12 Deaths of Christmas

by Paul Sating

  And Thana knew she would.

  END

  The Three Wives’ Men

  Kelvin Wright never heard of the Pishon Valley. He wasn’t from this area. Born and bred in Portland, he’d only come up this way for a weekend getaway from life. He spent his entire life avoiding things. As a teenager, he avoided responsibility with all the ease his angst provided. Instead of running off to college after high school, he spent a year exploring the world. And even when he finally went to the university, Kelvin neither applied nor challenged himself to any great degree or extent. His aversion to confrontation and challenges, personal or external, put him behind in life. That started with an abusive father but didn’t fade when he did. But life wasn’t about meeting some fabricated and universally-accepted goals. To him, life was about the moment he was in and living it for what it was worth.

  There was no good or bad, life just ‘was’.

  So when the marketing firm he worked for closed its offices without warning, Kelvin found himself unemployed and unmotivated to plot out the next step in his journey. Whereas his now ex-coworkers scrambled to figure out how they were going to provide for their families, Kelvin simply kept living, understanding that this moment was the only one he could guarantee himself.

  And that principle brought him here, to this part of the Pacific Northwest which he would have otherwise avoided. Places like this were places black men usually didn’t spend a lot of time, for their own safety.

  A place like this was definitely not somewhere to get lost.

  Kelvin Wright was now lost.

  Strange things happened in the valley between the Pishon River and that of the Gihon. Things wicked and disturbing. Located in a valley, in the dip of the plane of the earth, where life fell away from reaching for the stars and sought the toxic depths of hell.

  Where life has rotted.

  The rivers run green with toxic algae. Trees droop, their branches reaching toward the earth as if capitulating to existence, reaching for the Mother, the eternal bond. Even the people of the valley lost the will to live, their gray reality a manifestation of the hopelessness and despair they were born into and incessantly pass along to subsequent generations.

  Of lost hope.

  Even now, during the holiest of the holy periods, joy found no home here.

  Locals stayed away from some parts of the valley. Rumors bespoke of mysterious disappearances. The valley was mysterious to them. Many perpetuated the myth of a local bogeyman to frighten their children into subservience. There are parts of the valley, they said, where only ghosts roam.

  One area, in particular, was the devil’s home, they said. Those who knew of the location never ventured near but even more spent their entire lives only miles from it, never learning of its existence. Those who registered the narrow road leading to this part of the valley forgot it soon after passing the cutoff. Bordered by western yellow pines whose branches stretched across the dirt path that carved through the undergrowth, it was easy to miss. Though many braggarts swore they had, none ever traversed the full extent of the path and lived to tell about it.

  To find this part of the valley, one must want to find it.

  Or one must be unlucky.

  Kelvin never had any luck.

  He sat on the shoulder of the road, angling his cell phone in a creative variety of ways required by his current circumstances. He hadn’t seen another car in a half hour and each turn took him to more and more remote parts of the region. The highway wasn’t where he thought it would be. There hadn’t been a sign for it in hours. Farms and houses gave way to empty nature. Foreboding nature. Kelvin cursed himself for not stopping and asking for directions when he had the opportunity. But it wasn’t that easy for him to do, to put that kind of trust in people who didn’t like him, even if they gave him the time of day.

  Now he wished he had. As he sat on the shoulder of the road, undisturbed by traffic in either direction, Kelvin held up his phone and prayed for cell phone reception he would never get. Soft snowflakes danced across his windshield.

  “Great,” he groaned. It was the last thing he needed, not remembering the last time he’d driven in the snow.

  Kelvin looked down the road. The graying sky deepened to slate in the distance. Shadows elongated before fading completely as the thick clouds rolled in, delivering fatter snowflakes as it approached. The snow was building up. Unless he wanted to get stuck, alone and without a single blanket to keep warm, Kelvin was going to have to do something besides searching for enough of a cell signal to pull up his GPS. Staying here meant freezing to death. But continuing to drive was a lottery. There could be a small town around the bend half a mile up the road. It could also be another turn in a series of hundreds he’d convinced himself to take in pursuit of the chance to come across other life. Was it worth the risk?

  In all the time he’d tried to get a signal and figure out what he was going to do, Kelvin hadn’t seen a single sign of life. So the decision was easy; he put his phone back in its cradle, put the car in drive, and began moving forward again.

  The only thing that interrupted the constant drone of tires turning over was the occasional thump of uneven blacktop. With each passing mile, the road became rougher. He wasn’t surprised civilization had given up on this part of the state.

  A few miles later he longed for the droning of tires, now snuffed out by the snow-covered road. He drove into the storm, not away from it, and the snow was accumulating faster than he could reason a better course of action. Miles passed without sight of a town or village; he hadn’t even stumbled across a solitary farm.

  Kelvin was on his own.

  Why should this be any different than the rest of his life though? Isn’t this how everything played out? From his job to his love life, and even his family, people around him didn’t seem to remain around him. He was a globetrotter, but he also had the emotional intelligence to understand why many saw him as nothing more than a vagabond.

  A lone wolf.

  The relative silence helped him concentrate on the road, a challenge that was becoming more difficult with each mile. Hills rose up and away from the road on each side. Pines provided a partial canopy for the shoulder, its defined boundaries serving as the only thing that now kept him on the road. The snow had become thicker over the past 20 minutes as it fell faster, blotting out the road. For the first time in his life, he was afraid for his capabilities to get himself out of a situation. All he needed was—

  —twenty yards down the road he saw it. His lungs expanded with the breath of hope. Two slight parallel impressions carved through the snow, appearing from a side road.

  Tire tracks.

  The surge of adrenaline made keeping his speed down difficult. Tire tracks meant life, someone who could help.

  His tires spun, kicking the back end of the car toward the shoulder. He countered and let off the gas, allowing the tires to grab purchase on whatever road surface they could find. No street lights illuminated this world and dusk dominated the sky. Only his headlights helped him follow those tire tracks once he regained control. Every few seconds, they disappeared behind a blown cloud of smoky white snow.

  The night grew black. Underneath that expansive cover, the trees stood tall and proud, like menacing sentinels, ushering Kelvin in the direction they wanted him to go. Still, he drove. He’d be happy tripping across a cheap motel. Right now he’d take a homeowner with the carport.

  The white blanket on the road deepened. Snow filled the once distinct set of tracks, fading them into obscurity. Hope waned. His sports coupe wasn’t built for these conditions and a glance at the fuel level indicated the impossibility of waiting out the storm in a warm car. Even if he could, there was no promise of getting help before he froze to death in this winter wonderland.

  Why were white people so crazy about the snow? He’d never understand that.

  Then the tire tracks left the road. Kelvin’s heart thumped as he slowed to a stop, idling in the middle of the road—or whe
re he guessed the middle was. Ahead was an unadulterated field of white. The road disappeared.

  “Fuck,” Kelvin put the car in park and got out. Fat, wet snow assaulted him. He shielded his eyes and tried to make out the tire tracks. They hadn’t disappeared. The tracks turned off the road, making a hard right through a gap in the trees onto a side road he would have never noticed. The gap was narrow, wide enough for a single vehicle. But the tree cover helped the tracks appear more pronounced.

  Kelvin contemplated. If nothing else, it would get him out of the storm and possibly provide enough protection from the wind that he could stay warm even if he didn’t run the car all night. Or maybe he’d find the owner of those tracks.

  And even a warm bed for the night.

  He got back into his car, crammed it in gear, and turned to follow the tracks.

  ***

  It was a bumpy ride, one he had to take at a crawl as his car struggled through and over more bumps and potholes than were healthy for a sports coupe. At a few points, Kelvin had to give a wide birth to tree limbs that had broken off and fallen onto the path, once almost getting stuck on the soft shoulder. The night grew darker and he imagined the storm raging somewhere behind him. But underneath this umbrella of green, Kelvin was safe. Without the snowfall to blind him, Kelvin could see as far as his headlights projected. And all he could see was an endless row of trees jutting up into the blackness overhead.

  The soft orange low fuel indicator popped on with a pleasant bell. Kelvin grimaced. He was running out of time and fuel.

  “Shit,” he slapped the steering wheel. Rocking back and forth, he peered into the darkness, searching for anything that might serve as shelter for the night.

  But this straight path rolled on. The car creaked and groaned in protest as Kelvin picked the shallowest potholes in the way. But, a few miles into the forest, there was nothing smooth about the surface. Every part of the path was rugged, every option, undesirable. The neglected road looked uncared for in a few lifetimes. Only the fresh tire tracks on top of the dusting of snow kept him moving forward. Otherwise, he was sure he was driving off the edge of the world. Turning back wasn’t an option. Ahead, he had the hope of the owner of those tire tracks.

  Then it happened. One particularly bad section of the road, covered from side to side in divots and potholes, bumps and troughs, was impassable. He stopped, getting out of the car to assess the risk, and decided to give it a try. He couldn’t sit in the car all night and he definitely couldn’t search out the owner of that vehicle on foot.

  Inching forward, the road gave away and the car collapsed into the pothole. An excruciating crunch informed him that he’d bottomed out. Under its own willpower, the car rocked back and forth a few times, even as he depressed the brake.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Kelvin slapped the steering wheel again. He got out and rounded the car, groaning as he saw the undercarriage resting into the dirt, having carved a neat niche for itself.

  Stuck.

  He stood in front of his car, illuminated by its headlights and wondered what to do next. Only two choices existed and one of them mocked him, challenging him to select it. Either he could start walking or try to survive the night in the car.

  Kelvin began walking.

  Bundled against the night, as under-dressed and unprepared as he was, he trudged on. Misery descended into painful awareness that his body was shutting down. The shivering started almost immediately. When he started losing full sensation in his toes, when each step was more painful than the last, Kelvin recognized that he was beginning to die. His teeth clunked against each other, and each breath became harder to draw. The night faded in and out as the urge to sleep beckoned him. He thought about the few people in his life, like his mother, who would never know about his fate. They would never learn of this last aimless adventure that finally jettisoned him over the brink, just like they’d warned him about his entire life.

  Out here, he would finally prove them right.

  Then, off the road, back through row after incalculable row of tree trunks, an orange pinprick of light blinked in the darkness. Kelvin’s head snapped up. Light meant life.

  The owner of the truck.

  He had hope and a destination now.

  If his body could get him there.

  Each footfall sent jarring stabs of pain coursing up through him, but he plunged ahead. Renewed. The orange light seemed to drift as he walked, teasing him toward an unachievable goal. But it underestimated his desperation and determination. Soon, he came across another side path, this one much narrower than the road he got stuck on. He bent, feeling for the tire tracks. They were wet and soft. Fresh.

  Kelvin followed the new path that forced him to walk into the face of the wind. It was bitter cold, raking at his face. The single prick of light in the blackness expanded, revealing three more aligned lights. Structures. Kelvin’s steps lightened, the stabbing pain eroded. Before long, he was walking up to a neat row of small wooden houses. Each of them projected light into the cold world. Each house’s chimney spewed white clouds of warmth into the frigid night air.

  Life, Kelvin smiled.

  The world swayed as the cold crept through him. As he drew closer it became apparent he’d been wrong. A handful of small gray houses didn’t spot this hidden world; there were more than twenty houses here. All were identical, rectangular homes. Each entryway was located in the same exact spot on each house as if a master designer who would later inspire cookie-cutter construction had tested his skills here. The houses weren’t larger than a few hundred square feet. Kelvin didn’t question any of it. He didn’t care.

  He was going to be safe. He was going to survive the night. That’s what mattered.

  The tracks he’d followed stretched out into the darkness toward a larger structure in the back of this village. A faint clinging noise came from back there. Kelvin headed for it, approaching cautiously so as not to surprise anyone and get himself shot before he had a chance to ask for help.

  There were no walls on this structure, just an expansive roof that sheltered everything stored below it. Thick beams held up the large expanse of a ceiling, some thirty feet above the earth. This place wouldn’t provide shelter, but the life underneath that overhang might. A man leaned into a truck, an old Chevrolet. As Kelvin approached, the headlights went out, pitching Kelvin’s view into murky confusion.

  Lanterns hanging on the wall cast enough light that Kelvin could still see the man, just not well enough to determine if he was armed or not. The man backed out of the vehicle and stood to his full height. He was a mountain of flesh, nearly seven feet tall. Burly and thick, he filled the gap between the truck and another vehicle, an ancient Cadillac de Ville Kelvin couldn’t put a year to. The man rotated, facing him, but if Kelvin’s sudden presence surprised him, the man didn’t show it.

  “Hi,” Kelvin said, swallowing the urge to crumble at the immensity of the man. “M-my car is stuck, and I’m lost. I was hoping someone could help me.”

  The man stared at Kelvin for a few uncomfortable seconds and then glanced away, toward one of the houses. Kelvin took the chance to look around the area underneath the overhang. It was filled with a variety of farming equipment besides the two vehicles. A tractor sat in one corner. A hoe, its faded wood handle and rusted head betraying its age, sat next to a contemporary replacement. Gardening hoes, hammers, sickles, and other farming tools leaned haphazardly in a hand-made rack near the center of the dirt floor as if that was the only way this small community could protect its equipment from the weather. Whatever this place was, agriculture was the way they sustained themselves. That made sense all the way out here, so far away from any other life.

  The silent giant moved toward Kelvin. There wasn’t a lot of space between the two of them due to the packed confines. Kelvin stepped aside, hoping the man was taking him to food and warmth instead of throttling him for invading this home. He finally let loose his breath when the stranger passed him.

  Without a
word, the man walked toward a clump of houses off to the side of the opening. They passed a well, around which were a number of wooden benches. They trudged through the deepening snow, by dozens of picnic tables. Kelvin distracted himself from thinking about the size of parties that required all those tables by trying to keep up with the big man’s stride.

  The man didn’t protest against Kelvin following him or even look over his shoulder to track the visitor. The lack of cordial company gave Kelvin a chance to look around. It was neat and organized. Desolate and remote, the tiny village looked cared for. The houses weren’t made of the contemporary residential housing materials. Some looked like a series of patchwork repairs had dominated their recent past. This was a strange place, but it wasn’t one of those places dying of neglect. These residents cared.

  A good sign.

  “I-I really appreciate your help,” Kelvin said to the man’s back, hoping some friendly chatter might warm the giant and make him more willing to help. Most of the houses had gone dark during his short time here, telling him that not everyone was willing to help a stranded stranger.

  The mountain of a man loped toward a house that stood apart from the others. Larger than anything except for the open structure storing the farm equipment, the house projected significance. The home of a mayor, or whatever this community would call that person? Its siding looked newer than the other homes. A tall, wide deck wrapped around the front and sides, almost as if it were an observation platform.

  The man ascended the stairs, his thudding footsteps announcing their arrival to dozens of nearby homes. Kelvin followed, taking the steps slowly to create space between them in case the situation changed. He had no idea what he was being led into and he wasn’t interested in surviving the storm only to end up as a plaything for some twisted mountain people.

  The man stopped at the door, thudding a massive fist twice. Kelvin waited out the awkward silence. The door creaked open, casting an orange glow onto the foot of the deck. Kelvin stepped back as the light illuminated the man he’d followed, revealing him. Scars zigzagged across his cheeks and forehead, etching his appearance with past trauma. His greasy hair was thin, only partially covered the back of his head. It was as if half of his scalp was incapable of growing anything under the scars. An accident? Kelvin collected himself, resetting his face so as to not offend. The giant man leaned down into the slit of the open door. From only a few feet away, Kelvin couldn’t hear what he whispered. Taking a subtle sidestep, he tried to get a better view of the proceedings. When the man straightened up Kelvin saw a thin woman, in her 40s, with long, blond hair that lost all its vibrancy a decade earlier. The skin under her eyes sagged, painted with a tired shade of gray.