Krampus: The Yule Lord (32 page)

“We are not thieves,” Krampus said, his voice calm and hypnotic. “I am the Yule Lord and I come bearing gifts for all of you.”

Curiosity appeared on a few of the faces. They looked up at their big sister. She gave Krampus a hard, cynical look. “Folks never give you something, ’less they be wanting something. What’d you want?”

“You are wise beyond your years. What is your name, child?”

The girl hesitated. “Who’s asking?”

The Yule Lord grinned. “I am Krampus.”

“Well, Krampus, my name is Carolyn, and this here is Chris and Curtis, Casey, Clayton, and over there is Charlene.”

Krampus nodded to each of them. The baby looked at Krampus, began to whimper. A boy, couldn’t have been older than four, pulled the baby into his lap, found its pacifier, and patted it on the back, doing his best to reassure the child.

Krampus walked softly over to the children and unslung his sack.

The girl stood her ground. She looked terrified, but Jesse could see that she’d take a beating before she’d let anyone, even a horned demon, get their hands on any of these children.

Casey crawled behind his big sister and began to cry again. “Casey, I done told you to shush up, now. Y’know Pa don’t stand for no tears.”

“Please . . . do not be alarmed.” Krampus knelt down on one knee. He placed the sack between them, slipped in his hand, closed his eyes, and pulled out a handful of the triangular gold coins.

Their eyes let up, all of them bedazzled by the ancient coins. He handed one to each and went on to tell them all about Yule, about the old traditions, about shoes on doorsteps and rewards for those who believe. They listened, captivated and hanging on his every word. Soon all trace of their fear was gone.

When Krampus finished, he stood, bid them Happy Yule, and headed out. The children followed them to the door.

“Hey,” Jesse said to Carolyn. “Be sure not to let your daddy see them coins.”

The girl nodded as though she was way ahead of him.

“Take them down to Dicker and Pawn. Ask for Finn, he’s out to treat you better than most.”

“Yeah,” Chet put in. “You tell him Chet Boggs said he better treat you square. Got that?”

The girl nodded again.

Jesse and Chet caught up with the rest of the Belsnickels in the sleigh. Krampus popped the reins and the Yule goats leapt skyward. Jesse watched the children, their six small faces staring up at them in wonderment. Carolyn raised her arm and waved, all the children did. Jesse waved back.

C
LOUDS OF BLACK
smoke drifted across the gardens and through the topiary, shifting with the early-dawn wind. A few pockets of flame still crackled. The scorched beams and stones of the stable formed a stark skeleton against the morning sky.

Six women dug through the smoldering embers with pitchforks and rakes. Their dirty, soot-covered gowns clinging to the sweat of their bodies, ash smeared across their hands and tear-streaked faces.

“Here,” the woman with the long white hair called. “He is here.”

They all came, dropping rakes and forks in favor of their own hands, gently pulling the mutilated corpse from the ash. Some of the women turned away, could not bear to look upon the blackened, headless body.

“Help me,” the woman said, and together they lifted the body and carried it across the courtyard, down a narrow path outside the wall, to a small, single-room chapel overlooking the sea. There they lay it upon a stone slab, beneath a window of golden stained glass in the shape of a cross. One of the girls fetched towels and a pail of seawater. Together they washed the body, wiping away the dirt and soot. The fire had burned away all of his clothing, but left his body untouched. It gleamed porcelain-white, perfect except for the great injuries inflicted by the spear. They washed his hands, scrubbed beneath his fingernails, toenails, his genitals, his wounds, and the grisly flap of torn flesh at his neck. They bathed him until no trace of soiled flesh remained, then wrapped him in white linen.

“Now,” the woman said. “Stop your weeping. Grief is for the dead. Santa Claus can never die. For too many people believe in him. It is a time for prayers . . . time to call to the angels.”

She reached out her hands and the girls linked together, forming a circle around the slab. She sat cross-legged upon the marble floor and the girls followed her lead.

“We serve him vigil. None shall eat, sleep, nor drink until the angels come. If they do not come then it is God’s will that we perish at his side. Now close your eyes and call them down.”

As they prayed, the morning sun cleared the horizon, blazing through the stained glass, bathing the room in golden light. “God is in the house,” the white-haired woman said.

T
HE THIRD HOUSE
that night sat near the river—stately new construction enclosed within a gate of red brick and elegant iron. Krampus dropped the sleigh down upon the wide circular driveway.

The Yule Lord found the front door unlocked and let himself in. The foyer led them into a dramatic living space open to the second floor. A wall of arched windows ran to the peak of the cathedral ceiling and faced out toward the river; at their center stood a towering Christmas tree dripping in ribbons and ornaments.

“Wow, that’s pretty,” Isabel said.

Krampus didn’t appear to share her sentiment. He made a face as though force-fed a spoonful of cough syrup, but refrained from smashing any of the ornaments, instead heading up the grand staircase.

Krampus entered the first room they came to; he strolled right in as though invited. The room was spacious, a large flat-screen television hung from the wall, a movie playing, the sound down low. A man and a woman, in their forties, were sitting up in their king-size four-poster bed—the man pecking away at his laptop, the woman watching the TV while texting on her phone. The man looked up when his wife let out a loud gasp.

Krampus paid them no heed, staring into the big screen on the wall, his head cocked to one side.

The woman looked as though she were choking on something, and finally a scream escaped her throat. Jesse and Isabel both started over with the sleeping sand, but Krampus held up his hand. “Wait.”

The woman screamed again, started to get up. The man yanked the earbuds from his ears and threw an arm across the woman. “Stay calm, Nancy. Just
stay
calm.” Nancy appeared about to hyperventilate, but somehow managed to sit tight, staring with absolute horror at the giant devil in her bedroom.

Krampus returned his attention to the screen, to the horses riding across a lush English landscape. He put his nose right in the screen, bumped his horns, grunted, and stepped back.

“It’s a high-definition LCD,” the man said, his voice shaky. “Sixty inches. It’s yours if you want it. Please . . . just take it and go.”

Krampus reached out, tapped the screen with his jagged fingernails, pressed his palm against it as though trying to push through it. There came a snap, the screen flickered, and a spiderweb of cracks spiraled out from beneath his hand. Krampus studied the fractured screen. “Hmm, it appears I have damaged it. I am sorry.” He sounded sincere.

“That’s okay,” the man put in quickly. “That’s fine. Not a problem. We have another one downstairs. You’re welcome to it. The jewelry . . . is over there.” He pointed to a mahogany box on top of the vanity. “I don’t have much cash,” his tone nervous, apologetic. “But you’re welcome to what I have.”

“We did not come to steal,” Krampus said, and this bit of news served only to make the man and the woman more anxious. The woman tugged the sheet up to her throat, covering herself, spilling the laptop. Krampus stepped closer, peering at the glowing laptop screen curiously. The women let out a high-pitched squeal like a weasel in a snare.

“You want it?” the man asked. “It’s yours.” He held the laptop out to Krampus. Krampus looked it over, but didn’t take it. “There’s a new, fully loaded Mustang down in the garage. The keys are right over there.” He pointed again to the vanity. No one looked. “I should make it clear,” the man said, his tone becoming a bit more desperate, “that I’m involved with state government at the highest levels. And as someone with a lot of experience within the legal system, I must advise you against any acts of violence. If
anyone
in this house is harmed, or even threatened . . . the State of West Virginia will not be lenient.”

“You a lawyer?” Chet asked. “You talk like a lawyer. I hate lawyers.”

The man shook his head. “Not exactly . . . I consider myself more of a mediator.”

“Well, I hate them, too.”

“Chet,” Jesse said. “You hate everybody. So why don’t you just shut up and leave the man be.”

Chet fastened his eyes on Jesse. “Don’t remember anyone telling me I gotta take orders from you. So why don’t you plug your whiney pie hole.”

“Why don’t you stop being retarded?” Jesse shot back. “Oh, I know, because you can’t.”

Chet’s face knotted up. “You’re a fucking dick.” He shoved Jesse. Jesse came back with a full roundhouse, catching Chet against the side of the head, knocking him into the wall. Chet rebounded in a charge, drove into Jesse’s waist with his shoulder. Both men flew onto the bed, rolled all the way across, and tumbled onto the floor on the far side, taking the lamp and nightstand over with them. The woman started screaming hysterically.

Krampus watched, obviously amused, and the Shawnee began laughing and hooting.

“Krampus!”
Isabel yelled, and pushed him. “Krampus, make ’em stop before they kill each other.”

Krampus shrugged and shouted, “
Enough!
Cease fighting. It is a command.” And just like that, Jesse and Chet stopped, the two of them left sitting there on the carpet glaring at one another. “There is to be no more brawling between you.”

Isabel evidently had had enough. She hopped over and dashed a pinch of sleeping sand on the screaming woman as though she were salting a potato. The woman swooned and passed out. “What did you do to her?” the man demanded, and promptly received a dose of his own, slumping over onto his wife.

“Well, now,” Vernon said. “That was quite the show. Can’t wait to see what you fine gentlemen come up with next.”

Krampus laughed and headed out of the room.

Jesse passed two empty rooms and caught up with the Yule Lord peering into a dimly lit bedroom at the far end of the house. A teenage girl reclined in a beanbag chair, her face angled away from them. Like the man, she had a laptop, but she also had a flashy phone and was going back and forth between the two, madly tapping the keyboard and texting at the same time. She wore headphones, but Jesse could still hear her music all the way across the room and could only imagine the damage she must be doing to her ears.

Krampus watched her for at least five minutes, staring at the glowing screens, his brow furrowed, but she never looked up, lost in her own world, having no idea that a host of demons stood at her door. Krampus shook his head and kept going, following the hall round in a loop until they came to a closed door covered in video game-posters. Jesse heard muffled explosions and gunfire coming from within. Krampus opened the door and they found a boy, maybe eight or nine, sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed. The boy faced the big screen on the far wall, playing a video game, blasting away at an assortment of stumbling undead—explosions and body parts rocking the screen.

As with the girl, Krampus merely stood in the doorway and watched for several minutes. Other than his thumbs, the boy barely moved the whole time, staring glassy-eyed, his mouth half-open, looking like a lobotomy patient.

“He is bewitched.” Krampus strolled purposely across the room, right up to the screen, and smashed it in with his fist.

The boy clutched the game controller to his chest and froze, his eyes threatening to burst from his head. Krampus leaned over to the boy. “You are free. The world is now yours. Go take it.”

Krampus left the room, leaving the boy staring in perplexed horror. The Belsnickels looked from the boy to one another.

“Are we done then?” Vernon asked.

Isabel nodded and they followed Krampus from the house.

Stopping in the driveway, Krampus gave the home a deeply troubled look. “It seems there are other demons besides Santa’s ghost to contend with.”

Chapter Thirteen
Tweekers

D
illard sat in his recliner, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at his flat-screen television. The set was off, but he stared at it anyway—staring and staring at that big, dark screen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head starting to hurt. He’d tried to sleep, but got tired of lying there in that big bed—
alone
. Linda slept in the room with Abigail. She’d locked the door.

He’d tried to talk to her again, but might as well have been talking to the wall. Finally, he’d had to leave the room, because if he hadn’t, if he had to bear her grief-stricken face, listen to her sobbing over that fuckup for even one more second, he would’ve lost it again, would’ve done whatever it took to make her see it was Jesse, not him, that got Jesse killed.