Upside Down

by Jaym Gates

  There were no children in sight.

  Good, thought Buddy. He didn’t want them to see what was about to happen here.

  “Dwight.”

  The man’s eyes opened at the sound of Nick’s voice. It took him a moment to register who exactly was standing before him. “You came,” the man breathed.

  “Yes, Dwight. I came.”

  Now that Griswold had found his voice, the words all tumbled out in an avalanche. “I didn’t think you’d come. I believed you wouldn’t. You didn’t come before. You weren’t going to come now. How are you here? You don’t come. That’s not what happens. Not really. YOU DON’T COME.”

  “Dwight,” Nick said again, more calmly. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “I stopped believing,” Griswold was crying now. “I didn’t believe. Because you didn’t come.”

  “I’m here,” Nick repeated. “Put down the knife and we can all go have some cookies and a glass of milk and talk about it.”

  Griswold looked down in his lap, as if he’d forgotten he’d been holding a knife in the first place. He looked back up and blinked, realizing now that Nick had not come alone. Griswold lifted the knife and began to laugh. “You came, but you didn’t come for me. You came for them.”

  He did not name the children, but he didn’t have to. Buddy scanned the alcove. There were three possible archways beyond which the children might lie, all of them on the opposite side of Griswold’s perch.

  “I came for all of you,” said Nick. “I’m sorry it took so long. But here I am! You got what you wanted. Please, Dwight. Let them go.”

  Griswold’s face screwed up and the knuckles of the hand around the knife went white. “What I wanted? What I wanted? I wanted you to come then. I wanted you to come instead of him, punishing me when I was naughty.” Griswold’s face went slack, his crazy, bloodshot eyes staring at a faraway memory. “Punishing me worse when I was nice.”

  Griswold’s voice trailed off. A moment later he raised the knife again, focusing on Nick. Remembering he was there. “I stopped believing in you. I stopped believing in everything. Because no one came for me.”

  Whatever the trigger, it was clear Dwight had suffered some sort of psychotic break. His repetitive ramblings were immature and irrational. Buddy counted this as an asset. It was possible that Nick might be able to use Griswold’s own logic to disarm him before he hurt anyone.

  Buddy turned to check Agent Munin’s status. She tapped her ear and furrowed her brow. Something about Lupita? She scanned the room, and then looked back at Buddy. No…she hadn’t been indicating a voice in her earpiece, she was pointing out the silence. Buddy listened to the stillness of the cave. If there were twelve children somewhere close by, they were asleep or…subdued. All of them.

  “No one came. No one came. No one came.” Griswold was rocking back and forth now.

  Buddy stepped forward slowly. They were losing him.

  Nick took a step closer as well. “Dwight, I’m here …”

  “I STOPPED BELIEVING BECAUSE NO ONE CAME. NO ONE CAME. NO ONE CAME.”

  Nick stretched a hand out to the knife, one of those large, beautiful, skilled hands that could chop wood, bake cookies, drive a team of magical beasts, and etch a portrait so detailed that it came to life. “Dwight …”

  Griswold focused on Nick again. He seemed surprised to find Nick so close, right before his entire body went perfectly still. “And then he came.”

  “Gun!” screamed Agent Munin.

  No one had been watching Griswold’s other hand, the one that had reached for the pistol tucked into his pants at the small of his back. Nick saw it only in time to lunge forward and knock it aside, resulting in Buddy being shot in the arm instead of something more vital.

  But the concentration on the gun meant that everyone had forgotten about the knife, which Dwight promptly used to slit his own throat.

  “NO!” Nick screamed, catching Griswold’s body before it pitched backwards off the pillar. Nick silently cradled the man in his arms, his stern face expressing remorse and guilt in every wrinkle. It was natural for Nick to blame himself. If he had found a way to answer Griswold’s letter, he would have had to answer them all.

  Agent Munin rolled Buddy onto his back, forcing his eyes away from the scene. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Through and through?” She examined the bullet wound and nodded. Buddy took a moment to mentally assess the damage. He needed to be strong. What he wanted to do was faint. “Happen to have an extra scarf?”

  “I do, actually.” She reached beneath her thick coat and expensive suit and pulled out a length of ivory silk. She wrapped it around his arm efficiently, tying knots over both the entry and exit wounds. Buddy’s vision swam from the pain. Elves might live much longer lives, but their constitutions left a lot to be desired.

  “Buddy,” Agent Munin whispered his name. Even in the silence of the cave, it sounded very far away. “Elmore,” she said sternly. Buddy winced again and opened his eyes.

  “Zahra,” he managed to croak. He wanted to scold her, but he simply didn’t have the energy.

  Thankfully, she only seemed to want his attention. “It’s still too quiet in here.”

  Buddy grunted affirmatively. If they could have, the children would have reacted to the gunshot. He leaned his head back against the floor of the cave, desperately trying to turn defeat into anger.

  “Can you stand?” She posed it as a question, but didn’t wait for his answer before pulling him to his feet. Buddy cradled his wounded arm close to his body. He let her holster his weapon for him.

  “Nick,” she called out. She crossed to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Nick, we have to find the children.”

  Nick looked up at Agent Munin with that ravaged face and it broke Buddy’s heart.

  “Dwight Griswold was a child once. And I let him down.”

  “Well, here’s your chance to make up for it,” said Agent Munin. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “He must be keeping the children somewhere else,” said Buddy, “or they would have cried out when they heard the gunshot.” Nick shifted his eyes from Agent Munin’s face and stared at Buddy.

  Yeah. Buddy didn’t believe himself either.

  “Dwight’s soul is here with me.” Jeff’s booming voice ricocheted against the cave walls, louder and longer than the gunshot. Buddy tried not to worry about the walls collapsing. He didn’t relish the idea of being shot and buried alive in the same day. “I still cannot sense the children.”

  It was a small glimmer of hope, but Buddy took it. Nick must have, too, for he kissed Griswold on the top of the head, laid him down on the cave floor, and stood. All but the collar of his white fur coat was now ruined with bright red blood. Like the old times, Buddy thought to himself. But not like the old times.

  Nick took up the lamp and led the way. The middle of the three archways behind Griswold opened up into a chamber, then a tunnel, and then several more tunnels. Eventually, they found them.

  Nick lifted his lamp inside the chamber. The calcite sparkled in the light like new fallen snow. Stalactites hung like giant icicles above them. In the middle of the room was a white-topped dais, its fluid edges dripping as if with candle wax. And upon the dais was a pile of bones, each one picked completely clean.

  Nick froze with the lamp lifted high. A single tear fell from his eye. From behind him, Buddy could hear Agent Munin quietly chanting a prayer.

  “This can’t be them,” Buddy said aloud. “Jeff couldn’t sense them.”

  The puppet shrugged from inside Nick’s belt. “I still can’t.”

  Buddy walked to the dais, still refusing to believe his eyes. Separate from the pile of bones on the table-like formation were two birch branches, lying across each other in an X. One was silver. One was gold.

  Gold for good children. Silver for the naughty ones. Buddy knew this legend. He knew it as well as he knew his own. “No.”

  Nick lowered the
light, casting the sight back into darkness. “And then he came,” he said into the shadows, quoting Griswold’s last words.

  Buddy thought back to that moment, right before Griswold had pulled the gun. Remembered his body language. In the moment, Griswold hadn’t been ranting. He hadn’t been lost in a memory, terrified of whoever the monster had been in his childhood.

  When Dwight Griswold had said that last “And then he came,” he’d been referring to the monster now.

  Oh, he’d gotten attention all right. Twelve children, like the twelve days of Christmas, descended from bloodlines all over the world, crying their hearts out and praying to every god they knew. Nothing else would have had the power to break those sacred chains. It was the perfect sacrifice.

  Krampus had returned to the world of men.

  “Devoured souls are beyond my purview,” Jeff said as quietly as his booming voice could manage.

  Nick shook his head. “This is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not,” Buddy said reflexively.

  “It was my job,” Nick growled through his teeth. “I may have been reduced to nothing, but this was still my job.”

  “It still can be.”

  Buddy and Nick slowly turned back to where Agent Munin stood framed in the archway.

  “I’ve been authorized by the Director to offer you your own team.”

  “Wait. What about me?” asked Buddy.

  “And me?” boomed Jeff.

  “Ask him.” Agent Munin pointed at Nick. “It’s his team.”

  Nick raised his hands. “Hold on, hold on. What exactly are you saying?”

  Agent Munin crossed her arms. “I’m saying, let the Anchorage post — and all the other offices all over the world — handle the letters. Let the people handle the presents. Let the department stores and the corporations manufacture good will and pay for the advertising. Don’t retire. Evolve. Use all those magical abilities and resources at your disposal to handle the cases like these that fall through the cracks.” She dropped her hands and her eyes went soft. “Let’s save the lost ones.”

  Those bushy brows knitted together as Nick scowled at her. “Can I have some time to think about it?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course.”

  Nick looked back to the dais full of bones and stared at them a long time. Then his eyes met Buddy’s. For the first time since he’d arrived at the cabin, Buddy thought he saw the faintest glimmer of a twinkle there.

  “Someone has to stop Krampus,” said Nick. “It may as well be us.”

  Dear Santa.

  I have been very good this year. I would like a unicorn bicycle with tassels on the handles please. But not a pink one. Pink is for girls.

  Dear Santa —

  My baby brother is a brat. Please bring me a sister instead. Please and thank you.

  Dear Santa,

  Are you fat because you eat too many cookies? You should not eat too many cookies. Mom says sugar makes you fat. Except for me. I get hyper. If you give the cookies to your reindeer and eat the carrots instead, I promise I won’t tell.

  I would like Legos please. A huge pile of Legos. All the Legos you can carry. Do you like Legos? How many Legos do you think would fit in your sack?

  Dear Santa-

  HELP ME.

  Requiem for a Manic Pixie Dream

  Katy Harrad and Greg Stolze

  Chad stared at his phone without really seeing it. He could stare out the window instead, he supposed, and not really see that either. He was on a train, hurtling along the tracks at … Chad didn’t know how fast trains went. Chad didn’t care.

  The train was clipping along, but every time he turned to the scratched Plexiglas, he saw the same thing. Power poles. Leafless oaks. Maples cut into Y shapes so they wouldn’t interfere with telephone lines. A flat, black, even strip of empty road.

  “Rutabaga country,” he whispered, realizing he was looking out again. He looked at his phone again instead.

  ‘A’ ‘N’ ‘M’ ‘I’ and ‘C.’ He kind of hated Alphabear. What sort of a word was he supposed to make from that mess? The M and A were blinking red. They were about to turn to stone. He knew how they felt.

  He spelled out “MAN” and hit the green check mark beside it. Cartoon bears capered in synthetic joy. He glowered at the number that came up. Not enough for even a blue egg.

  “Fuck you, Alphabear,” he mumbled. The train rocked to a halt.

  Chad almost had a moment of pleasure when he realized he’d made the whole trip without craving meth. But then as he was stepping down to the dirty yellow rubber warning strip, he saw an ad for men’s cufflinks, and his mood crashed back down into misery. It wasn’t actually even an ad for men’s cufflinks, he saw, as he moved closer. It was for cologne, but the man in the ad was wearing cufflinks.

  He walked through a very small train station, and then his head twitched up, alert.

  The day was grey, the station was wood and scuffed tan linoleum, and outside the window, just for a moment, there was beauty. It was a heather-lavender something, a blend of faint purple next to orange. It should have looked awful, like action movies from 2011-2013, but somehow it worked. The tangerine-heather moment, which must have been clothing because it had moved out of view, was functional, counterintuitive, like a sunset that ought to be garish behind skyscrapers but instead somehow laughs lightly, devastatingly, at the labors of man. “Look upon my works,” the purple-gold sunset that shouldn’t be sublime seems to say, “Silly.”

  “Honey!”

  Chad blinked hard and there was Mom. Ooh.

  If the garments of the brief vision (woman? Probably a woman. Men didn’t wear purple and orange in rutabaga country, not unless they were fans of the Denver Broncos, which they wouldn’t be) had blended despite clashing, the clothes on his mother clashed despite blending. Flower prints. She hugged him and he remembered the time he’d gone to something that had been described as “a rave, if they’d had raves in Edwardian times.” It had been held in a greenhouse in Fordham Heights, of all places, and he’d taken drugs that had something in them that did a number on his inner ear and left him sprawled in a bed of geraniums, unable to stand until two guys in matching pinstripe suits had stopped laughing and helped. At least, he assumed they were geraniums.

  “Hey Mom,” he said, smushed into her shoulder.

  “Oh sweetie, let’s take you home,” she said. “Let’s get some seven-layer bean dip into you. You still like seven-layer dip, right?”

  “I still like it.”

  “They haven’t invented an eighth layer in New York, have they?”

  He chuckled.

  As they got into the minivan, he turned his head around his hometown, noticing that everything looked exactly the same, except smaller and more worn and grubby, and the billboards advertised energy drinks instead of cigarettes. He wasn’t consciously searching for an intoxicating melange of orange and violet. Not consciously.

  #

  That night he woke with the abruptness of a taut rubber band snapping apart. One second he was too asleep to dream, the next he was round-eyed, staring into the dark but seeing, in his mind, Scott standing over him. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, cupcake.” It was silent, but more real to him than the sound of owls hunting voles through the rutabaga fields.

  He did say I might have flashbacks, Chad thought, and went down to find his mother drinking the biggest milkshake he’d ever seen. She’d made it in the orange juice pitcher, and as he came into the kitchen she wiped aside a white smear studded with Oreo flecks, eyes guilty.

  “Hey Mom.”

  “Oh sugar pie, I hope the blender didn’t wake you up. It’s supposed to be whisper quiet but I think there’s a hitch in its gitalong.”

  “No, I just … I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I hope you don’t want any,” she said, raising it once more and gulping down a long, chunky sluice. “I’ve had my mouth on it and, you know…”

  “Um, I think
I’m more in the mood for savory.” Next to the mixer he saw a honey bear with its head twisted all the way off, a banana peel, a small carton of whipping cream, the lidless peanut butter jar, and the cookie package. “You hungry?” He couldn’t remember what they’d had for supper.

  “I don’t do this very often at all,” she said. “It would send my figure into a tailspin.”

  “Yeah, well, if you don’t have your health …” he rummaged in the cabinet and pulled out a box of Chicken in a Biskit crackers.

  “Oh honey no,” she said. “You can’t eat those, they’re full of gluten.”

  “You can’t get them in New York,” he said, though he had no idea if that was true or not. “All the stores have imported Kobe beef and goat cheese, but you can’t get these.”

  “Your father buys them,” she said, before taking another long suck at the pitcher. “I suppose we all have our vices.”

  “I suppose.”

  Something in his tone made her look up. “Oh Chad! Chad sweetie, you don’t think I’m passive-aggressive do you? That I’m passively aggressively commenting on your problem? Because I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know Mom.”

  “I wouldn’t and I won’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Was it because I was a bad mother?”

  “What?”

  “Was I a bad mom? Or, was your dad a bad father and that’s why you started shooting the meth?”

  “Smoking mom. You smoke meth.”

  “How did you even learn that?”

  “Look, everyone in New York goes through a drug phase,” he said. “It’s usually after some kind of blindsiding setback. Like my friend Kolos? The guy who did the enameled portraits of NAACP leaders on machete blades?”