by Jeff DePew
How did this happen? Exactly what he DIDN’T want. Out of all the things he wanted, this was the last. He crumpled up the scroll and put his head in his claws.
***
“So I hear you decided to do Secret Santa.” Vlad leaned against the time clock.
Pitch looked up from the bottle of insect repellant he was emptying. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“So who’d you get?”
“I dunno. Some minor demon. I forget his name.” He looked away.
“Huh.” Vlad sounded doubtful. “I got some joker named Drizzle. Down on Level Four.”
“What are you going to get him?” Pitch asked hopefully. He needed an idea. Any idea.
“I took a dagger off a newly arrived Shade. Supposed to have been one of the daggers that stabbed Caesar.” It was common practice for many Demonkind to await the arrival of Charon’s ferryboat, which brought the newly dead to the shores of the Underworld. The Shades’ first experience with the hospitality of Hell was often when they were beaten, robbed, torn limb from limb, and occasionally partially devoured. They couldn't be killed, as they were already dead, but reconstituting themselves from the bits and pieces left behind was a difficult, agonizing procedure.
“That’s a good idea.” Pitch nodded. He paused. “So... have you heard who got Satan’s name?
“Nope.” Vlad shook his heavy head. “Nobody’s said nothing. At least to me.”
Pitch pretended to think about this. “I wonder who it could be. What do you think they’ll get him?”
“Hold on.” Vlad growled and grabbed a nearby Shade that had been sneaking toward the insect repellant. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He lifted the Shade up, holding him by the shoulder and leg. He grunted and pulled and tore the Shade in half, showering himself and Pitch with gore. Blood and internal organs slid out of the body, splattering wetly on the ground. Vlad laughed at the still struggling Shade and threw the pieces over his shoulder. Maggots and worms burrowed up from the ground to get at the blood and torn flesh.
“Hey!” Pitch said, wiping his face.
“Sorry, buddy,” Vlad replied, licking blood off his hands. “But anyway, who knows what to get Satan? I’m sure as Heaven glad I didn’t pick his name. Remember a couple times back when that satyr gave him a portrait painted with the blood of innocents? Satan had him drawn and quartered right there in the main hall and had the pieces nailed up on the walls?” Vlad chuckled. “I think they’re still there.”
Pitch stared at him, silent.
At dinner that night all anybody talked about was Secret Santa—who picked whose name, and what gift they were planning on giving and/or getting. Pitch was unusually silent, just listening, not eating. The Demonkind jabbered on about legendary swords with jeweled hilts, skulls with eyes of flame, enchanted rings, magical haunches of never-ending meat. But none of these gifts spoke to him. Satan would already have all of these things—and then some. No, Pitch had to find him something unusual, something special... but what?
Doubt and uncertainty ringing in his head, he got up from the table, deposited his tray, and headed home.
Pitch had never been Up Top before, but had heard all about it. Few of the Demonkind had, until the advent of the Secret Santa. Sure, there was a possession here and there, or some fool summoned up a demon once in a while, but these were rare, and more often than not, Satan was involved.
When Pitch went Up Top, he wouldn’t be alone. Thousands of Demonkind would be invading the Earth, in various guises, over the next few work cycles. They couldn’t just go Up Top in their usual forms. That would cause panic and, more importantly, remove doubt. The Big Guy (God) was very particular about faith. “Anyone can perform a miracle and people will believe,” He’d once said. “But how many can NOT perform a miracle and still get people to believe? Hmm? That’s the trick. I haven’t done anything in thousands of years and they still believe.” He could so smug sometimes.
***
He sat in his hovel, leaning against the wall. He couldn’t sleep.
Satan. What do you get Satan for Christmas? He had everything. And if he didn’t have it, he didn’t want it. Precious gems, gold, silver, the Daggers of Megiddo in a display case—Satan had it. A pool filled with unholy water. A pillar of salt. A jar containing an unbaptized infant. Marble statues, gold statues, statues made of shit, living (or unliving) statues forbidden to move. There was nothing new in Hell. That’s why they went to Earth to get gifts.
No one but Satan ever got a “new” gift in Hell. Everything had to found or stolen. They called it “regifting,” and Satan had sent a cadre of demons Up Top to spread the concept of regifting in order to infect and spoil the “true meaning of Christmas.” Surprisingly, the humans had taken to regifting like flies to offal. When the demons had returned telling tales of the vast amount of loot in the Human marketplaces, Satan had decided to allow them to travel there to get gifts. The only catch was they weren’t allowed to pay for anything. Apparently that was another way for Satan to soil/ruin Christmas.
The only approved way Up Top was through one of the portals. There were two located on each level, and they were closely monitored and heavily guarded. Unauthorized travel Up Top was strictly monitored. No one was allowed Up without a pass, and the passes were only good for a few Earth hours. Occasionally a demon was allowed out for longer, for a more involved job like a possession. Pitch’s pass was only good for the next work cycle, so he would have to work fast.
At this time, most of the Earth marketplaces were crammed with shoppers, so a little extra chaos would go unnoticed. Some of the Demons loved taking the forms of children and heading to the toy aisles to wreak havoc: opening boxes, tearing apart toys, screaming. Pitch had heard of a place called “Walm-Aht” where the demons especially loved to go during Christmas time. Chaotic. Noisy. Almost like Hell.
The portals were built into the rock walls. They were fairly wide, so several demons could travel at a time, which helped the line move quickly. From a distance, the portals resembled caves. But as one got closer, you could see a faint blue light undulating at the far end, deep inside. Pitch waited in line, listening to the excited talk around him. He wished he could share their enthusiasm. Once he was at the front, he showed his card to one of the Minotaurs standing guard and was nodded through. He stepped into the portal.
“Remember to close the door behind you,” the Minotaur growled.
Pitch turned back as he entered the portal. “What—” he had time to ask before he was seized.
A sudden burst of bright white light and it felt as though his body had being grabbed by a giant fist and crumpled up into a ball. He was pulled, twisted, and turned inside out. Everything went black. He smacked hard into a cold, wet surface, and all was still.
Pitch groaned and opened his eyes. There had to be a better way to travel Up Top than this. He had heard rumors of an ebony staircase that moved, and all you had to do was stand on it and you would be taken up. It was only accessible through a room in Satan’s palace. Barnaby insisted he had been on it twice, but... you know. Barnaby.
He got to his feet and looked around. He was in a small cubicle with walls that did not quite reach all the way to the floor or ceiling. Was this a prison cell of some type? There was a white porcelain seat with a hole in the middle. But why would—? Pitch looked in the hole. Ah. Human feces. Then he remembered. A toilet. He never understood the human desire to eliminate their waste. Why not leave it out to fester and bloom? How else do you keep others away from your sleeping mat? He fumbled with the latch on the door for a moment and stepped out into a larger, shiny room. Mirrors were set above a long counter that ran the length of the wall. There were more circular, white porcelain openings in the counter. Ah, were these toilets as well? Before he could find out, he remembered the Minotaur’s warning and turned and closed the stall door. There was a sign on it that read “Out of Order.” So this would be his way back as well.
Pitch approached the counter and looked in the openi
ngs. No feces. He caught his reflection in the mirror and he jerked back. He’d seen humans, of course, but only in their undead state. He’d never really paid much attention to them. Was this what living humans looked like? Pitch moved closer. A round, pink human face gazed back at him. Short brown hair. He held up his hands. Pink. With five (five?) round-tipped fingers. They would be worthless for ripping out an enemy’s throat. The eyes were small and round and the teeth were laughable. So few and so flat. What did they eat up here—paste?
He was wearing a black, short-sleeved shirt with “HERE COMES TROUBLE!” stenciled in garish green neon across the front. Pitch felt around behind him. No tail. Interesting. He pulled the front of his shorts out and looked down. He was male.
The door burst open and two humans entered. Pitch backed away, thought about racing back to the stall, and then remembered. I look just like them. As far as they know, I’m human too. He watched them closely.
“...and when I see Santa I’m going to give him a big hug!” the smaller human proclaimed excitedly.
The larger one, most likely a guard or keeper of some sort, smiled and nodded. “I’m sure he’ll love that. Everyone loves a hug.” He helped the small one unfasten his pants and approach yet another porcelain receptacle, but this one was built vertically into the wall. Pitch watched, curious. Ahh. That’s what it was for. The adult human glanced at Pitch. “Are you going to see Santa, too?”
“Uhh. Umm. Yes?” Pitch started at the sound of his voice. Clear and high pitched. Almost like a female’s. And the way his voice resonated in this tiled chamber! He began hooting and shouting, listening with delight as his voice reverberated around the room.
The larger human bent down beside the smaller one and whispered something in his ear. His eyes never left Pitch. As they made their way out of the bathroom, they stayed as far away from Pitch as possible. The smaller one turned and waved his hand and called out, “Bye! See you in line!” as the door closed.
Line? What line? Remembering that he had only a limited amount of time to find a gift, Pitch yanked the door and ventured out.
Sparkles. Noise. Humans. Glitter. White. Green. Red. Everywhere. He spun around, trying to find some sense of direction. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it seemed to be some type of indoor trading post or marketplace. He saw the word “MACY’S” plastered on walls and pillars, surrounded by tinsel and streamers.
Green, pointed trees decorated with small shiny objects were placed seemingly everywhere. Signs pointed him in different directions: Housewares For Him, For Her, Home Furnishings, and on and on.
He walked through the crowded marketplace, eyes darting all around. Would Satan like a necklace? He had so many. Pitch approached a table and picked up a black cylinder with a clear top. He wasn’t sure what that was, but it was black and shiny. It appeared to be a container of some kind. He glanced at the sign: Coffee Grinder. What’s coffee? Did Satan like coffee? He sighed and put the cylinder back. This was hopeless. He had no idea what to get.
He spotted several Demonkind in various guises throughout the store. One, wearing the form of a tall human male, was at a glass case, asking to try on a diamond bracelet. As the worker turned away to retrieve it, the demon quickly reached out and snatched a ring off the counter. Another was surreptitiously tearing the price tags off clothing items. Pitch wished he had time to enjoy himself, but he needed to get moving.
A group of humans, two adults—male and female—and three smaller ones, hurried past. He heard one of the young ones point to a sign and squeal.
“Santa! Santa’s this way!”
Pitch turned. He’d heard of Santa. He lived Up Top. He was some kind of minor god. He accepted offerings of sweetened breads and mammary liquid, and in exchange, gave gifts to human children every Christmas. Surely Santa would know what to give Satan.
Pitch followed the human family group (which was what he assumed they were) to the end of a long queue. It consisted of similar family groups, with tense, harried adults accompanied by overstimulated young ones. Two demons were in line. One wore the form of an infant in a wheeled carriage of some sort. He was gleefully screaming his heart out, but to the humans, he appeared to be crying.
The other demon, posing as a maternal figure, paid no attention and placidly tapped on some sort of glowing device in her hands. Pitch noticed many of the parents were doing the same, ignoring their children for these strange small glowing devices. What were they? He sidled up and glanced over the shoulder of an adult woman to sneak a peek at her device. A kitten? They were looking at pictures of kittens? But why? Sure, kittens were delicious, but humans didn’t eat them. They kept them as household servants. At least that’s what he’d been told. The line moved forward and Pitch went with it.
Near the end of the line he passed beneath a red-and-white arch that read “Welcome to the North Pole.” White, sparkly powder was spread the floor on either side of the queue. Pitch wondered if it was edible. Large, colorfully decorated boxes sat in piles here and there. A small fence made of large, red-and-white canes lined a red-and-white brick path. Pitch scoffed. That fence wouldn’t keep anyone out.
More humans wearing colorful green-and-red outfits with pointed hats were taking the children by the hand away from their adults. The children were led toward a red-garbed figure sitting on a large throne. The parents stood to the side and watched their offspring. Pitch pushed forward for a better look. Were they being sacrificed? An old white-bearded human, wearing a suit of red, sat atop a golden throne. Pitch had seen his likeness on posters throughout the store. This was Santa. He squeezed between a large human woman and her husband. A tiny child of indeterminate sex stood between them, idly exploring a nostril with a dirty finger.
“Hey! Watch it!” The woman grabbed his shoulder. “Come on, kid, you have to wait your turn.” Pitch glared at her, but backed off. The first rule of going Up Top was “Blend in.” The woman looked down at him smugly. She yanked her child’s hand out of his/her nose and held it tightly. The child took his/her other hand, pointed a finger, and got back to work.
Finally it was Pitch’s turn. A smiling female human approached him, holding out her hand. She was wearing a green dress and a red pointed hat. Her ears were also pointed, but Pitch saw with disappointment that they were false ears. False ears?
“Come on with me, sweetheart.” Pitch took her hand and she led him along the fake-brick walkway. “Are you excited to see Santa?”
Pitch looked up at her big red smile and blinked.
“Don’t be scared, sweetheart.” She knelt beside him and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. “What are you going to ask Santa for?”
“I’m not sure,” Pitch replied. Which was the truth. What did one ask Santa for? He remembered the small human in the bathroom. “Should I hug him?”
“Of course! Santa loves hugs from little boys and girls! It’s his favorite thing, next to milk and cookies!” She giggled unconvincingly. She glanced around at the adult humans. “Where are your mommy and daddy?”
“Oh, they're in Hell,” Pitch replied, looking past her. Santa was speaking earnestly to a young human female whose face was flush with excitement. She was leaving, but turned and reached up and put her arms around him. Santa laughed good-naturedly and put his arms around her. That was a hug. Pitch knew that much. The girl released Santa and clambered down the steps with the help of yet another Santa’s helper. Two adult humans were there to greet her at the bottom. They held up their kitten viewers at her and then they hugged her. So much hugging.
“It’s your turn,” said the female Santa’s helper, shoving Pitch forward. There was no inflection in her voice. She avoided looking at him.
Santa’s throne was not as grand as Satan’s, but it was still something. He could see right away that the gold wasn’t real. And where were the human skulls?
Pitch walked up the steps. Santa was beaming broadly. Another of Santa’s helpers stood beside him, this one a scrawny male with a spotty face. As Pitch step
ped on the top level, he reached down and lifted Pitch up. Pitch was too startled to resist and before he knew it, he was planted on Santa’s lap. He looked up at the twinkling eyes, the ruddy cheeks, remembered himself, and reached around Santa as far as his stubby human arms could go. Santa laughed and put an arm around his shoulder. Pitch held on. A hug. His first hug. It was odd, being this close to someone and not inflicting pain on them. Pitch didn’t know if he liked it or not. Santa continued to laugh, but when he removed his arm from Pitch’s shoulder and the laughter became forced, Pitch let go.
“So what’s your name, buddy?” asked Santa.
“Umm... Pitch, sir.”
“Pitch, hmm. That’s a wonderful name! So what would you like me to bring you for Christmas?”
“Umm... well it’s not for me, exactly.”
Santa looked puzzled. But then his familiar smile returned. “Ho ho ho! What a good little boy! So who would like me to bring a present for?”
Thirty seconds later, two burly Santa’s helpers were half dragging, half carrying Pitch past the line of waiting humans. He had time to note that several pointed their kitten viewing devices at him as he passed. There were audible clicks.
“Wait! He didn’t even tell me what to—” They ignored his protests, releasing him just inside what appeared to be the main doors. Pitch squinted against the bright light shining through the transparent doors. The two Santa’s helpers strode away without looking back.
Pitch sighed. What now? He had no gift and time was running out. He tried to imagine a best-case scenario if he had no gift to give Satan. The best-case scenario was the same as the worst-case scenario. Dismal. Humiliation, torment, demotion. If he was lucky.
He looked around in a last ditch effort to find a gift. A comfy chair? Clothing? Quality footwear? No. No. No! He wanted to scream in frustration. Why couldn't he have picked Vlad’s name? A bloody bone. A broken spoon. Vlad would be overjoyed at either gift.
He strode back into the bowels of Macy’s, his head lowered in defeat. That’s when he heard it. A beautiful tinkling sound. Music. But not like the muddy music that blared through the hidden speakers in the ceiling. No—this was more delicate... more elegant. This music spoke to him.