Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel (15 page)

“Shit! She got away,” I sputtered as Nice melted into the crowd and disappeared. I spun around, wondering if I could still spot Naughty in the throng. “Where’s the other one?
Damn
it!”

The manager was by now practically hyperventilating over my rapid-fire breaches of store etiquette.

Patting the manager’s heaving back, the customer said to me, “Young woman,
control
yourself.”

Wondering if I should go in hot pursuit of Freddie’s femmes fatales or just deal with them later, I looked absently at the customer who was chiding me. She wore her red hair in a flattering twist and evidently made no attempt to hide the gray that was starting to creep in. Still a beautiful woman, she must have been a knockout when she was my age. She had kept her figure, and
she
certainly didn’t make the mistake of troweling on her makeup. She wore only some lipstick, a touch of powder, and just enough eye makeup to flatter her wide eyes, which were long-lashed and very blue.

While keeping a wary eye on me, she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and handed it to the manager, who thanked her and started dabbing her watering eyes with it. I looked around and realized that some employees behind the nearby makeup counters were staring anxiously at us—or maybe just at
me.

I said to the cologne girl, “We should take your boss to the ladies’ room.”

“I can manage,” she replied. “You probably need to get back to the rink.”

“I’m not a figure skater,” I said. “I’m Santa’s Jewish elf. I work here.”

“You
work
here?” The redheaded lady was clearly appalled by this information.

I decided I should probably make my exit. “Okay,” I said to the salesgirl. “If you can handle this, then I guess I’ll go to my post.”

The manager said with dread, “Your post isn’t on
this
floor, is it?”

“Sorry,” I said wanly.

Still dabbing at her watering eyes, the manager said to the redhead, “The seasonal staff are sometimes . . . a little . . . That is . . . She’s not a regular here.”

“Indeed?” was the crisp reply.

“I’ll just go, um . . .” I backed away from them. “Bye.”

As I departed, I heard the redheaded lady offering to help the salesgirl take the manager somewhere quiet to compose herself.

I was still fuming about Naughty and Nice when I reached Karaoke Bear’s elaborate station, but I knew that Freddie’s protection meant those two elves were untouchable. And trying to explain things like professionalism and appropriate conduct to
him
was certainly a more hopeless task than I wanted to embark on. Oh, well. I decided to let it go. There were only two more days in the season, after all.

Chilly air whipped through this area as the doors of the western entrance opened and closed for arriving and departing shoppers. My blue and white striped tights, abbreviated pants, and short sleeves weren’t much of a match for that cold air, but I decided to take off my coat, anyhow. I’d be moving around once I started performing, and that might keep me warm enough. I folded up the coat and stashed it beside the karaoke apparatus.

Karaoke Bear awaited me on his sparkly performance platform (included with every purchase of the singing bear). He was surrounded by an elaborate seasonal display (not included); a dense little forest of snow-covered, brightly decorated evergreen trees formed a festive backdrop for the bear’s performances. I looked warily at the trees, recalling my asphyxiation incident; but they looked innocuous and inanimate.

I stepped up onto the sparkly platform where Karaoke Bear awaited me in his outfit of sequins, rhinestones, denim, studs, and saggy pants. A little over three feet tall, the bear wore a jaunty cap and had a microphone in his hand, ready to rock. I picked up the other microphone, then turned on the system.

Karaoke Bear jerked into automated motion, blinked his long-lashed brown eyes, brought his mike up to his mouth, and asked if I’d like to join him in a song. I replied, with a lively enthusiasm I was far from feeling, that I’ve
love
to.

I selected a peppy pop tune released the previous year by Golly Gee, a singer/actress/headcase with whom I had worked on
Sorcerer!
, a short-lived Off-Broadway flop, earlier this year. The song was Golly’s only hit, the one that had propelled her onto the coveted D-list of fame. Considering Golly’s foul mouth and R-rated persona, I found it odd that a song of hers would be featured in a karaoke program aimed at children; but I had already learned that plenty of kids who came to the store knew this number.

By the time Karaoke Bear and I finished the song, we had attracted an audience—which was the whole idea of having an elf posted here to demonstrate this apparatus, of course. I paused between songs to welcome the shoppers, explain to them how to get to Solsticeland from here, and tell the kids watching this performance how much Santa Claus was looking forward to meeting them. I also explained a little about how Karaoke Bear functioned, and I hinted that Santa would be receptive to requests for the singing bear as a Christmas gift. Then I sang another duet with my mechanical companion. Karaoke Bear only had a few limited dance moves, but he was always in time with the music.

In addition to the people watching our performance, many shoppers passed my platform, coming and going on their quest for Christmas gifts. Some paused briefly to watch the show, but others just shoved their way irritably through the gathered crowd, barely slackening their pace. Some shoppers, while talking to each other or into their cell phones, raised their voices to a shout to be heard above the bear’s amplified speakers; I was by now too used to this to let it bother me. Other people asked me questions between songs—sometimes about Karaoke Bear, sometimes about where something was located in the massive maze of Fenster & Co.

I had just answered several such questions and was about to launch into another song when a neatly dressed man who was holding a cell phone to his ear approached me and asked politely, “Excuse me, miss. Where am I, please?”

“You’re at the Karaoke Bear station near the western entrance,” I replied.

He looked puzzled. “The
what
kind of bear?”

“Uh, the singing bear.”

His English was crisp and well pronounced, but he had a foreign accent—Hispanic, I thought. This impression was confirmed a moment later when he spoke Spanish into his cell phone. He repeated a phrase loudly a couple of times, then switched to English: “The singing bear. Yes. Would I make that up?” He switched back to Spanish and then stepped away from the platform as the next karaoke tune blared through the speakers.

After I started singing, the man finished his call and returned to the platform, standing directly in front of it and watching my performance intently, with a smile on his face. He clapped enthusiastically at the end of the number, then asked me, “Does the bear know any Christmas songs?”

“I’m glad you asked!” I replied with elfin delight. I launched into my next “all about Karaoke Bear” spiel, explaining that the bear had a broad repertoire, including Christmas music, nursery rhymes, pop tunes, traditional songs, and so on. Then, in deference to the courteous Hispanic man, I did a seasonal medley with my fuzzy co-star, including “Jingle Bell Rock,” “Winter Wonderland,”and “Happy Holiday.”

For much of this medley, I played directly to the man who’d requested a Christmas song. This was partly because the crowd was thinning a bit, with some people leaving and newcomers arriving slowly, while he remained in place. And partly because he was an engaging audience, standing close to the platform, smiling merrily at me, and bouncing along a little to the music. He was a pleasantly ordinary-looking man, somewhere in his sixties, a little stocky and shorter than average height. He had mostly gray hair that had once been black, dark olive skin, a strong, plain face, and an air of gentle good humor. His most noticeable features were his warm, expressive brown eyes.

He applauded again when I finished singing. “You have a wonderful voice!”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, enjoying myself now—an enthusiastic audience makes the day for any performer.

“I must find my wife,” he said, looking at his watch. “She would enjoy this.” He pulled out his cell phone while saying to me, “Please, let’s have another song while I wait for her!”

While I programmed the next song into Karaoke Bear, I heard the gentleman say into his phone, “
Querida,
where are you? No, I’m with the singing bear now. The singing bear . . . Oh, then I think you’re very near. Just follow the music and you’ll find it . . . No, but I spoke to him a few minutes ago. Yes, he’ll be here any moment.”

The man pocketed his phone as I started singing “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” Although he was still an appreciative audience, now he was mostly looking around for his wife rather than watching me. A half-dozen small children showed up, wide-eyed with wonder at the sight of the singing bear and his elf friend, and I played to them.

What happened next was confusing and very quick, though it all seemed to occur in slow motion at the time.

The nice man turned away from the stage, so that his back was to me and the bear, and waved to someone in the distance—his spouse, I assumed. At that moment, Karaoke Bear broke out of his mechanical pattern and came to horrible, menacing life. The bear suddenly crouched down, sprouted claws, and grew fangs.

The children who were gathered near the platform saw the transformation and started rumbling in frightened confusion. Karaoke Bear’s normally benign expression was a ferocious snarl, and his plastic brown eyes were now red and glowing.

I froze with startled fear and dropped my microphone, staring in stunned horror at the bear.

Apart from the scared children right by the platform, the audience seemed a little puzzled, but not alarmed. With Karaoke Bear crouched down on the little stage, most people couldn’t see him now. They seemed to assume the kids were squealing because the bear had over-balanced during his mechanical dance and fallen down.

Karaoke Bear’s predatory gaze zeroed in on the nice gentleman who was looking across the store, waving a hand as he tried to catch his wife’s attention. The man’s back was to the possessed bear, with its dripping fangs and sinisterly glowing eyes.

“Mister! Watch out!” I shouted.

The man started to turn my direction, still not seeing the bear. He looked puzzled rather than alarmed.

The bear lunged for him.

Without thinking, I did a sort of flying dropkick to knock the man out of the leaping bear’s path while the children near us screamed. I had never executed a move like that before. It’s amazing what a combination of mortal terror and adrenaline can accomplish on short notice.

I hit the floor with a heavy thud and rolled over a few times, carried by my own momentum. People were startled into panicky reaction all around me, and I was trampled by the feet of shoppers fleeing the scene.

I lay there for a moment, winded and dazed.

A woman was screaming, “Carlos! Carlos!”

Then I realized that I might be next on the possessed bear’s menu, and I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding with shock and fear.

Karaoke Bear was lying on the stage, as if he had keeled over. He looked normal now, except for the fact that smoke was rising from his garishly clad little body. I stared warily at the bear for a moment, but he didn’t move at all. Whatever force had invaded the apparatus was gone. Around his platform, to my relief, the cluster of Christmas trees still looked completely innocuous and inanimate.

I turned to examine the gentleman into whom I had just flown feet first. He was lying motionless on the floor nearby. Shoving my way past a few confused and curious bystanders, I stumbled over to him, stepping on the blue stocking cap and pointy ears that had fallen off during my tumble to the floor, and sank to my knees. I grabbed his shoulder and bent over him, trying to see his face.

“Mister! Mister? Are you okay?” I asked urgently.

He groaned, conscious but dazed.

“Carlos!”
a woman screeched right behind me.

I flinched and started to turn around, but something heavy hit me in the head.

“Ow!”
I collapsed on top of the man, instinctively shielding my skull from the additional blows that were raining down on me now.

“No! No! No!” the woman was shrieking.

Confused, startled, and in pain, I was trying to shield the man from this attack, too. He was struggling beneath my sprawled weight, conscious but disoriented, while someone continued beating the crap out of me with a solid object.

I think that’s her
purse.

“Let him go! Let him go!” the woman shrieked.

Then I heard a man’s voice. A familiar one. “Jesus Christ! What the
hell?”

“Let go!” the woman shouted, still clobbering me.

I’m gonna kill her
, I decided.

I took an instinctive guess at where her legs would be and lashed out with one foot. I connected with a satisfying thud—but instead of the woman, I heard that familiar male voice howl in pain.

“OW! Goddamn it!”

Oops.

“Connor!” the woman cried, then hit me again.

“Stop! STOP!” he shouted at her. “What are you
doing?”

There was a scuffle, and the pummeling on my head finally ceased. I lay there breathing hard, not sure it was safe to look up yet.

“Let me go!” the woman insisted. “That lunatic is trying to
kill
your father!”

Oh, no . . .

“Mom, will you let
me
handle this?” Lopez snapped.

The struggling man beneath me spoke a few breathless words in Spanish. Lopez responded in the same language. I heard him call the man “
papá.
”

Shit.

A pair of strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me to my feet. I faced Lopez and his beautiful, redheaded mother.

Lying on the ground at my feet, Mr. Lopez said in frantic confusion, “What happened? What’s going on?
Perrito! Qué pasa?”