by J L Bryan
“She's not going to hurt you,” Polly whispered. “I promise.”
The girls' door was open about an inch, just enough for me to peer in.
The twins had bunk beds. Penny slept on top, and she lay there motionless, eyes closed, either sleeping or doing a great imitation of it.
On the lower bunk, Polly was sitting up, legs crossed, shivering as she spoke to someone that I couldn't see. I wished I'd grabbed some nightvision or thermal goggles while passing through the second floor, but I'd been in a hurry.
“No. I think she's nice.” Polly whispered.
Then she stared into the empty space next to her bed for a moment.
“Maybe she'll get rid of the bad ones,” Polly finally whispered. “Then it'll just be you and me.” Then she giggled. “No, of course Penny will still be here. And my dad, too—”
At the moment, I must have shifted my weight slightly, because the floorboard under my boot creaked.
Polly's head snapped toward me, and I dodged back out of sight.
“Hello?” She barely managed to speak louder than a whisper, even though she was trying to yell out into the hall.
I backed into the living room as the door to the twins' room creaked open. My instinct was to hide from her, but that seemed ridiculous. I wasn't trying to make the kids scared by creeping around their home at night. That was Santa's job. Anyway, I doubted the twelve-year-olds still believed in old Kris Kringle anyway.
So I stood firm instead. The girl would see me clearly when she stepped out of her room, but maybe I could at least pretend I had only been walking by, rather than spying on her.
A pitch-black shape emerged from the twin's room, low to the floor, formless to my eyes, but definitely present enough to blot out my view of everything behind it. This might well have been the same low shape I'd been following, but it didn't slither or let out any snarling sounds.
The low darkness moved toward me like a small black thunderhead across the floor. I pointed my flashlight at it, preparing to blast it with thousands of lumens if it got too threatening.
“Don't!” Polly came running out, crying out at an almost normal speaking volume, which for her was basically shouting. Her gaze darted from me to the dark shape in the hall. I wasn't sure whether she was talking to me or the entity.
“Everything's fine,” I said, trying to calm her as best I could. I kept my eyes on the approaching dark patch, ready to lance it with my flashlight. “Go back into your room, Polly.”
“Are you going to hurt him?”
“No. Is this Amil?”
The dark cloud stopped approaching me across the floor, which answered my question even more solidly than Polly's very slight nod.
There's a very old tradition that calling a demon by its name gives you power over it, though it's debatable how much. I've found something similar with ghosts. Calling them by their proper names—instead of something like Mr. Scary Dark Shadow Person—doesn't give you command over them, unfortunately, but in my experience it usually gets their attention.
“Amil,” I said. “Please show yourself to me.”
The dark spot vanished completely.
“Well, that was the opposite of what I was going for,” I said.
“He ran away,” Polly said.
“From me?”
“No. The others.” She pointed at the floor. “From below. They don't get along.”
“Are they coming now? The others from below?”
Polly shrugged.
“Have you seen the others?”
She shook her head.
“What do you know about them?”
“They're grown-ups and they hate Amil,” Polly said. “He wants to escape but he's trapped.”
“Why is he trapped?”
Polly shrugged.
“Do you know his full name? Or the names of the others?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Why don't you go back to bed and try to get some sleep? It'll be morning before you know it.”
She nodded and retreated into her room without another word, as silent as the ghost boy she seemed to have befriended.
I glanced at the video camera in the hall, wondering what it had captured. That would be some interesting footage to review in the morning.
Then I took a slow look around the living room, listening. The apartment smelled of charred chicken; Ryan was definitely not in the running for Top Chef.
I waited several minutes for more to happen, thinking of the creepy pair of figures I'd seen down in the basement before following Amil upstairs. By my count, there were at least four potential entities here. And that didn't even include the jolly old elf and eight tiny reindeer due to arrive at any time.
On a little table between the fireplace and the Christmas tree sat a little plate with some cookies that looked like Oreos. I picked one up and took a bite of it, and instantly some inner kid part of me felt shocked that I was stealing from Santa. A more adult part of me reflected on the pagan nature of this little tradition, leaving food and drink out for invisible visitors in the night in hope of currying favor with them.
In between these, somewhere near my taste buds, lay a third part of me that felt disappointed that the cookies were a cheap off-brand instead of real Oreos.
I was dead on my feet, my eyelids drooping. I'd been going since early that morning, and the exhaustion was eating away at me.
I headed down to the second floor offices, where my temporary nerve center awaited. I remotely activated cameras and microphones, then stretched out on my inflated air mattress.
Just a quick nap, I told myself.
I was out cold the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Christmas morning, I awoke to the sight of a stained wood-panel ceiling I didn't recognize at all. It took a very confused, disoriented few seconds for me to remember where I was and why.
Outside the narrow window, snow was swirling down.
Somewhere above me, “The Little Drummer Boy” was pah-rum-pum-pum-pumming, trying his best to impress a newborn messiah on a budget.
I was used to waking up alone on Christmas, to being alone save for a phone call to my nearly forgotten relatives in Virginia, and maybe a lunch visit with Calvin. He'd been as alone as me in previous years, but now he was down in Florida, near his daughter and newborn grandson.
I wasn't totally alone, though, I reminded myself.
Upstairs, I heard thumping footsteps. The family was up and moving around, the kids probably eager to open their presents.
I stretched, wishing for coffee, but I had no plans to go upstairs this morning. I headed downstairs to the museum instead, then out to the van.
More snow was falling, but slowly and softly, the flakes as fluffy and white as tiny dove feathers, joining the blankets of white that covered everything. It was a solidly white Christmas. Snow was not a thing I'd experienced much since those couple of years I lived in Virginia.
I made my way down to the town, through the idyllic mountain scene, slowing at the usual spot in case a bloody dead person crossed my path. None did. Christmas can't be an easy time for the bad ghosts, what with all the lights and sacred music and people coming together, positive emotions breaking out everywhere.
The predatory, parasitic ghosts were probably biding their time, waiting for the long, cold winter that would settle in when the holiday lights were extinguished and we were all alone in the dark again.
The lights of Foxboro glowed as bright as ever, a galaxy of blinking colors. Most of the shops were closed, except a few restaurants, but the churches were brightly lit and quite busy. I was half-tempted to drop in on a holiday service, but I knew that would stir up memories of past Christmases and lost family and everything I try to keep repressed so I can go about my day.
El Grande Chalet was equally lit up, lights blinking in wreaths all over the alpine-adobe building.
I felt nervous as I went up to the hotel room, bearing my hastily wrapped last-
minute gifts like a deadbeat dad who'd barely made it to the grocery store toy aisle before closing time.
I almost knocked before remembering I was entering my own hotel room. Michael and Melissa were already awake, and I could hear them up and moving on the other side of the connecting door, Melissa jabbering about something. They were morning people. Weirdos. Mornings are for sleeping.
Not this morning, though.
My present to myself was a long, hot shower. The hotel soap smelled vaguely like jalapenos. The shampoo was better.
Then I got dressed, going for the slacks and button-up shirt to make myself a bit more formal for the holiday, like I was meeting a client. It was strange how nervous I felt. Maybe I hadn't really considered the emotional weight that today might have.
I knocked lightly on the connecting door. Nobody answered, and Elvis was singing “Blue Christmas” on the other side, so I hit it a bit harder.
“Ellie! Merry Christmas!” Melissa opened the door and leaped on me in an embrace. You may recall that Melissa is about half a foot taller than me, and also quite strong from many years of dance training and assorted sports. So this was a bit like getting struck by a freckled blond freight train.
“Oof!” I replied, involuntarily, while she crunched my ribs with inhuman pressure from her arms. Then, after I caught my breath, “Merry Christmas. Remind me not to challenge you to a boxing match.”
“Don't worry, Boxing Day isn't until tomorrow,” Michael said. He embraced me, more gently and with greater regard for my various bones and organs.
Then he tilted my face up and kissed me. This was a thing that hadn't happened in some time, and it caught me fully by surprise. I didn't exactly find myself pushing back against it. In fact, after a moment, I may have leaned into it. Melted into it a little, even.
I'd been alone for a while—and a long while before meeting him. Sometimes I felt like a ghost myself, drifting through life alone and cold, no real contact with anyone, trapped in my memories...solely focused on my one single purpose, my one repetitive task...the parallels between me and a ghost probably went on beyond that, but I certainly didn't want to contemplate them.
Not when I could be focused on how close and warm Michael was, and the earthy scent of his aftershave, his presence familiar now, his body strong and so alive against mine—
“Hey, hey, enough PDA!” Melissa said.
“We're not in public.” Michael drew back from me and grinned. “Got you.”
“You sure did,” I said, feeling a little off-balance and breathless. Good thing he was holding me at the waist. And that he knew how to give first aid, though I suppose it was his mouth to mouth that had nearly knocked me out in the first place.
“You noticed?” He nodded at something above my head.
A bright green sprig of mistletoe was nailed over the connecting door between our rooms.
I could have rolled my eyes, except at the moment I felt too warm and glowing to summon the usual sharp edges of my sarcastic defense mechanisms.
“Oh, I see,” I told him. “So you couldn't help kissing me. It was all the mistletoe's fault.”
“Exactly,” Michael replied, still holding me close, his green eyes bright with good humor.
“And the mistletoe just happened to be there,” I said.
“It must have grown wild there.”
“Above the door?” I asked.
“That's all I can think,” he said.
“Okay, enough making out,” Melissa said, sliding an arm between us like a chaperon at a middle-school dance. “And I want my own kiss under the mistletoe.” She planted one on my cheek, moving between her brother and me to do so. “Okay, now it's a Merry Christmas for everyone. Let's do presents.”
“Yeah, I grabbed a couple for y'all at the last minute,” I said. “So I hope you don't hate them.”
“I'm sure they're great,” Michael said.
“Don't be sure about that at all, trust me.”
With Christmas music playing from the hotel room TV—which had five channels of holiday music, including “Kids' Klassics”—we exchanged gifts.
The presents from me were stupid and clearly had been bought at the last minute. I gave Melissa some puffy bedroom slippers that looked like reindeer heads, with glittering three-dimensional felt antlers up at the top and puffy red Rudolph noses at the toes.
She acted like she really liked them and pulled them on immediately. “Awesome present!” she said, being an insanely good sport about it.
My present to Michael wasn't much better. Or at all better. It was a tiny stuffed bear in a firefighter's helmet.
“Sorry,” I said. “It's ridiculous.”
“It's great,” Michael replied. “Finally, someone to keep me warm at night. I'll call him Burny.”
Melissa gave me her present. I unwrapped and unboxed it.
Inside was a little snow globe of a miniature Christmas scene. A tiny tree glowed with tiny red balls, with tiny presents under it. Tiny stockings hung on a brick fireplace. When I shook the globe, tiny Christmas decorations and presents swirled inside of fake snowflakes, and the interior of the fireplace turned red.
“Wow, that's pretty cool,” I said.
“Yeah, neat, huh?” She was watching me closely, as if determined to see whether I really liked it.
The truth was, I didn't, but I couldn't expect Melissa to know that I have a pathological-level hatred and fear of fire. This simple, homey scene was innocent enough, and the fireplace turning red no doubt summoned the ancient feelings of gathering around the family hearth or whatnot in most people. For me, though, I was pretty sure the snow globe wouldn't be decorating anything except the inside of a box at the back of my closet.
Still, I pushed out a smile. “It's great,” I told Melissa. “Really great.”
“I'm glad.” She looked at me a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. “Michael, your turn!”
He seemed a little sheepish as he passed the wrapped parcel to me.
“Michael Holly,” I said. “Are you actually blushing?”
“Nah, it's probably just a highly contagious skin condition,” he said. “Your present is just something I threw together at the last minute.”
“Oh, good. I didn't want to think you tried any harder than I did. I mean that sincerely.”
“It's just some junk he found at the flea market,” Melissa tossed in.
“Pretty much,” he said.
The box was heavy, wrapped in soft green paper that wasn't from the dump bin by the cash register. It felt silky. So did the ribbon.
All of that made me nervous.
I tore away the paper, slowly and carefully, like I meant to preserve the wrapping material for my nonexistent sewing kit. I felt weirdly apprehensive about seeing what was inside.
It was a cardboard box, so I had to open that, and then I brought out something more fragile from within.
I placed it gently into my palm. It wasn't much larger than the snow globe Melissa had bought me, actually, but it was much heavier, and far more breathtaking.
It was an ornate silver box, inset with tiny carvings of moons, stars, and planets, polished to a soft glow. Its top was curved like a treasure chest, and there was a tiny lock on the front.
“What is this?” I whispered.
“There's a storage compartment at the bottom.” Michael slid open a tiny drawer lined with black felt. A silver key, barely big enough to fit between my thumb and forefinger, lay inside.
“I feel like I'm going to break it if I touch it,” I said.
“You won't.” He took out the key and placed it into my other hand that wasn't holding the box. “Go ahead.”
Melissa watched closely, too, her eyes seemingly entranced as they took in the little designs all over the box's surface.
“It's like that movie with the puzzle box,” she said suddenly, as if the idea had just come to her. “The one that opens the gateway between worlds and summons demons.”
“This is not
the Hellraiser box, Melissa,” Michael said. “Let's try to have a little less demonic horror in our Christmas morning, okay?”
“Fine.” Her eyes flickered skyward as she said it.
“Okay, I'll try it.” I carefully slid the small key into the lock and turned it. It didn't move easily; it felt like I was turning some kind of heavy little wheel in there, and it resisted me the more I turned it. “Are you sure I can't break this?”
“Anything's possible,” Michael said. “But keep winding it.”
“Winding it?” I turned the key through a few more rotations. “Is this some kind of clock?”
“Nope,” Michael said. “That's enough. Now set it down and press this moon on the left side.”
“Okay...” I set it on the hotel room dresser. “Is some kind of evil clown going to come springing out at me here?”
“Close, but no,” he said, and Melissa laughed.
I found the little half-moon shape, slightly protruding from the carved night-sky motifs, and pushed it.
I'd expected the whole top of the chest to open, but instead it was just a circular portion at the center that opened, revealing a polished silver interior.
A tiny black bird, small enough to perch on my thumbnail, stood in a nest of moonstones and small sapphires. It whistled a song while flapping its wings, bobbing its head, and opening and closing its beak, hopping and turning in an amazing impression of a live animal.
When it was done, it lay down in its nest and the round lid of the box closed over it.
I stared at it, gaping.
“Do you like it?” Michael asked. “It's all clockwork, of course. Nothing digital or electronic in there—”
“Can I see it again?”
“Yeah, it's yours. You can do whatever you want with it. I hope that doesn't involve tossing it in the trash, though.”
I pressed the moon again.
Again the silver lid rose, and the tiny bird sang and danced, impossibly small and lifelike. I looked closer, taking in the smaller details, like the little blue and silver markings on its tail feathers.
It was beautiful. It was impossibly beautiful, I thought, for a machine driven by gears and springs. I was awed.
It finished its song and disappeared under the closing lid again.