by J. D. Douwes
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Krampus and the Kolaches
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press
A huge Christmas tree soars up from the food area below us, the star at eye level from up here. Over-sized stuffed animal reindeer in mid-flight hang from the ceiling, guiding an equally stuffed Santa and his sleigh.
Harry stares at it in wonder. “Santa,” he calls out, waving.
I’ve never seen him use his acting skills in public before; I’m muted by embarrassment, looking between him and Santa.
“Hey, Santa, it is I, Krampus.” He cups his hands around his mouth. His voice carries through the open mall, and again we’re the center of everyone’s curiosity. He must have been watching that Arny Swartzen-whatever guy’s Christmas movie or something.
I hit him. “Stop it. Everyone’s looking at us.” Thankfully this level of the mall has fewer people, so he’s a little less conspicuous. If you can call a seven-and-a-half-foot man wearing a sasquatch-goat hybrid costume inconspicuous.
Krampus and the Kolaches
by
JD Douwes
Christmas Cookies Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Krampus and the Kolaches
COPYRIGHT © 2021 by JD Douwes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kristian Norris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2021
Trade Paperback ISBN
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3896-5
Christmas Cookies Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To June, who is the best pal a person could want. To my critique partners who make everything better. To Molly for helping polish up the police scenes. To my kids for putting up with my crazy…well, everything. And, lastly, to Krampus: you’ll always be my favorite.
Chapter 1
The sun is low in the gloomy sky, the light waning. Trees wrapped in holiday lights line the streets, large ornaments dangle overhead. Dina, Fred, and I are stopped in a line of cars in downtown Seattle, waiting for crowds of holiday shoppers and carolers on foot to pass us by. We’ve been waiting for five minutes easily. Oh well, it’s Figgy Pudding; what are you going to do?
I’m singing a Krampus carol to pass the time. “God rest ye scary gentleman, let nothing you disdain,” I sing, reading from the lyric folder on the torn seat next to me. Dina sings with me from the back seat, her voice soft and distinct.
I take a deep breath and launch into the next lyric, “Get in the way of your job today ’cause tomorrow’s Christmas day.” I gotta nail these lyrics.
Dina’s kid Fred is looking out the window, his pale, freckled skin marred with a pimple right on the end of his nose.
I can almost see the entrance to the parking garage around the corner from our place in line. My nerves are getting more frayed by the minute, and it’s not because pre-teen spirit and his mom are sitting behind me in the backseat with sullen gazes.
Harry hasn’t answered my messages in two days, and the Figgy Pudding caroling competition is mere hours away. Without him dressed as Krampus, we’ll just be ghosts. How do you explain ghosts singing naughty Christmas carols to a crowd of people looking for, well, nice? That and it’s finally my chance to prove myself. It feels like high school all over again.
When I’m not singing, I’m telling myself, “It’s fine, I’ll be okay,” on repeat. I need more time to memorize the carols we’ll be singing with my ghost-hunting group, the NIGHT Crew. This is our first ever caroling competition. June’s our strongest voice: a trained opera singer. Cindy can harmonize like a nightingale. But how can we pull this off without Harry?
My car is turned off; I’m a little low on gas, and it tends to overheat when I idle too long. Thankfully, it smells like heaven in here; a buttery sweet aroma drowns out the mildew odor and rank kid BO rampant in the air. Two dozen Apricot Kolaches cookies made from my oma’s Christmas Cookie recipe are still warm in their plastic dollar store box beneath the caroling folder.
“Hey, Khalie? Gimmie a cookie,” Fred says from the backseat, his voice cracking.
I check my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror, still singing, ignoring the pubescent kid in the back seat. I’d just put a red rinse over my dull dark-brown hair to try and give it a little more oomph. I look pretty hot tonight for a ghost.
“Give me a cookie!” Fred yells over our voices.
I angle the mirror and consider the cute red-headed kid in the back seat. “No, I’m sorry.”
His hair is such a dark shade of red it’s almost burnt orange. I’m kinda jealous. He’s small for his age and almost cuddly-looking for a twelve year old. But, I had to borrow flour, sugar, cream cheese, butter, salt, and apricot preserves from my mom to make them. I already had the yeast, so that’s good. No way am I going to waste them on him.
“Fred, those are for a charity bake sale. Remember?” Dina says in a voice better suited to a granny baby-talking her toy poodle. She shoves a strand of bleach blonde hair out of her eyes and continues, “Ms. Khalie told us when we got in. I’ll grab you a cupcake on the way upstairs.” She goes back to staring like a zombie out the window, listlessly singing. She is ankle-deep in fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups I probably should have tossed before they got in.
“No one’s listening to me,” Fred whines, undoing his seat belt.
His mom’s hand shoots out, backhanding him into his seat. “You know better. Put your seatbelt on. That, right there, is a cop. You will not get me arrested again.”
“Mom, I’m hungry. No one is going to miss a single cookie.” He settles back but doesn’t put his seat belt on.
“Nope. No cookie for you. Sorry, kiddo.” I’m grateful we’re almost there so I can get out of this car. Cute or not, kids are not my thing.
The police officer Dina mentioned stands one car in front of me, blowing his whistle to get passerby’s attention.
“But I’m hungry,” Fred whines, flinging his head back against the seat. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. A short whistling sound that ends in an––
“Ouch!” I holler as an explosion of pain erupts in the back of my head—something hard ricochets off me and flies somewhere in the backseat with a clatter.
I press a hand to the painful spot and spin around; my other hand raised to swat at whatever hit me. “What the hell was that?” I search for the cause of my pain behind me. Did a bullet come through the window? But no, all our windows are intact. Dina’s eyes are wide in surprise, and Fred is smiling back at me.
“What’s wrong now?” Dina looks irritated.
“
I don’t know. Something hit me in the head.”
Dina and I have been on a few ghost hunts together. She’s constantly criticizing my EVP (electronic voice phenomena) sessions. Says my questions are stupid, and I make up shit that didn’t happen.
“So, you automatically think it’s us?”
Why did I agree to give them a ride again? I could have just not drawn a straw at our last meeting, saying I wasn’t sure if my car would make it on the Seattle hills. It’s not exactly a lie.
“It came from behind me, so that’s where I looked. Sheesh, Dina, way to take care of a friend.”
My phone pings with a text. I sit back down in my seat with the phone held low so the cop can’t see it and type in my password. I’m sweating under all the layers of thrift store chic I’m wearing as part of my creepy costume.
It’s a text from June. —Have you heard from Harry? He’s not answering my texts or private messages.—
Just great. I shoot off a text and a private message to Harry. —You’ll get laid if you answer this message.—
I have a chance to redeem myself here; finally, I get to sing in a choir. I’m hoping that the local news station will come by and record us singing. Can you imagine that? Me, on TV, singing! Take that, Mr. Paccar. Me, the kid you said would never be allowed to sing in a choir. If Harry shows up, that is.
Horns start blaring, and a voice from outside the car yells.
****
I look up to see the now angry policeman blowing his whistle so hard his face is beet-red. The man stops when he sees he has my attention. “Move along!” he yells, gesturing for us to drive forward.
Asshole. I take a deep breath. My first thought is to flip him off. I mean, can’t he see I’m in pain? Instead, I give a curt nod, start the car, and complete my turn, taking the car into the parking garage. “Damn, that hurt. I wonder what it was.”
Fred’s breath tickles my ear. “It was this.” He’s leaning over the back of my seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see three or four stray stache hairs on his upper lip––and he’s holding up his cell phone with an evil grin on his face.
“What… How?” I ask, shaking my head gingerly. “You know what? Don’t answer.” I palm his face and shove him back into his seat. “Everyone, just leave me alone.” I focus as I drive through the tight turns. This garage is a brutal labyrinth, even on a good day.
He laughs quietly and flops back in his seat. “It just happened.”
It’s suddenly clear why everyone was relieved that I pulled the short straw to give Dina a ride.
Dina is still zoned out and staring out the rear passenger window, lips pouty. “Dina, are you hearing any of this?” She looks tired, and her light blonde hair is greasy and limp. Good thing she’s going to cover it with a hat.
“Hm? What?” she says, seeming to wake up from a nap. “What’s going on?”
“Your son just threw his freaking phone at my head.”
“How dare you accuse my kid of doing something so awful. You don’t know that’s what happened.”
“My God, Dina, he told me he did it.” I navigate a turn.
She’s wide awake now, her face a shade of red in my rearview mirror that can’t be good. “Well, he has to be making it up. I can’t believe you, of all people, would attack my son that way. He’s had a hard life.”
I slam on my brakes. Someone behind me screeches to a stop. They scream out their window and jam on their horn—this time, I give into my urge. I roll down the window, poke my head out, and hold out my hand, middle finger raised proudly. “Emergency, you cocksucker. You can wait,” I scream. Surprisingly, they stop honking.
“My, my, aren’t we over-reacting.” Dina adjusts her seat belt.
“Me? Over-reacting? Give me your hand,” I insist, turning in my seat and holding out my hand.
“No. What do you want my hand for?” She holds her hands to her chest.
“If you felt the damn egg growing on the back of my head, you’d believe me.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls away from my flailing hand. “Oh, grow up.”
“Your asshole son threw his phone at my head because I wouldn’t give him a cookie. Go ahead, ask him.”
Dina seems to be chewing on what to say next. My breathing is heavy as I wait for her to answer, my heart pounding.
A horn honks, almost as if it’s unsure if it’s the right thing to do. I flip them off again and start driving, returning to my search for June’s car in the Puget Sound mall’s parking garage.
A few seconds pass, and she says nothing. “Figures,” I say, dropping it.
It’s bad enough that my head hurts from getting smacked with a phone. I’m already frazzled about my first ever choir performance and having to park in downtown Seattle. These horribly designed parking garages, with their tight turns are nightmare inducing.
All of this plays through my head as I drive in circles through the garage, looking for June’s red car. By the time I’m ready to turn around and go home, we finally see three familiar-looking people dressed in giant skirts gathered around a red car.
****
In the half-light of the garage, June, Cindy, and Marion stand next to the open hatch. I pull into the parking place next to them and get out of the car as fast as possible, the funky basement air hitting my cheeks.
“Here they are,” Marion says. “Are you ready for Figgy Pudding?” She is. Her ghost makeup is on, and she’s already dressed in a black eighteenth-century mourning skirt and blouse. A black hat is perched just so on her noble head.
“Hi, Khalie. You look great.” June goes back to searching in the back of her car. Just like Marion, June looks out of place in this modern setting, dressed in a vintage black mourning gown.
I look down at my layers of faded, once-black blouses, my threadbare stretch pants, and thrashed discount store boots and grimace. “Um, thanks?” I open the trunk to retrieve the rest of our costumes and bags. It feels good to be out of the car finally.
Dina and Fred get out, slamming the car doors hard. Dina joins me at the rear of the car, lighting a cigarette with her hot pink lighter, relief on her face as she takes a long pull. She’s dressed like me, so at least that makes me feel a little better.
Fred is on the side of the car, leaning against the driver’s door. “Hold this.” Dina shoves the lighter back in her bag and hands it to him. She comes back to me and goes about pulling on her hoopskirt and overskirt. The butt of her cigarette is wedged between pouty lips so she can use both hands, puffing it down in ecstasy.
I can see Fred through the windows, rooting around in Dina’s purse. She either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care. The kid wears charcoal gray clothing. His skin is so pale against his dark orange hair he resembles the dead already. Maybe he’d be less of an ass as a ghost. I consider this as I pull on my hoopskirt. Nah, Fred will probably end up a poltergeist when he goes.
I check my phone. I’ve got three notifications. All from June, asking about Harry. She’s busy going through a backpack, her round bottom facing us. “Hey June, sorry I didn’t answer your texts. I was driving. I sent him some messages too, and he hasn’t answered.”
There’s an irregular rhythm of cars driving overhead, helping my nerves uncoil as I type out another text message to Harry. Thoughts zoom through my mind as I safety pin a giant skirt over the hoopskirt. A strange clicking sound in the background punctuates each thought. It’s going to be okay. Click. Everything is going to be fine. Click-click. We’re going to win. Click. I’m going to sing better than anyone. Click-click.
“Anyone else hear that clicking sound?” I ask.
A few of them look around, saying, “Hear what?” And “I can hear cars driving overhead.” Still, Dina ignores me, having lit yet another cigarette off the butt of her last.
The sound continues. Dina says, “Fred, can you zip this up for me?” a cloud of smoke surrounding her. They’re off to my left, near the others. The clicking stops for a minute.
I tug Ju
ne’s white Victorian wig into place, thankful that she’s lending it to me, and look around. What is making that sound? Of course, it’s silent again. Just a partially filled garage mostly devoid of life. Only us ghosts. The group is chatting as they wait for Dina and me to finish getting ready.
“Betcha Harry’s not gonna show.” Marion rests against her car. The clicking starts again. “Wait, is that what you’re hearing?” She looks around. “I think I hear it.”
“Mm-hm. Yeah, that’s it,” I say.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he doesn’t.” That’s Dina. Bitch. She’s next to June’s car, done dressing. “Maybe I can hear the click? I’m not sure.” Just like her son, she doesn’t need to put makeup on to look dead. Fred is still on the passenger side of my car, doing God knows what.
I look around to see where the click’s coming from but just see my crew strapping on elaborate hats.
“I know Harry’s not perfect, but I still think you guys should give him another chance.” I use the passenger window as a mirror to slather on a few more coats of white makeup.
“A man that grabs women’s butts and blames it on getting drunk doesn’t deserve a second chance.” Marion shoves between Fred and June, her regal bearing making her look like the ghost of a posh aristocrat.
Fred leans into her touch and then jumps away, shaking her off as if she has cooties. “Stop it, you hag. Mom, she pushed me,” he whines.
Dina rolls her eyes. “You’re fine.”
“You guys, stop bashing Harry. You know he’s going to be here. He wouldn’t leave us hanging like this.” I carefully blot white powder around the eye makeup I’d spent hours applying earlier today.
Marion looks at me, dismissive, and pats her brown chignon. “Khalie, you know that man never keeps his word. Why do you always defend him?”
“She likes bad boys.” Cindy shakes perfect dark-brown ringlets off her face. She looks at June, who has just finished smudging black eyeliner around her eyes to finish her ghostly look. “Do we have a plan B?”
My face gets hot. “He’s super sweet. He cleaned my mom’s gutters for her right before the freeze hit.” I shoot off another text to Harry and go back to dabbing on makeup. It’s not easy getting just the right shade of white.