by JG Faherty
Jars. Row after row of them on wooden shelves that went from top to bottom along the back wall.
All filled with human organs.
Hearts, eyes, livers, kidneys. Things he couldn’t identify.
And on the floor, red sacks stacked atop one another, their bulges suspiciously shaped like human forms.
Never again would he be able to look at a picture of Santa with his magical bag of presents without feeling the urge to vomit.
Following the others down the hall, Anders tried to force the abhorrent image from his mind, but it refused to leave, lingering on like the afterimpression from staring at a bright light. Only when they rounded a sharp curve in the hall and he saw the steep staircase ahead of them did his attention shift.
In his already exhausted state, the stairs represented a monumental task, one he wasn’t sure his legs—or heart—were up to.
Anders took his nitro pills from his pocket and slipped one under his tongue. He’d just tucked the plastic container away when Paul turned toward him.
“Do you need help with the stairs?”
He shook his head and gave the younger man the best smile he could, considering the way the bitter aftertaste of the pill made his lips want to pucker. “Keep moving. I’m fine.”
I hope. Please, Gott, help me to the top.
Twenty steps up, the pain in his legs devolved into sharp, fiery needles that stabbed at his calves, and his heart felt like a jazz drummer had hijacked it. He’d begun to think he might have to tell the others to go on without him when the medicine finally kicked in and the pressure in his chest disappeared. With the burden gone, his lungs expanded in normal fashion, sending welcome oxygen to his muscles. His heart slowed to a less alarming rate and the burning in his legs subsided to a dull ache.
Thank you.
He completed the rest of the stairs with no further problems and caught up to the others at another door. A new odor reached him, one that sent his stomach rumbling. The aromas of fresh-baked meats, not unlike the holiday roasts he’d grown up with. Marinated and braised, skin crackling and fats rendered down to oils that dripped into pans, waiting to be made into gravy.
Then he remembered the likely source of the smell and his stomach did a nauseated flip.
“We are close.” The elf spoke so softly Anders had trouble hearing him over the sound of his own breathing. “Down the hall lies the witch’s kitchen.” He opened the door a crack, and the grisly aroma intensified. Anna coughed and covered her nose with her shirt.
“’Tis empty.” Ulaf motioned for them to follow him into the hall.
They hurried along, the tang of roasted flesh stronger than ever, enticing yet loathsome at the same time. Breathing became an odious chore that fouled Anders’s lungs and left an unpleasant sensation in his mouth, as if even his tongue understood the wrongness of it.
The kitchen lay at the end of the hall, waves of heat emanating from its open doors. Relieved to find no one guarding the entrance, they stepped into a gigantic room the size of a banquet hall. An enormous oven took up half a wall. A thick bed of coals glowed red and orange beneath it, and a second pile smoldered under two bathtub-sized kettles hanging inside a stone hearth as long Anders’s entire kitchen. Rough-hewn wooden tables ran the length of the room, while along the back wall cages of various sizes had been stacked atop each other. Numerous torches provided more than enough light for Anders to see chickens, ducks and even a few pigs in some of the cages.
But it was the objects on the nearest table that drew his attention.
Six gigantic pies, each one large enough to feed twenty people, sat in a row, cooling in their iron pans. The thick, greasy aroma of roasted meat filled the room, a morbid reminder of the gruesome fillings hiding beneath the golden-brown pastry tops.
“No! We’re too late!” Anna tried to run toward the macabre buffet but Paul held her back.
A sudden squawking and squealing from the back of the room drew everyone’s attention, just in time to see two figures standing up in one of the cages.
“Mom, Dad! Help!”
“They’re alive!” Anders ran, his joy and relief lending new strength to his tired legs. He reached the cage only three steps behind Anna and Paul, who cursed when they found the door locked.
“Let me.” Ulaf produced a metal pin. He poked and prodded at the lock while Anders kept one eye on the kitchen’s entrance and the other on Anna and Paul, who’d reached between the bars to hug their children. The boys were in sorry shape, their faces bruised and their clothing torn, but they had no serious injuries that Anders could see.
“Faster.”
“I’m trying,” the elf snapped. “This lock is… Got it!”
Anders reached past Ulaf and pulled the door open. “Let’s go. Move.”
The boys hurried out and into the waiting arms of their parents. A little bit of the pressure in Anders’s chest eased up. He’d been so afraid they’d be too late.
Now comes the hard part. Getting them back—
“Well, what have we here? I thought I smelled fresh meat.”
Anders turned, fresh terror coursing through him. He already knew what he’d see, remembered that dry, cracked voice all too well.
Gryla.
The witch stood by the door, her wrinkled face twisted in a grin that exposed her irregular jumble of teeth.
“You should have left when you had the chance.” Gryla aimed her staff at them. “Now it’s the kettle for you.”
“Mind the rod,” Ulaf called out. “It can stop your heart.”
Anders ducked behind a table, having no desire to feel the witch’s wrath again. Anna, Paul and the boys crouched next to him, all staring in his direction.
“Run,” Anders whispered, pointing to his right. “Head for the door. I’ll go the other way.”
Something landed on top of the table and Anders looked up to find the witch leering down at them, her white, brittle hair sticking out in all directions, her fingers splayed to show black, jagged nails sharp as claws. She leaped at Anders before he could move, scratching at his face. He brought his arms up to protect his eyes and then cursed as she sank her teeth into his hand. Punching and kicking at her had no effect. She wrapped her legs around his waist and attacked like a wild animal. In a desperate attempt to break loose, he jabbed his fingers at her eyes. She twisted to one side and ducked, and he saw his chance.
Before she could renew her assault, he grabbed her by the hair and swung her head into one of the cages. She fell to the floor and Anders scuttled back, pushing himself away with his feet and hands. His shoulder hit a wall and he realized he’d trapped himself.
The witch sprang to her feet, much too agile for someone so ancient.
“I’ll see you quartered and fried.” Her black eyes narrowed in fury. She raised her staff and then let out a yelp as a metal dish struck her arm and spoiled her aim. Inside one of the cages, a chicken exploded, sending feathers and gore in all directions. Anders glanced up and saw Ulaf on the table, his arms filled with utensils and mugs that he proceeded to throw at the witch.
“Make haste, before she— Aaargh!”
Ulaf flew off the table, mugs and ladles and dishes falling down around him. With a cackling laugh, she swung her staff back at Anders.
“Tick, tick, old man,” Gryla said, and Anders took a deep breath, knowing his heart wouldn’t stand another magical jolt.
A shadow rose behind her and swung something at her head that connected with a dull, metallic clong. The witch fell over, her staff rolling across the floor until it stopped at Anders’ feet.
Anna stood there, an iron skillet in her hands.
“Are you okay?”
Anders exhaled the breath he’d been holding and nodded. He had no idea if he’d suffered any serious injuries—everything hurt so bad that one pain seemed to blend into the next. Bu
t his arms and legs still worked, and when he pulled himself to his feet, holding on to the bars of a cage for support, neither his heart nor lungs faltered.
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here.” Anna headed towards the kitchen’s entrance. Anders followed, a slightly wobbly Ulaf joining him along the way. Paul waited by the kettle hearth with the children, a pointed fireplace poker in one hand. He nodded at Anders, who nodded back, acknowledging both the thank-you and the understanding that things weren’t over yet.
“How do we get out of here?” Anders asked Ulaf, who shook his head.
“The castle has many exits, but few will be unguarded now that our escape is known. We need to—”
“Intruders!”
Anders swore. Couldn’t anything go right? The two Yule Lads ran at them from the doorway, teeth bared like rabid dogs. He took a step forward but Paul pushed Jake and Nick at him and raised his poker.
Anna swung her pan at one of the Lads, catching him on the shoulder and sending him stumbling into a table. The other one darted past her and grabbed on to Paul’s leg, biting into his thigh just above the knee while Paul howled and beat at him with the poker. The Lad let go and Paul kicked him in the stomach. He staggered back and doubled over wheezing. Paul strode forward and kicked him again.
Right into the hearth.
The Yule Lad let out a high-pitched shriek as he hit the kettle and fell on the hot coals. His wailing grew worse when the kettle tipped, spilling boiling stew across his chest and face.
“Run!” Ulaf shouted, and they sprinted for the door, Anders herding the boys along and trying not to vomit from the stench of burning flesh.
“You can’t escape!” came Gryla’s voice. “I’ll eat your hearts for what you’ve done.”
Anders risked a look back and saw the Yule Lad, his body engulfed in fire, staggering through the kitchen while his brother beat at him with a cloth. Sections of the floor and table were already in flames from scattered coals.
Then he focused his attention on Ulaf, who waved his arms at them from a different stairwell than the one they’d used before.
Somewhere deep in the castle, a horn sounded, followed quickly by others. Anders pushed the children faster.
The King had joined the search.
Anders gritted his teeth and forced his legs to keep moving. He had both hands against the walls of the stairwell, using them to push himself forward and keep his balance at the same time. Although the elf said nothing, his desperate eyes and sweating face told Anders all he needed to know.
They were running out of time.
One flight down, Ulaf stopped on a landing much wider than any they’d seen earlier.
“This way leads to the Great Hall,” he whispered. Over everyone’s combined panting and gasping, Anders had to strain to hear the words. “’Tis our only hope. If we can cross it to the main doors, a chance there might be of reaching the path that leads out of the village.”
“Won’t there be guards?” Paul asked. He had his arms around his sons, who both looked as spent as Anders felt.
“Likely, yes. But perhaps not as many.” Ulaf shrugged his shoulders to emphasize his uncertainty. “Aiding in the search they might be. Let us hope so, for above us are no exits, and below there will be men in the tunnels for sure.”
Paul looked at Anders, who shrugged. “We don’t have much choice.”
“Daddy, I don’t want to,” Jake said, clutching at Paul’s leg. “The nasty old lady might be out there.”
“You have to trust Grandpa.” Anna leaned down, put her face in front of Jake’s. “If he thinks this is the only way to get back home, then we should do it.” She glanced at Anders and gave him a tight-lipped nod that he couldn’t decipher.
Accusation or apology? He decided it didn’t matter. If by some miracle they made it out of the castle and back to their own reality, they could worry about working things out then.
“Go ahead,” he told Ulaf, who responded by opening the door just wide enough to slip through. When no alarms were raised, the elf motioned for them to follow him into the Great Hall.
Anders had no idea what to expect as he stepped into the throne room of the Holly King. As a child, he’d always imagined it would look like the pictures and drawings he’d seen of medieval castles.
As with so much of Winterwood, his imagination paled in comparison to reality.
The Great Hall stretched out in all directions, a colossal monument to Death. The mounted heads of slain animals—elk, reindeer, bear, wolves—decorated the walls. Mixed among the grisly trophies were dozens of human heads, but not like any humans who walked the earth. These faces were more beast than man, with tusks jutting out and noses that looked stolen from wild boar. Violent tapestries hung at intervals, depicting graphic scenes of the Wild Hunt and the Feast of Juul, complete with men, women and children being gutted or eaten.
At one end of the hall, an enormous throne made of leather, bone and antlers perched atop a wide dais. From the width of the throne and the height of stairs leading to it, Anders got the impression the Holly King’s stature had nothing in common with the other inhabitants of Winterwood.
In fact, it seemed the King might be something of a giant.
On the opposite side of the room from the throne, a pair of gigantic arched doors made up the main entrance. In between was open space, with no furniture of any kind. Rows of blazing torches ran along the walls, providing ample light to see by.
“Quickly now.” Ulaf headed carefully towards the doors, glancing back and forth with each step. Anders followed a few paces behind, sweating from the surprising warmth in the room. Although he couldn’t see it, he assumed there had to be a massive fireplace somewhere, perhaps behind the throne, to heat such a large space. The scent of the burning wood lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp odor of kerosene from the torches.
The idea that someone had carved the entire Great Hall right into the center of the tree stunned him. He leaned back, taking in the domed ceiling at least thirty feet overhead.
Not just this room. All the rooms and hallways, from the dungeons to the topmost spires. All of it carved by slave labor over the centuries. The millennia. How many millions of lives had the Hunt claimed in that time? How many people changed against their will, forced into servitude?
How many consumed at the feasts?
Anders looked back at Anna and Paul, each holding one of their children’s hands and pulling the exhausted boys along. Sweat poured down their faces, which had gone red from exertion.
There are four lives this place will never get. Not if I can help it.
They’d covered half the distance to the exit when the brassy croak of a horn sounded outside the castle. Ulaf came to a stop just as the doors swung open and a pack of the largest dogs Anders had ever seen came charging in. Each snarling hound stood as tall as Ulaf at the shoulder, with coats of the purest black. Their eyes whirled yellow and red and orange, like hot coals in a breeze. Steam rose from their mouths and their tongues lolled over teeth that would have sent a wolf cowering in shame.
The hounds formed a circle around the humans and Ulaf, cutting off any hope of escape. Their growls intensified to a rumbling, felt as well as heard. Strings of saliva hung from black lips pulled back to reveal yellowed fangs, and the rotten meat odor of their combined breath filled the circle.
Jake cried out and hid his face against Paul’s chest. Nick wrapped his arms around both Paul and Jake, while Paul pulled Anna close.
Ulaf let out a moan, drawing Anders’s attention back to the doorway in time to see a figure enter the hall. More trumpeting accompanied him, and several of the hounds whined in anticipation.
“Krampus.” The elf’s voice sounded faint, swept away by the frigid wind coming through the doorway. An involuntary shudder ran through Anders as freezing air met damp skin. He stared at the Holly King, an
d his last hope of escape shriveled and died inside him.
Wide as two men and at least seven feet tall, the King looked more fearsome than any tale described him. Ragged white hair fell down to his shoulders, creating a knotted, tangled mane around a narrow, angular face. A wide forehead lined with numerous creases descended to heavy brows that hung over deep-set eyes ringed with reddened flesh. The eyes themselves weren’t human, their yellow color and horizontal pupils reminiscent of a goat’s. A hooked nose with flaring nostrils centered the face and slanted down towards a mouth designed for a carnivore. Thin, red lips surrounded pointed teeth. Oversized tusks protruded out from his top and bottom jaws, overlapping his lips. Below the mouth, the face narrowed to a cleft chin decorated with wispy hairs, which only added to a goatlike countenance.
The rest of the King’s appearance shouted warrior. Muscular arms and legs, a barrel chest and clothes made of thick hides dyed red and black. Across one shoulder hung a longbow, and in one hand he gripped an immense axe, its iron head permanently stained from centuries of blood.
“No, this, this is all wrong,” stammered Ulaf. “The Hunt never goes out twice in a night.”
“Oh, a Hunt there shall be.” The Holly King’s booming voice echoed through the hall. “The stink of human blood has filled my nose since I returned. I thank you for entering my home. I do so enjoy it when my food comes to me.”
The King swung his axe around, the heavy blade whistling through the air. Ulaf moaned again. One of the hounds snarled and inched forward, forcing the elf back a step.
“Halt,” Krampus said, and the hound stopped. “It wouldn’t be sporting to kill them this way.” He pointed the axe at the humans. “A count to hundrað I shall give you. Then I will come for your lives.”
The hounds in front of them licked their chops but stepped to either side, creating an opening in their circle. Anders stared at it.
“Einn, tveir, þrír…”
Was the Krampus really counting them a head start?