Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1)

by Halbach, Sonia

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  © 2015 Sonia Halbach

  http://www.soniahalbach.com

  Cover Art by Dan Verkys

  http://www.gardenofbadthings.com

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-962-1 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-963-8 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-964-5 (hardcover)

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  For Grandma Ruth and Grandpa John, and our many Christmas Eves.

  And in memory of Lily, Sarah, and Grace Badger

  Learn more about the Lily Sarah Grace Fund at lilysarahgrace.org

  s soon as the carriage came around the street corner, Maggie Ogden glimpsed the snow-powdered sycamore that stood beside the west porch of Chelsea Manor. Strips of its brown and gray patterned bark desperately clung to the trunk as though sensing an impending storm, for even the estate’s distinguished trees knew of the disturbance brought on by the arrival of the holiday season.

  “Was it last Christmas when there was too much brandy in the plum pudding?” Clemmie Ogden mumbled while the carriage bumped along the cobblestone road.

  “That was two years ago, Clemmie,” corrected Catharine, as she gripped the black lace shawl draped around her porcelain neck. The ends of Catharine’s mouth turned up as she recalled the incident. “Aunt Lucretia had three slices and was giggling all evening.”

  Fourteen-year-old Maggie was seated between her older siblings in the back of the carriage. She listened to the hooves trotting up the avenue before adding, “Last Christmas, Grandfather Clement went missing at Jefferson Market. Remember? We couldn’t find him for hours.”

  Clemmie snorted. “Grandfather was attempting to escape Aunt Emily’s endless Yuletide cheer. His disappearance was quite intentional, I assure you.”

  Before Maggie could respond to her brother, the carriage lurched to a stop in front of their grandfather’s mansion.

  Chelsea Manor had been built upon farmland, but by the mid-nineteenth century the city had nearly crept to the mansion’s front stoop. South of the Manor, a brownstone church and seminary campus stood where once had been an apple orchard. Row houses pressed against the borders of the estate while a railroad company laid its tracks along the west end, dividing Chelsea and the banks of the Hudson River.

  But Chelsea Manor itself remained untouched, sitting on top of a hill that was supported by high stone walls where New York City’s streets and avenues had been carved out. And inside the Manor was even less affected by the wafting scent of industry and change making its way across Manhattan.

  Grandfather Clement had lived in Chelsea Manor all seventy-five years of his life, and he planned to die there, possibly sometime soon. But even though Grandfather Clement had deemed the past year to be his last, Christmas arrived once again to the Manor in 1854, and with it, the entire family. By late December, Grandfather Clement’s five living children, two daughters-in-law, one son-in-law, and seven grandchildren were settled in his mansion for the holidays.

  Maggie didn’t mind staying at Chelsea Manor. The tradition was a fairly predictable one. From the moment Maggie walked into the mansion’s foyer, greeted by a handful of servants and chattering relatives, her body seemed to fall into a simple state of holiday routine. Every year the same family members were seen, the same meals were eaten, and the same conversations were had.

  “Why, Catharine, I dare say that you have become the most beautiful woman in all of Manhattan,” Aunt Lucretia squealed, grasping Catharine in a tight embrace.

  “Young Clement, have you reconsidered studying at the seminary?” Uncle William said, poking Clemmie’s chest with a stubby finger. “I still believe that you would make a fine theologian.”

  “And Maggie,” Uncle Benjamin greeted, turning to acknowledge the least noticed person of her party. “What’s it that you do to occupy your time these days?”

  Maggie smiled accordingly. “I remain in a constant pursuit of betterment.” Her response was received with approving nods.

  Yes, it was a predictable tradition indeed.

  But there was one annual occurrence only Maggie knew about. And it was the peculiar dream she had each Christmas season where the legendary St. Nicholas would fall from Chelsea Manor’s rooftop. And this year proved to be no different.

  After the family retired for the evening, Maggie once again dreamed that St. Nicholas stepped too close to the rooftop’s edge and his polished boots slipped from the shingles. As the bearded man’s plump body tumbled through the misty air, the tattered sack clutched in his hand burst like a Christmas cracker, and a colorful explosion of red, green, and gold tinsel decorated the glittering lawn below while hundreds of baby dolls, snare drums, and wooden guns rained down from the sky.

  Although Maggie had dreamed the same thing many times before, after awakening in the early morning of Christmas Eve Day, she still anxiously ran over to the window. The family would never tolerate some jolly old elf sprawled on Grandfather Clement’s prominent estate―and on Christmas Eve Day, no less. Such a scandal would cause quite the outrage within the household, undoubtedly spoiling the entire holiday.

  “How rude!” Maggie pictured Aunt Maria squawking at the sight of the motionless Christmas saint.

  Then Uncle Clement Francis would surely prod the bulbous body with the tip of his cane, shaking his head in disgust while muttering, “I do not know what is more tragic―his fall or his fall’s lack of propriety.”

  So Maggie felt a silly sense of relief when there was no trace of St. Nicholas as she looked out Chelsea Manor’s third-story window where swirling flakes greeted her like an early present. It appeared the night had only brought a gentle, agreeable snow.

  But then a chilling thought froze Maggie at the window. There was something about her dream that had been different this year.

  Was another figure on the rooftop with St. Nicholas?

  Had the old man been pushed?

  Maggie shook her head. No, that couldn’t be right. The dream was always the same. St. Nicholas simply slipped from the rooftop. And she brushed aside the nonsensical idea of him falling any other way.

  Maggie ordinarily wouldn’t leave her bedroom until the pink sun drifted over the cusp of the estate, but the dream had left her feeling uncomfortably wide awake. Also, the portrait of late Aunt Margaret that hung over Maggie’s bed wouldn’t stop staring. The painted eyes of her beautiful―yet deceased―aunt usually followed Maggie around the room, but today they were even more penetrating.

  Maggie glanced across the bedroom and watched as twelve-year-old Gertrude continued to sleep soundly. Maggie’s younger cousin appeared free of nightmares as she muttered, “But, Mother, it was Gardiner who took a second bowl of lemon sherbet…”

  As the stale predawn light leaked into the bedroom, Maggie slipped out to the hallway with a coat in hand, mindful of her sleeping relatives.

  Maggie’s other cousins Gardiner and Louis resided in the bedroom just down the hallway. Before even opening the door, Maggie heard snores coming from Gertrude’s twin brother, Gardiner. On the far end of the room, Loui
s was slumped on a separate bed, back arched with his arm draped to the floor. The curly-haired boy’s hand was still mindlessly clutching the blankets that had been tossed to the ground during a lively slumber.

  Maggie got along with fifteen-year-old Louis. He was a good-humored boy who often mocked the family’s obsession with the city’s high society and their efforts toward being above reproach. And whether the target was Uncle William’s ability to weave misquoted scripture into most daily conversations, or Aunt Emily’s well-intended pleasantries that were spoken even when things were not all that pleasant―Louis was provided with much fodder for his ridicule.

  Also, Louis’ gangling body was similar to Maggie’s own boyish frame, so upon spying a stack of clothes casually folded on a nearby chair, Maggie snatched a pair of trousers and snuck away.

  Two mirror image staircases wrapped downward through Chelsea Manor. Having stayed in the mansion many times, Maggie knew that the east staircase creaked, so she carefully drifted down the west one. In need of a shirt, Maggie stopped on the second floor landing. One large lonely door led to Grandfather Clement’s master chamber, while the other bedrooms housed Catharine, Clemmie, Maggie’s parents, and all the remaining relatives. And just as she had done earlier, Maggie crept into one of the rooms and came out gripping a beige shirt.

  When Maggie reached the main floor, she momentarily paused and listened. Normally, the servants wouldn’t be there for another hour, but being Christmas Eve Day, Maggie thought they might arrive earlier to prepare for the evening’s meal. But she heard nothing.

  Maggie crossed the circular stair hall to the music room. Her brown hair was held in a tightly pinned bun, and she hurriedly put the borrowed clothes over her nightgown. And then a dense coat on top of that. Tucking her hands into her sleeves, she opened the door that led to the west porch.

  Maggie’s exposed face tingled in the cold air. The roads were quiet as she stared out at the untouched snowy ground of the estate. There were no carriages to be seen and even the regular locomotives weren’t running this early. But beyond the railroad tracks, the Hudson River flowed freely.

  Maggie hopped off the porch and found her sled tucked beneath the steps. The paint on the pinewood was beginning to peel, but its vibrant royal blue color still looked brand-new. Two mustard-colored stripes ran across the top and bottom of the sled, framing a red-painted badger wrapped in a cluster of ivy. The sled didn’t feel as big as it once did, but Maggie planned to ride it until its metal runners fell off.

  Gripping the ends of the sled, Maggie pranced to the back of Chelsea Manor, which was the clearest of trees. She dropped the sled where the hill dipped and jumped on top, sinking the runners into the immaculate snow.

  Maggie glided the sled forward until the earth’s natural pull took hold.And then down she went.

  Maybe it was Maggie’s excitement, or possibly the freshness of the snow that morning.

  Or maybe it was an aging sled wanting an extraordinary final run.

  Or perhaps, just maybe, the planet had momentarily shifted on its axis, making hills steeper, snow slicker, and sleds faster.

  As the sled continued to gain speed, causing brittle ice crystals to dot her face and blur her sight, Maggie was struck with panic. The sled wasn’t going to stop before reaching the stone wall overlooking the street, she realized.

  But before the sled was airborne, visions from last night’s dream flashed through her mind.

  There was another figure. And St. Nicholas had been pushed.

  Then into the air Maggie flew, over the wall and above the city’s gravel road.

  But only for a moment.

  The ground quickly moved up and met her sled with a violent thud.

  And then all went dark.

  aggie tasted wet salt as a cold blend of snow and blood soaked her lips.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  The voice sounded distant, but a warm breath grazed her cheeks.

  “Miss?”

  Squinting, Maggie opened her eyes―first the right and then the left.

  “Are you all right?”

  An unfamiliar face bent over her supine body. The young man looked around Clemmie’s age of seventeen. A felt cap sat upon his puffy bronze hair, and there was a dimple in his chin that Maggie focused on until the gray sky stopped spinning.

  “Are you hurt?” The stranger kneeled next to her, one arm casually propped on his leg while the other hand carefully touched the side of her head. “That was quite a fall.”

  Maggie slowly steadied herself upon her elbows as pebbles from the road roughly dug into her skin. She spotted the sled partially buried in snow a few feet away. But it didn’t look broken.

  “Perhaps this will be of use.” The man took a long handkerchief out of his coat pocket. Grabbing a fistful of snow, he swiftly packed a snowball into the handkerchief then tied it tightly. He placed the cold, round cloth into Maggie’s palm. When she didn’t move, he smiled and guided her hand up to her bleeding bottom lip.

  “You also have a small bruise on your forehead.” The man pushed his cap back on his head as his radiant blue eyes examined the top of Maggie’s face. “But I think you’ll survive.”

  Maggie looked at the wall surrounding Chelsea estate where she had just dropped. Her back ached and her head throbbed, but she was glad it hadn’t been much worse.

  The stranger continued to watch her closely.

  “Who are you?” Maggie asked.

  The man’s face relaxed and his eyes widened.

  “Henry.”

  Maggie stared blankly at Henry who returned her gaze with a look of concern.

  “And do you know your name?” he gently asked.

  Flustered more by Henry’s presence than from the sledding accident, Maggie struggled to find words. Each time his eyes scanned her face, her mind dizzied and her mouth went dry.

  “Maggie,” she finally murmured. “My name is Maggie.”

  Henry gave her a fleeting smile. “What are you doing outside at this hour?”

  She thought the answer to the question seemed somewhat obvious and she weakly pointed to her sled lying nearby.

  Henry cocked his head to look.

  “I went sledding before the others woke up,” she explained.

  “Others?”

  “My family,” Maggie said, nodding toward Chelsea Manor.

  Henry looked up the hill to the Manor then stared back at Maggie.

  “You are related to Clement Clarke Moore?”

  She couldn’t pinpoint Henry’s exact tone. It seemed like feigned admiration and, unless she had imagined it, a bit of disdain.

  Maggie nodded. “Are you a student?”

  Most young men in the neighborhood attended the General Theological Seminary down the road. Besides being built on his Chelsea property, Grandfather Clement had also taught at the seminary before his retirement. Although the name Clement Clarke Moore was recognized throughout New York, Henry’s response was similar to the other students who knew the professor as somewhat of a legendary figure.

  “A student?” Henry repeated, seeming confused.

  Maggie began to wonder if Henry had actually been the one to smack his head in a sledding collision.

  “At the seminary,” Maggie said, looking down the avenue where the large brick campus could be easily spotted.

  “Oh, no, I’m not a student,” Henry said, following her gaze. “I’m from Poughkeepsie.”

  “Poughkeepsie? What are you doing here?”

  Henry seemed uncomfortable with the attention and he leaned back on his knees, shifting his blue eyes away from Maggie’s face for the first time. She instantly missed the intensity of his stare.

  “I was just picking up a few things for Christmas Eve,” he stammered.

  “Down in New York?”

  “The shops in Poughkeepsie are closed today, and I thought I’d have better luck in the city.” Henry nodded to a carriage with a brown-spotted horse standing in the street.


  Now it was Maggie’s turn to be baffled. She shook her head, convinced the fall had knocked something loose. “You took a carriage from Poughkeepsie to pick up a few things? And then you’re going all the way back today?”

  Even if weather and road conditions were ideal, the trip from Poughkeepsie to New York would be a day of travel each way. Although Maggie rarely ventured outside of the city, she still recognized there was no logic in that.

  “How do you make such a trip in one day?” Maggie blinked several times. “Is that a flying carriage you have there?”

  “Uh, actually,” Henry stuttered as his face became flushed. “I was visiting an acquaintance here in New York the last couple of days. I am now returning home to Poughkeepsie, but I’m picking up some items before I leave.”

  Henry couldn’t hide the dishonesty in his tone. But Maggie wasn’t too concerned with the young man’s whereabouts. So she attempted to diffuse the unease created by his puzzling explanation.

  “Can you help me up?” Maggie sweetly reached out her arms.

  Henry seemed taken aback again. “Why, of course.” He shot up from the ground, brushed the snow off his knees and then helped Maggie to her feet. His gloves were warm against her exposed pink hands.

  Maggie stared up at his glowing face. “How old are you?”

  She didn’t mean to ask the question. It just slipped out.

  Henry raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Nineteen.”

  Silently, Maggie concluded that their five-year age difference would someday not seem so significant.

  “Would you…” Maggie started to say, but stopped. She wanted to invite Henry to Chelsea Manor for breakfast. But then Maggie pictured her older sister drifting down the stairs and arriving in the dining room, looking as beautiful and refreshed as always, and Henry falling for Catharine’s charms as most people did.

  “Would you… show me your horse?” Maggie finally said. But she didn’t wait for a response before heading over to the carriage.

  “Hello, girl,” Maggie said, rubbing circles along the animal’s coat.

  “Boy,” Henry playfully corrected, coming up beside Maggie. “His name’s Dunder.” Henry caressed the horse’s long muzzle, and Dunder responded with an affectionate nudge.