be too late.
Anders fumed as he watched the minutes tick by. An entire day wasted while Anna and Paul foolishly concentrated their attention on useless efforts to find Jake and Nick. They’d called the police as soon as they double-checked the house and garage to make sure the boys hadn’t snuck back in, that they weren’t hiding somewhere.
When the police arrived, an officer had conducted the same search over again while his partner asked a series of questions. As Anders expected, the officer had cut him off the moment he brought up the fact that the only footprints leading away from the trampled-down area were those of the animal.
“Wind and snow can fill prints in pretty fast, Mr. Bach. That deer probably just walked by afterwards.” The officer, a sleepy-eyed, young man named Billingsley, tapped his notepad with his pen. “Just tell me what you saw and leave the detective work to us, okay?”
After getting a list of the boys’ friends and the places they frequented to play, the police departed with assurances to do all they could to locate the missing children, including initiating an Amber alert and assigning several officers to search the neighborhood.
“In the meantime, the best thing you folks can do is sit tight in case the boys come home or call.”
Turning to his daughter, Anders again tried to bring up the subject of the hoofprints.
“Don’t start with your superstitions,” Anna had warned. “A goddamned deer ran across our yard. That doesn’t mean magical fucking elves exist. Do me a favor and stay here in case they come back. We’re going back out to look for them.”
“The police said we should wait,” Paul said and then backed away, hands up in surrender, when Anna turned her fury on him.
“Our boys are missing. I’m not sitting on my ass when we could be out there trying to find them.”
That left Anders to spend the rest of the day in an empty house, staring at the clock while the nightmares of his childhood circled his thoughts like vultures, reminding him of the terrible fate that awaited the boys if something wasn’t done. The right something.
Now, with dusk fast approaching, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Time was running out. He had to get them back before it was too late.
He’d just begun to make a mental list of the things he’d need when the front door opened and Anna walked in, stomping snow off her boots. Paul followed a step behind, his boyish face drawn and tired, the dark circles under his eyes a matched set to his wife’s.
“Did the police call?” Anna asked.
Anders shook his head. “Anna, we need to talk. There isn’t much time. Those prints. It was the Jólasveinar, the Yule Lads, I am sure of it. They were here, and the boys must have seen them and gone outside, why I don’t know, but—”
“Stop it! Stop with the goddamned fairy tales.” Anna threw her hat and scarf on the floor. “My boys—your grandchildren—are missing, and all you can do is talk about fucking make-believe elves and magic animals.”
“We can get them back tonight. It’s our only chance. When it’s dark and the Krampus leaves Winterwood for the Hunt, we can—”
“Jesus, Dad, can’t you just shut up?” Tears streaming down her face, Anna ran for the stairs.
Paul stood there for a moment, watching her, then looked at Anders and shook his head, his eyes as cold as the winter night.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Then he crossed the room and followed Anna upstairs. A second later a door slammed.
They’ve closed me out. His own tears threatened to fall. How could they think he was trying to hurt them, that he didn’t care? He would do anything for the boys, for his family. Sacrifice his life.
In that moment, he made his decision.
He would find the boys and bring them back.
Or die trying.
A few minutes before ten, Anders opened the back door and placed a steaming bowl of haferbrei on the porch. He’d made the porridge the traditional way, adding cinnamon, sugar and butter to the steaming oatmeal, just as his mother and grandmother used to do. Then he put on his heavy winter coat and sat down at the table, wondering just when the tradition of putting milk and cookies out for Santa had taken the place of leaving a warm dish for the Julenissen, the Yule Elf. Who in their right mind would want cold milk and dry cookies after being out for hours on a freezing night?
Five minutes passed, and he sighed. He had no idea how long it would take for the elf to show. Bad enough he’d had to wait until night
before he could even try. How many fresh bowls would he need to make before—?
“So, it seems someone still remembers the ways of old. Should it be gratitude or caution I express?”
Anders jumped and his heart kicked against his ribs. The previously empty porch now held a most amazing sight. A short, thin figure, his red hat just reaching the knob of the door, his coat as green as summer grass. Black pants and boots with buckles of shiny silver completed the outfit. Behind him stood a diminutive goat, not much larger than a medium-sized dog. While the elf appeared cautious but friendly, his Yule Goat glared at Anders with suspicious yellow eyes.
“Julenissen.”
“Aye. But if you have something to say, best be quick.” The ruddy-faced elf picked up the bowl and shoveled oatmeal into his mouth as he spoke, “I’ve no time for idle chat.”
“I’ve need of your help. A minute of your time in return for filling your belly.” Anders rose and scooped more porridge from the pot, placed the second bowl on the table.
The Yule Elf’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve a long night ahead and few minutes to spare.” His gaze shifted to the hot porridge. “Perhaps just one. Ask what you wish, but I give no promise of answers.”
Fast as a bird, the elf climbed onto a chair and proceeded to dig into the cereal in voracious fashion.
Knowing he had little time, Anders launched into his plea. “My grandsons were taken by the Lads. I need to get them back, and only you can show me the way to Winterwood.”
The elf looked up, his eyes wide. The spoon fell from his hand, the clink of metal on glass loud in the quiet room.
“Winterwood? You don’t strike me as the foolish type.”
“Not foolish. Desperate.”
“Two and the same.” The elf jumped down from his chair. “I’m sorry, I cannot help you. My thanks for the porridge, and now I must go.”
“No.” Anders slammed the door shut before the elf could reach it. Outside, the goat bleated and kicked at the wood. “Please. Just tell me how to make the crossing. Once there, I’ll find them and bring them back.”
The elf leaped for the doorknob and Anders grabbed at him. They fell to the floor and rolled back and forth, Anders struggling to keep a grip on the wriggling figure. A chair crashed over and then Anders got his arms wrapped around the elf, pinning him in place.