by Brom
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
Dillard 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.
He took another swig and wiped his mouth. It’s done between us . . . over. You know it. You can see it in her face. She’s gonna leave you the first chance she gets.
Things had been going so well. He’d come along at the right time, helped her out of a tight spot, and Linda seemed to really appreciate him. He liked that, liked the way it made him feel—like a knight in shining armor. It had been easy with her, easy to keep his temper, easy to be the good guy. But Jesse couldn’t leave things alone.
Should have made that boy disappear when I had the chance, before this shit-storm, before everything got fucked to hell. If I had, if I had listened to my instincts, then Linda and me would be upstairs in that big warm bed together right this minute.
He thought of his wife, Ellen, Ellen’s sweet, kindly face. Ellen had been a good woman, had done her best to please him. Why had I been so hard on her? What is so wrong with me? “Ellen, baby,” he whispered. “God, how I miss you.”
His police radio squawked and Dillard started, almost spilling his whiskey.
“Chief, copy.”
Dillard checked his watch; it was going on three A.M. “Fuck, what now?”
A youthful voice cut through the static. “Chief, copy.” It was Noel Roberts, the new officer; just a kid, as far as Dillard was concerned, started back in October. Dillard still wasn’t sure how he felt about him. Noel asked too many questions, wanted to do everything by the book, didn’t understand that in small towns sometimes you had to bend the rules. Dillard hoped that changed soon, or things wouldn’t be working out for Noel, not in Goodhope.
Dillard picked up the radio and hit the mic. “Go ahead, Noel. What now?”
“Code sixteen, possible code thirteen. Two locations, copy.”
“Noel, how many times am I gonna have to remind you you’re working for the fucking Goodhope Police Department, not the NYPD? Knock the academy bullshit off and just talk to me like a human being, all right? Now are you trying to tell me there’s been two break-ins tonight?”
“Ten-four, chief.”
Dillard rolled his eyes. “Mind giving me the whereabouts?”
“One on Second and Beech. Break-in occurred approximately oh-two-hundred hours. The other break-in occurred shortly thereafter at the residence at the end of Madison.”
“End of Madison? Ain’t that out where Doctor Ferrel lives?”
“Affirmative. Doctor Ferrel reports various acts of vandalism. Suspect smashed in his television.”
Dillard smiled at that. In his book, Doctor Ferrel was a conceited asswipe—the man spoke to him as though he were addressing a ten-year-old, going on and on in that snooty upstate accent of his, telling him what he should and shouldn’t be eating, drinking, and thinking, for that matter. And as far as Dillard was concerned, anyone that felt it proper to prattle on about the finer points of fly-fishing while giving a prostate exam deserved to have his television smashed in anyway. “Well, that’s just a doggone shame,” Dillard said. “Probably another meth freak. Did you get a description on the suspect?”
“Ten-four. Group of African-American males, wearing colorful costumes and disguises.”
Dillard stood up fast. That sounded like Jesse’s boys. “How many? What kind of weapons? Any injuries?”
“No report on weapons. Not sure how many. No one was injured. And chief . . . the odd thing is nothing was reported stolen. Just harassment and vandalism.”
That don’t make any sense, Dillard thought. Why would they break in and not steal anything? What the hell were they after?
“And also . . . the sheriff called.”
Dillard stiffened. Sheriff Milton Wright was a straight shooter and had been known to come sniffing around Goodhope whenever he found an excuse. Dillard made a point of keeping both the man and his nose out of his town and out of his business. “Well, just what did our good friend Sheriff Wright want?”
“Informing us to keep an eye out. Apparently they’ve had at least a half-dozen similar calls. Breaking and entering, harassment. Descriptions match our suspects.”
“Oh, shit,” Dillard said without punching the mic. “What the fuck is going on?” He hit the mic. “Noel, I’ll handle the home on Second.” And, thinking how little he wished to talk to a man who’d had a finger up his ass, “Gonna let you take care of the good doctor. Copy.”
“Ten-four, chief. En route.”
Dillard went upstairs to get dressed, found his cell phone, gave the General a call—got no answer. Shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Dillard couldn’t help a growing sense of unease. He finished getting dressed, tugged on his belt, holstered his gun, and headed out the door. “Something’s just not right,” he said, shaking his head, “not by a long shot.”
JESSE WATCHED THE lights of Goodhope disappear behind them, eclipsed by the dark mountainside. They headed east, deeper into hill country, leaving Krampus’s gift of Yule cheer in over three dozen homes spread about as many neighborhoods all along eastern Boone County. Most of the visits went smoothly, as smoothly as one could hope for any home invasion carried out by a host of costume-clad devils. As the evening progressed into the a.m. hours, most occupants were already fast asleep, making the going much easier. Jesse, Vernon,
and Isabel urged Krampus to use the keys, to slip in instead of knocking, and found this to be better for all involved. While Krampus was busy traumatizing the children, they’d mastered getting quickly to sleeping parents and making sure they stayed asleep with a quick dusting of the sand. And in one instance they found out that sleeping sand was equally effective on Shawnee, when an overzealous handful found its way into Nipi’s face. Vernon claimed the incident to be an accident, but Jesse had his doubts. Nipi ended up sleeping it off in the sleigh for the next several stops.
“What is that?” Krampus asked, pointing below.
Jesse peered beneath them, but found only forest and great stretches of strip-mining.
Krampus drifted downward until they were flying along the rim of a vast land removal project. He stared at the devastated landscape, his face stricken, and Jesse realized that Krampus meant the miles of open earth and blasted mountaintops.
Krampus set the sleigh down upon a plateau overlooking the man-made crater. The faintest traces of dawn spread along the horizon, exposing the bald, angry scar upon the land. “Why, it goes on as far as one can see.” The Yule Lord’s brows tightened as though he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Men did this?”
Jesse nodded. “Yeah, they did.”
“They did this on purpose?”
Jesse nodded.
Krampus fell silent. “Why would they destroy the forest, the mountains . . . the very land?”
“For the coal. They blast the tops off the mountains to get to the coal.”
Krampus shook his head, his face bewildered. “It is like cutting off one’s own arm to feed one’s self.”
Jesse had never really figured it that way, but yes, he thought that was as good a way of looking at it as any.
The Yule Lord’s shoulders slumped. “Soon there will be no place left for the spirits to dwell . . . the earth will become a soulless land . . . a place of ghosts, just like Asgard.” He touched his cheeks, his fingers sliding downward, contorting his face into a mask of despair. “Does mankind truly hate itself?” His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “How can one surmount such irreverence?”
Krampus looked away, stared into the salmon-colored glow growing on the horizon. “I believe it is enough for one night. Let us return.” He snapped the reins and up they went, heading down the valley, back toward Goodhope.
“LOOK!” ISABEL POINTED to a house coming up below them. “Is that a little girl?”
“Where?” Jesse asked.
“There. What’s she doing out all by herself this time of the morning?”
Jesse saw her standing in the snow in the middle of a large field. A house and a single-wide mobile home sat together farther up the hillside; the only homes Jesse could see for miles around.
Krampus dropped down to tree level, and the girl looked up at them as they flew over. Jesse thought she couldn’t be older than six or seven.
“Krampus,” Isabel said, and clutched his arm. “Please land.”
Vernon leaned forward. “If we’re putting this to a vote, count me against.”
Krampus didn’t appear to want to, either; he’d been silent since discovering the strip-mining. But he grunted and put the sleigh down between the girl and the house.
The girl watched them land, watched them climb out and walk down the slope toward her. She didn’t run, didn’t look scared at all, not even particularly surprised to see them. She wore a ragged flannel jacket much too large for her, with the hem of her nightgown poking out below. Her legs were bare to the cold from the knees down and Jesse realized she had only socks on her feet. She looked far too thin, shivering, dark circles under her eyes, her hair greasy and matted to her skull. She held a shovel, the tool looking huge in her small hands. Jesse could see a patch in the snow where she’d been trying to dig up the frozen earth.
Isabel bent down, took her hand. “Why, you’re freezing. When’s the last time you had something to eat?”
The little girl wiped her nose across the back of her arm and looked up at Krampus. “Are you Satan?”
“No, I am not. I am Krampus, the Yule Lord. And who might you be?”
“Have you come to take my daddy to Hell?”
Krampus shook his head. “No, child. Why do you speak so?”
She didn’t answer, just turned and headed up the hill, dragging that big shovel behind her. She left the shovel against the side of the house, climbed the steps onto the porch, and disappeared into the house.
“They’re cooking,” Chet said, pointing to a generator and several portable propane tanks sitting just outside of a basement window.
“Cooking?” Isabel said.
“Meth,” Jesse said.
She still didn’t appear to get it.
“Drugs,” Jesse added. “Bad drugs.” Jesse looked the place over, didn’t like what he saw. The field appeared not to have been tended in years, fall’s corn all dried up and still in the husks. Large sections of the vinyl siding had fallen off the house, lying in twisted heaps upon the ground, exposing the tar paper and weathered plywood beneath. Plastic sheets and tarps were duct-taped over the windows, and several had come loose and were flapping in the light wind. An overgrowth of dead weeds and blackberry vines from previous seasons pushed up against the house and tangled along the porch. The mobile home was set off from the house by about twenty yards. The blocks on one side had given way, and the trailer leaned to port like a listing ship, darkness peeking back at them through the broken windowpanes.
The place gave off a bad vibe, more than just neglect—something foul, and vile. Jesse couldn’t remember ever feeling anything quite like it. He wondered if it had anything to do with his heightened senses, with Krampus’s blood in his veins. Regardless, he didn’t particularly wish to go up there. He glanced over at Krampus and could see the Yule Lord felt it, too.
“Looks like it’s been a long spell since anyone gave much of a damn around here,” Jesse said.
“Tweekers,” Chet said, and spat. “Meth, crank, probably huffing, too. Y’know, whatever they can get their hands on. Bet my ass on it.”
“Now there’s a prize no one wants to win,” Jesse said.
Chet’s face soured. “Being a dickhead just comes naturally to you. Don’t it?”
“Someone needs to go see about that little girl,” Isabel said.
“We don’t need to be going up there,” Chet said. “Ain’t nothing good waiting up there. Folks that’s cooking is dangerous, folks that’s using is dangerous, folks doing both are about as much fun to be around as nitroglycerin.”
Isabel didn’t wait around to hear more; she headed up the slope on her own. They watched her climb the porch and enter the house.
“I’m telling you,” Chet said, “we got no business up there.”
Krampus let out a sigh. “It appears my little lion feels otherwise.” He started up after her. “Come.”
A dog crawled out from under the porch as they approached, shaking and skittish; Jesse could count every rib. Krampus rubbed its head and it wagged its tail. They skirted around a scorched recliner and a pile of burned blankets, and mounted the steps. The front door stood half-open, the house dark. Krampus entered and they all followed. Jesse noticed he wasn’t the only one on edge, both he and Vernon clutched the sleeping sand, and the Shawnee had slipped out their knives.
The dim morning glow filtered in through dingy shades, giving just enough light to see that the front room had caught fire at some point, leaving the paneling and most of the ceiling burned and blackened. The smell of damp, charred wood hung in the air. A man lay on a sofa against the far wall, half-covered in a blanket, his eyes heavy and bleary. With twitching hands, he scratched absently at the sores dotting his face, didn’t seem to even notice the pack of Yule demons staring at him.
Krampus stepped over, poked the man once in the ribs. The man looked up at the Yule Lord, seemed to focus on him for an instant. The man’s face twisted into a mask of terror; he moaned, rolled over,
and pressed his face into the sofa.
“This is a . . . tweeker?” Krampus asked. “He has the sickness?”
Chet nodded. “Yeah, he’s got the sickness alright. Addicted to crystal meth. Craves it. Y’know, has to have it or goes all batshit crazy?”
“I understand addiction. It is like those who are enslaved to the opium.”
“Yeah, like that, ’cept worse. These folks, they make this shit out of whatever chemicals they can get a hold of. They don’t eat, don’t sleep, and it slowly chews away at their brains.”
“This plague, it is prevalent throughout the land?”
“Yeah,” Jesse put in. “Thanks to douche bags like Chet here, it sure as shit is.”
“What the fuck, Jesse?” Chet barked. “Your hands ain’t exactly clean.”
Krampus shook his head, left the man on the sofa, and continued into the kitchen. Jesse flipped the light switch, but the light didn’t come on. In the dim morning glow they could see someone had removed all the doors from the cabinets, that there was nothing left on the shelves but a few packets of instant oatmeal and a box of Froot Loops. The place smelled of mildew, of meat gone rancid. Dozens of plastic garbage bags lined the far wall. Some toppled over, spilling out their contents, others had holes chewed into them where the rats had been at work. Stacks of unwashed dishes and pans cluttered the sink, counters, and stovetop.
“Fuck,” Chet said, holding his nose. “How do people live in this filth?”
Jesse peered down the hall, searching for Isabel. The house was quiet, eerily quiet. He felt as though he were in a spook house, sure some horror was about to jump out at him from every shadow. A clang came from somewhere, possibly the basement, difficult to tell. “Oh, Good Lord,” someone said, it sounded like Isabel. Jesse made his way down the dark corridor, trying not to trip over all the trash.
He found Isabel and the girl in a back bedroom. A man lay tangled in a sheet upon a bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His waxy skin and sunken eyes left no doubt that he was dead . . . long dead.
