A murderer and an assault victim.
And a partridge in a pear tree.
Calla barely had a handle on what happened herself, and she had witnessed it all. How would she explain this to the police?
The quick and dirty answer? She avoided them.
“Out the back,” Calla said, pushing the revenant toward the sliding glass door that led to the beach. “Fast.”
She urged Matt forward to the sandy shoreline, the cold coastal wind biting into her wounded face, kicking up the sand, and stinging her bare legs.
She stopped a little distance from the water, just where the departing tide had solidified the ground beneath their feet. The frigid blast from the ocean warmed and gentled, and a soft wind began to blow. Calla’s frozen skin warmed immediately, too fast to result from an earthly breeze.
She looked to where the sea met the sky and then into the distance.
The gentle wind swirled around them, twisting Calla’s skirt and tugging at Matt’s hair.
He looked at her with imploring eyes.
“You’ll make sure my baby is safe, won’t you, Soul-seer? You’ll make sure Molly gets to raise her. That she won’t go to jail.”
“I’ll try,” Calla promised, not certain that such freedom would be possible for a woman who had murdered her husband, even if she had done it to save her own life and her daughter’s.
The warm wind carried her vow to his ears, and he closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek.
“So what happens next?” he asked into the wind. “Am I going to be punished now?”
Calla shrugged.
“I don’t know how it works, Matt. No one does. Not for sure. But part of my job is to allow people the chance to redeem themselves, to get their souls right before they move on. Seems to me you’ve done that, but I’m not the one whose opinion matters.”
“It doesn’t seem like I did enough,” he said thoughtfully. “I hurt them so much for so long, and I didn’t have time to fix it. Not really.”
Calla pursed her lips, considering. Matt could have done a lot worse. They could all be dead, and he could be on the way to Vegas until death caught up with him too.
“You had the opportunity to make things better, Matt, and some people don’t even get that. Maybe you couldn’t undo all the damage you caused, but you got a start,” Calla said carefully. “You are doing the right thing for Molly and Leelee. You are setting them free.”
Matt glanced back at the small house, toward his old life, toward Molly and Leelee, and then his determined blue eyes met hers.
“Then, I guess I’m ready,” he said softly.
The wind began to blow harder, not violently but fearfully all the same, enveloping Matt within it.
He stared at Calla, eyes wide.
“You’ll take care of them,” he said again.
Calla nodded to Matt once, and he nodded back, grinning almost as an afterthought.
“Wind, huh? I was kind of hoping for that DeLorean.”
Calla laughed, sobering quickly as Matt Carol flickered, his body turning wholly spiritual. Within seconds, he disappeared, leaving behind him only a warm remembrance of a breeze in the damp, dark winter air.
The End
About the Author
J. W. Becton (a pseudo-pseudonym for Jennifer Becton) worked for more than twelve years in the traditional publishing industry as a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader. In 2010, she created Whiteley Press, LLC, and has since published novels in two genres. Her Southern Fraud Thrillers include Absolute Liability, Death Benefits, At Fault, and Moral Hazard. Absolute Liability, the first in the six-book Southern Fraud Thriller series, remained on the Amazon Kindle Best Sellers list for eight weeks and spent three nonconsecutive weeks on the Indie Reader Best Sellers list. Jennifer’s historical fiction titles include: Charlotte Collins, Caroline Bingley, and “Maria Lucas.” She also coauthored Riding Fear Free, a nonfiction book about overcoming horseback riding fear, with Laura Daley. Jennifer looks forward to connecting with her readers at her blog, Facebook, and Twitter.
Krampus Klaus
KRAMPUS KLAUS
A Christmas Nightmare
by
Christiana Miller
Dedication
To Griffin, who always introduces me to so many interesting, mythological entities. And to the Real Santa, and his helpers, Patrick, Brent and Collie, for filling my daughter’s Christmases with magic.
"Mom, do you think Santa Claus will be able to find us?" Gina asked.
Bobby popped up from the twin bed across the room. "That's right! We didn't even send him a letter with our new address!"
Gina gasped, her dark eyes filling up with tears. "Oh, no! Oh, no!"
"Hey, hey, hey. It'll be okay," Jessica said, soothingly. "I'll send him a text right now."
"You can do that? You can text Santa?" Bobby asked, excited.
"Of course. If NORAD can track Santa's sleigh on Christmas, then there's definitely a way we can text him." Jess whipped out her new iPhone and googled Text Santa. Thankfully, it turned out to be an actual thing. She clicked on one of the sites and showed it to the twins. "See? Now go to sleep."
"Yay!" Gina said through a yawn.
"Do you think Dad will be home soon?" Bobby asked.
Jessica hesitated, as she ran through a litany of responses in her head. It was hard enough before, explaining Frank's absences while trying to avoid words like divorce and cheating bastard. But now that their family had landed in witness protection, explaining anything about his life to the kids had become nightmarishly difficult.
Jessica still flushed when she remembered the stomach-cringing interview with the Marshall service, and how Frank refused to testify against his murderous boss unless his mistress, Candi, was included in the relocation package. Jessica had long suspected he was cheating, but there was a vast difference between thinking and knowing for sure. But that's where Frank was tonight. Munching on Candi, instead of spending Christmas Eve with his family. And there was nothing Jessica could do about it.
It felt like she had been forced into some weird sister wives deal. And with all the upheaval Witness Protection had brought, she couldn't bring herself to add divorce into the mix. So she swallowed her pride and fell back on the age-old excuse men always used when they weren't going to come home.
"Daddy's working late, sweetie," Jessica said. "I'm sure he'll be home later."
Bobby snorted and turned to face the wall.
"Can we at least call Grandma?" Gina asked.
Jessica stroked Gina's long, blonde hair. "We can't, sugar. We're not supposed to call anyone from our old lives."
Gina's eyes filled with tears and she turned her head to the wall. "I miss her," she said, in a small voice.
"I know, honey. I miss her too."
She tucked them both in, then walked to the door. She turned off the light, but continued to watch the children by the glow of their night-light, as they settled down into sleep, their little chests moving up and down as each breath got longer and slower.
Even though they were twins, they didn't look anything alike. Gina looked like Frank. Pale white skin, with long, straight, blonde hair and Jessica's deep brown eyes. Bobby, on the other hand, had Jessica's chocolate skin and tightly curled hair, with Frank's large, bright, blue eyes. The differences were startling, especially since they were twins.
Well, they had been twins. But that made them entirely too memorable and easy to track. According to their new birth certificates, Bobby, who was academically less mature than Gina, would officially be a year younger than his twin. So now, Bobby was repeating the last half of second grade, while Gina would be continuing on in third grade. They were under strict orders to forget that they had ever been born only two and a half minutes apart.
* * *
Jessica poured herself a large glass of sweet Italian wine and sat in front of the fireplace, contemplating the brightly flashing Christmas tree in the corner, with its flimsy 99-
cent store decorations. This was a far cry from the spacious home they had lived in, with their big, fancy Christmas tree and the tastefully pricy decorations from Neiman Marcus and Macy's.
But if Jess let herself think about it too long, she would start to cry. She should have married her college boyfriend, Paul. He was as straight arrow as a man could be. He would have been a great dad and husband. But when Frank had shown up, he wowed her. He wined and dined her, taking her to places she'd never been before, he showered her with presents. And she wound up picking show over substance. She sipped her wine and tried to shake off the feelings of anger and resentment.
Merry Fucking Christmas, Frank, she thought to herself. You bastard.
* * *
Hours later, a quiet thump disturbed the stillness.
"Pssst, Bobby. You awake?" Gina thought, as loud as she could.
"Of course I am, dummy. Did you hear that?" Bobby thought back.
One of the best things about being twins was their secret language. Not even their mom knew they could talk to each other in this quiet way.
"Yeah. Do you think Daddy's home?" Gina asked.
Bobby snorted in his thoughts. "Not likely. He's such a jerk. I don't care if he never comes home."
"Don't say that. It isn't nice."
"It may not be nice, but it's true. All he does is yell and make everyone miserable when he’s home."
"Mom says he's stressed out."
"Because he'd rather be at his girlfriend's house. He doesn't care about us."
"He does. I'm sure he does. He's our dad. He has to."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "I don't know why they didn't hold you back instead of me. He's having a new baby, with his girlfriend. That's who he cares about."
"How do you know?"
Bobby shrugged. "If he thinks something really loud in his head, sometimes I can hear it. And last time he was home, I heard him think that we're both brats and we're creepy and he should have never married Mom. And he hopes the new baby looks like his girlfriend."
The house shook, interrupting them, like a heavy truck had driven by. But the street outside was empty.
Gina and Bobby both got out of bed simultaneously. Gina looked at the clock on their nightstand. It was 12:00.
"What's going on?" Bobby asked. "Was that an earthquake?"
"Don't be silly. There's not supposed to be any earthquakes here."
She quietly opened their bedroom door and tiptoed into the hallway. Bobby hurried to catch up.
As they neared their mother's room, they slowed down even more, barely daring to breathe. But the night was stiller than the grave. They couldn't hear snoring or even deep breathing. Gina peeked into the room. If it wasn't for the mom-sized lump on the bed, she wouldn't know their mom was there. Their dad's side of the bed was flat, as usual.
Gina looked at the clock on her mom's night table. It was still 12:00.
Bobby grabbed her hand and they kept tiptoeing, down the hall, into the living room. Bobby stopped short and Gina bumped into him.
"The Christmas tree," he said. "Look at the lights."
Gina gasped. When they had gone to bed, the tree had multi-colored flashing lights on it. Now, all the lights were white, and they weren't flashing anymore. Gina looked around. The rest of the room ranged from black to a light gray, closer to the tree.
Bobby frowned at Gina. Then he stopped and clicked on the lamp by the couch. “Gina, what color is your nightgown?"
"Red, silly. It's red with green Christmas trees and yellow stars."
"Not anymore," he said.
Gina looked down and had to stop herself from screaming. Even with the lights on, her nightgown was gray. Various shades of gray. Even her hands were gray.
"This can't be good," she said, looking up at Bobby.
Over their front door, where they had hung a sprig of mistletoe earlier, the white berries were nestled against dark gray leaves, and hung with a black bow.
"Do you think we're dreaming?" Bobby asked in their quiet, inside voice.
She reached over and punched him in the arm, hard.
"Ow!" Bobby hissed, rubbing his arm. "What did ya do that for?"
"If it hurt, we're not dreaming," Gina said, shaking out her hand. No wonder Bobby was complaining about that punch hurting. It even hurt her fist.
"That's a stupid test. Who made up that test? Maybe we're just both dreaming that it hurts." Bobby frowned. "I'm gonna pop you one. You tell me if it hurts you."
Gina grimaced and braced herself as Bobby wound up for the punch. But before he could throw it, a huge thud sounded in the fireplace as a giant bag landed in front of the grate.
"What the heck?" Bobby said. "Where did that come from?"
"It just ... dropped out of fireplace." Gina shivered and wrapped her arms around her body. It had suddenly gotten very cold in the living room.
A wisp of smoke came snaking down the chimney, out of the fireplace, and took on the shape of a tall, stooped-over, bearded man.
"Santa?!" Bobby yelped.
"Who said that?" the man growled.
"Santa?" Gina repeated. She clapped her hands in excitement. “Are you really Santa?”
"It's bad enough no one cleans their chimneys anymore, now I'm getting third-degreed by pint-size interrogators," the man grumbled.
"Santa! It is you!" Bobby said.
"Did you bring us presents?" Gina asked.
"Did you bring me an X-Box?! And an electric car?"
"Or a laptop computer for me?"
"Give me, give me, give me. What can you give me? That's what's wrong in this world today. Children are spoiled rotten. You know what happens to things when they spoil? Do you?" The man turned and looked at them, his eyes glowing red in his dour face.
Those malevolent red orbs were the only spots of color in the odd black and white world the children had walked into.
Gina and Bobby gulped and pulled closer together, holding each other's hands.
"They get thrown in the trash, because they're no good. Tell me why I shouldn't toss you in my bag and throw you into the bin, with the rest of the selfish, irresponsible, arrogant children. The thought of rewarding you little monsters with presents gives me ass cramps."
"Who—who are you?" Gina stammered.
"Who do you think I am?" he growled.
Bobby gulped and looked at Gina.
Gina swallowed. "Well . . . You're supposed to be Santa Claus. But . . . "
"But what? Who the hell else would I be?" The being opened up his bag.
Gina looked at Bobby, then back at the figure.
"You're really scary," Bobby said in a small voice.
"You think this is scary? You ain't seen nothin' yet. Stupid fucking holiday."
Bobby gasped. "You can't say stupid. That's a bad word."
Santa roared with laughter. "Out of everything I said, stupid is the word you're focused on?"
"Why do you hate Christmas so much?" Gina asked, her eyes tearing.
"Because I have to work my ass off all year round, to deliver crap that kids take for granted. Toys that you're going to play with for a couple of days and then break. Or get bored with and forget about. But every year, you want more, more, more. Heaven forbid I get a vacation." He glared at them. "You're lucky I don't drag you both off to Hell and flay the skin off you."
"You're not Santa!" Gina yelled. "You can't be Santa. Santa is nice. You're evil. You're an evil, evil . . . thing. You're not even human! I'm going to tell Mom! Mom!!!"
"Holler all you want, she's not going to hear you.” He frowned and bent down to look Gina in the face. “What do you mean, I'm not human?"
"What do you mean, she's not going to hear us?" Bobby asked, his eyes narrowing, and his little hands balling up into fists.
Santa stood up and pointed at the clock on the mantle. "What time is it?"
Bobby looked at the clock. "Twelve o'clock."
"And you’re sure about that, are you?" Santa asked.
Bobby nodded. "I can only tell time when it's exactly on the hour. Mom says I'll learn the rest of the numbers later."
"That's . . . crazy," Gina said. "It's been twelve o'clock for a really long time. Are the clocks broken?"
"How do you think I get around the world in one night? I stop time. Now, unless you want to wake up as teenagers, start talking."
"Well, well . . . " Gina squeezed Bobby's hand, holding on like he was a lifeline. "You don't . . . you don't look like Santa. You look like . . . "
"Like what?" he said, his eyes narrowing.
"Like a nightmare," Gina said. "Your eyes are crazy and all glowing red."
"And your face looks like a giant goat,” Bobby said. “It's black, with long horns and a long nose like a goat and a little goat beard, not a big Santa beard.”
"You can't be Santa. Who are you? Are you the Devil?"
"Son of a bitch!" he muttered to himself. Then he wheeled on the kids. "You'd better not be lying to me. I know when you're being naughty, and I will hunt you down."
"Look for yourself," Gina said, pointing at a mirror on the wall. But when they all turned to look, the only visible reflections belonged to the kids. Where Santa stood, there was just a glow.
"What are you?" Bobby asked. "Are you a vampire?"
"No! I'm outside of time. I'm not made of mass, the way you are. If I was, I couldn't get into apartments or down chimneys. I'm ethereal. I'm made of light and vibration. That's why I can appear solid, but not have a reflection."
"That doesn't make sense," Gina said.
"It will when you're older. Then you can explain it to the rest of the brats out there." Santa sank onto the couch, exploring his face with his hands. He bent down and took his boots off. Instead of feet, he had hooves. "Son of a fucking bitch," he said, starting to shake.
"Are you . . . crying?" Gina asked. "Don't cry. Bobby, go get tissues from the bathroom."
Bobby ran and came back with the tissue box and held it out to the thing on their couch. "Here you go, Mister . . . What should we call you?"
The thing sighed and hung his head. "Santa. At least, I was Santa. I’m not so sure anymore." He reached out and grabbed a tissue, using it to dry his bloody tears.
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