Krampus

Chapter Fifteen Christmas Demon

Dillard pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. He tugged the plastic bag open, peered in at the gloves, the duct tape, the knife, and the ball-peen hammer he’d taken from the General’s shop, at the hat and screwdriver from Jesse’s truck, and the wad of hair he’d plucked from the brush he’d found in the glove compartment—enough evidence to place Jesse at both crime scenes. Dillard knew investigators wouldn’t dig much further once they had all the pieces, and he planned on making it real easy to find all the pieces.

Dillard took a moment to gaze at the white Christmas lights illuminating his front porch, sparkling across the snow and ice, at the pretty evergreen wreath perched on his red front door—a picture-perfect Christmas scene. They’re in there, waiting, got no idea what’s heading their way.

He’d killed plenty of people over the years; some died easy, some died bad, but regardless, once the act was done, he’d never felt much of anything. Things were different with Ellen: not a single day passed that he didn’t think of her. Would it be the same with Linda? He didn’t think so. He loved Linda, but he could never love anyone like Ellen. He felt that, with time, Linda’s ghost would fade and he’d move on. He hoped so, because this wouldn’t be a clean, execution-style death: their deaths would have to match those at the General’s compound, would have to look like the work of an enraged, jealous spouse. That sort of thing just might haunt a man.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tried to turn his feelings off. Linda would no longer be the woman he’d made love to, nor Abigail the little girl he’d made smile and giggle. Once he walked in that door, they were meat, to be bled and cut up.

He exhaled, opened his eyes, plucked the plastic bag off the seat, and got out of the car. “Try not to feel,” he told himself as he strolled up the stone path. “Try not to feel.”

He eased the front door open and stepped quietly inside. He found three grocery sacks stacked along the wall, Linda’s and Abigail’s clothes folded neatly within, and two plastic garbage bags with the dolls Jesse had given Abigail along with the rest of the things they’d brought over. The fact that she was gathering their things to leave bothered him less than the fact that she was paying no heed to his warnings. Her disregard only confirmed to him that she couldn’t be trusted, that he was doing the right thing. Doing what he had to do.

The sound of the television drifted out from the living room and he caught Linda’s voice talking to Abigail. Good, he thought, they’re together. He threw the bolt behind him and slid the bags in front of the door. He knew it wouldn’t keep anyone in, he just wanted something to slow a person down, say if they were in a real hurry to leave, for some reason.

He walked down the short hall, past the bathroom on his left, and then into the living room. The living room contained a small dining room area separated from the kitchen by a bar-style counter. Abigail sat in one of the stools, her back to him, playing with two of her dolls. Linda stood in the kitchen, fixing something on the stove. She caught sight of him and started, her eyes turned cold, and she looked away.

“See you got your things packed,” Dillard said.

Abigail stopped playing, looked over at him, no trace of her usual joyful smile. She glanced anxiously at her mother.

“I would like my keys back, please,” Linda said, she sounded tired and drained.

“Okay,” he said, and walked across the living room to the dining room. He unclipped his police radio, turned it up, and sat it on the table, wanting to be sure he didn’t miss any calls on Jesse. He sat the plastic bag down next to it and dug her keys out of his pocket, dropping them on the table.

Linda went about fixing Abigail a grilled cheese, keeping her back to him, going out of her way not to look at him. Dillard leaned over and slipped the locking pin into the sliding glass door—another precaution, should things get out of hand. He glanced out upon his backyard; a hint of sunset still outlined the hilltops. He owned close to five acres backing up to the river; his nearest neighbor was Tomsey through the woods to the south. Between the forest and old Tomsey being near deaf, he wasn’t too worried anyone would hear any screaming.

Dillard knew he should get this show on the road, that every minute he spent was one more minute someone could come along and discover the slaughterhouse over at the General’s, or that Jesse might show up somewhere in town. But he found the next step much harder than he expected. He watched Linda flip the cheese sandwich over in the skillet, stared at the back of her head, at her beautiful hair, and imagined the look on her face when the first blow landed, the pain, the confusion, the horror. He would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

He clenched his jaw. Now’s not the time to get weak.

He picked up the plastic bag and headed back to the hall and into the bathroom. He emptied his bladder, then stripped down to only his socks. Footprints in the blood could be used the same as fingerprints; it would be easier to just burn the socks later. He didn’t worry about his DNA evidence, it was his house, they’d be expecting that, but blood, blood was a different matter. If he planned on matching the brutality of the murders at the General’s place, then there’d be plenty of blood and he had to make sure none of it got on his clothes. He stacked the clothes, his watch, and his shoes on the floor next to the sink. After he was done killing the girls and planting Jesse’s evidence, he would shower and then come back down and dress.

He opened the sack, pulled out the gloves, slipped them on, then took out the ball-peen hammer. Figured that’d be the right tool to start with. He’d hit Linda hard, but not too hard, just enough to knock her down, maybe a kneecap next, something to keep her from running while he took care of Abigail. Then he would get the knife and do the job right.

He opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air tingling against his nakedness. “Meat,” he whispered. “They’re just meat.”

NOTHING.

Blackness.

Light.

Adrift, the current tugging him down, down, down.

Drowning. Choking. Weight. The pain of flesh. Santa Claus felt cold stone beneath his back, opened his eyes. All was bathed in golden light. Blurry shapes shifted about him.

His wife’s face slowly came into focus, hovering over him, not Nanna, but Perchta, his earthborn wife. She clutched his hand, worry etched into her ageless eyes.

“He lives,” she whispered, then, loudly, “Santa Claus has returned to us!” A great clamor echoed about the chamber. Santa blinked; he lay in the chapel, encircled by his lesser wives. All of them weeping and wailing with joy. The sounds stabbing into his head like knives.

So that was death. No thoughts. No memories. No regrets. Nothing. So very sweet.

Two beings—neither male nor female—in golden robes stood at his feet, their white wings almost too bright to look upon. One of them spoke. “It seems God does not wish you dead.”

“Why?” he coughed, clearing his throat. “How do I matter to God?”

The two angels exchanged a surprised smile. “Why? Because you amuse her.”

“Amuse?” Santa sat up. The world spun about him. He clutched the slab to steady himself. “Amuse? Do I serve no higher purpose than to entertain?”

“You bring a smile to God’s lips. Is that not enough?”

Santa swung his feet off the slab, tried to stand. His knees buckled and Perchta caught him, kept him from falling. “I am not but a plaything.”

“You are upset?”

“I am done amusing the gods. Done with this song and dance.”

“You wish to be done?” The angel’s brow furrowed. “But there is no greater calling than to serve the Lord. Is it not an honor?”

Bells, far away, growing louder, voices, it was that song, that silly, silly song: “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Santa glanced around at the women, none of them seemed to hear. “I am done, I said. Done with all of it. Tell God to leave me be!”

“You would give it all up?” The angel shrugged. “If it is your wish to let it go, to become mortal, it can be made so.” The song, the bells, they began to wane. “Your name, like your song, will fade, and eventually the name Santa Claus will be forgotten.”

The song ceased; his breath the only sound. The silence chilled his heart.

“What name shall you be called henceforth?” the angel asked. “I would guess not Baldr. Bob? Mike? Tom? Who will you be now?”

“Stop it. Why do you torment me?”

The angel laughed. “You only torment yourself. Do you truly believe you are an equal to the likes of Jesus, or any of the great prophets? You are a curio, a man in a red suit handing out gifts.”

Santa ground his teeth.

“We will honor your wish. But remember, it was you that turned your back on God.” The angels withdrew, left the chapel, headed up the path.

“No,” Santa said.

They kept walking.

“No,” he called. “No . . . do not leave!” He took a step after them, clutching the slab to keep upright. “I take it back!” he cried. “I take it back!” His voice broke into a sob. “I take it back.”

They stopped, studied him, their eyes full of pity. They returned. “Who are you?”

He glared at them. “I am Santa Claus.”

They smiled. “Take heart, Santa Claus. You spread hope and cheer in a world of darkness. You please God in a universe where so many do not. Be happy with that.”

The bells returned, they warmed him, reached to his core, touched his very soul. A great weight lifted from his chest. He inhaled deeply and once again felt whole.

“Now, enough of this silliness,” the angel said. “The world needs Santa Claus and God wishes to know if there is anything she can do for you.”

Santa started to shake his head, stopped, met the angel’s eyes. “Yes, most certainly. There is a devil in need of killing.”

“THERE, THAT’S AS good a place as any.” Jesse pointed to the steeple below. “Lights are on. Appears to be plenty of folks around.”

Isabel bit her lip. She’d already vetoed the previous two churches they’d flown over. She shook her head and hugged Lacy.

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t know that church.”

“They’re Methodists, Isabel.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“What, you don’t like Methodists now? First Pentecostal, now Methodist. Whoever heard of anyone having a problem with Methodists? Isabel, I think you’re just looking for an excuse. Now you got to think about Lacy.”

Isabel frowned. “Okay,” she said, in little more than a whisper.

“What?” Jesse asked. “Did you say okay? Okay, for the church?”

She nodded, her lips tight and drawn.

“Okay,” Jesse said to Krampus. “We can take her there.”

Krampus landed them in a small field behind the church. A line of hedges afforded a reasonable amount of cover from the homes just across the street. Krampus didn’t seem to care much one way or another, not having spoken a single word since leaving. He stared at the church as though it were a blight upon the land.

Jesse helped Lacy down while keeping his eye on Isabel, who continued to scrutinize the church. He knew she was looking for the slightest reason to call the whole thing off.

Isabel took Lacy’s hand. After a good minute went by without anyone saying a word, without Isabel taking a single step forward, Jesse sat his hand on Isabel’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re doing the right thing.”

Isabel nodded, “I know. I know.” Yet, still, she stood there.

“I’d be glad to come with you.”

“No. Don’t want anyone to see us . . . any of us. Would only make things harder on Lacy.” She looked down at the little girl. “Okay, Lace, let’s go find a really nice person for you to stay with awhile.” Isabel made an obvious effort to sound upbeat, but Jesse could hear the strain in her voice. “Okay?”

Lacy looked scared and unsure, but when Isabel pulled her along she came readily enough, and the two of them headed up the walkway, sticking to the shadows as they made their way toward the front of the church.

Jesse could see people through the windows; they appeared to be decorating the chapel in preparations for New Year’s Eve. A tall Christmas tree stood in front of one of the windows, its lights blinking. Krampus stared at it, a thunderous scowl upon his face.

Vernon slipped through the hedges, over to a row of mailboxes. Plastic newspaper bins with the Boone Standard logo hung beneath the boxes. One still held a paper and Vernon helped himself, opened it, scanning the pages as he walked back over.

“Oh, my,” Vernon said. “Krampus, you just might wish to read this.”

Krampus ignored him, just kept staring at that Christmas tree.

Vernon cleared his throat, began to read. “Santa’s Henchmen Dance Across Boone County. Strange reports have come in from all across Boone County of a string of bizarre incidents of home invasions and flying sleighs. The incidents are connected by descriptions of oddly dressed individuals that appear to have horns and glowing eyes. Some claim they’re Christmas demons, others blame the trouble on a crime spree perpetrated by a gang disguised in bizarre costumes. Sheriff Wright would only say that they are investigating. Sources close to the sheriff confirm that gang activity is at the forefront of the ongoing investigation. Several victims have come forward and given their harrowing accounts of assault, vandalism, and intimidation.” Vernon skipped down a few lines. “But no one has yet been able to explain the dozens of reports coming in of a flying sleigh pulled by goats, which reportedly is carrying this host of most curious criminals.”

Chet chuckled and shook his head.

“Wait,” Vernon continued, “there’s also this. Standard’s own Bill Harris received a very different accounting from Carolyn, age ten, of Goodhope, and her five brothers and sisters. Carolyn recounts a tale of a tall, horned beast that claims the title Krampus, Lord of Yule, and leaves behind coins to those who honor him with a tribute (in the form of a treat or trinket left in their shoes upon the front step). Further, she added those who don’t offer tribute risk the Krampus demon putting them in his sack and whipping them. Upon follow-up with children of other victims in the area, all collaborated this same very strange tale. Further credibility is given due to the fact that each of these children had in their possession these same triangular gold coins. When asked if they intended to put treats and trinkets in their shoes and leave them on their steps next holiday season, they all adamantly stated they certainly would.”

Vernon showed them the pictures: one, a clear snapshot of Carolyn and her siblings, each holding a triangular coin; another, this one a bit blurry, of Krampus and the Belsnickels flying down a street in the sleigh; and a final one, a cartoon of a gleeful, black-faced devil with horns, hooves, and a twisting tail, wielding a handful of switches. Vernon read the caption. “Hoax? Or has the Christmas Demon come to town?”

Vernon put on his own devilish smile and showed the picture to Krampus. “Why, old boy, they’ve certainly captured your likeness spot-on. Wouldn’t you say?”

Krampus tore the paper from Vernon’s hand, crumpled it, slapped it on the ground, and stomped it, practically did a dance upon it. “Christmas Demon!” Krampus growled. “Santa’s henchman! No! No!” He glared up at the church. “They see devils everywhere when the only devils left are themselves. Why must they twist Yule tradition into something wicked? Why must they pervert all that is mine. Like that tree. That is a Yule tree, not a Christmas tree. Bringing evergreens into the home to celebrate the Goddess that never dies, the return of the sun’s warmth, is a tradition dating back before even the ancient druids—and long, long, long before the Christ child was spewed forth in that filthy little manger. Who are they to plunder my traditions, to desecrate and profane? It is time I showed them the Yule Lord will not stand for such mockery.” Krampus spat loudly on the newspaper and stomped away toward the church.

Jesse and Vernon exchanged a panicked look.

“Wait,” Jesse said, catching up and grabbing Krampus’s arm. “Isabel asked us to stay back.”

Krampus shrugged him off and continued up the path, heading for the front steps. The Shawnee fell in step behind him.

“Way to go,” Jesse said to Vernon and gave him a shove.

Vernon threw up his hands. “What?”

Chet laughed and fell in. “Never much cared for the Methodists nohow.”

MARGRET DOTSON STOOD in her kitchen and watched the man in the funny getup steal her paper. She’d made a point of not reading the Standard, not since it came out in favor of Clinton back in ’92 anyway, but it still didn’t sit well with her for some degenerate to help himself to what was rightfully hers. She was just about to head outside to give him a piece of her mind, when she caught sight of his cohorts loitering in the glow of the church windows. What stopped her was the way their eyes caught the streetlight, an orange glint like bike reflectors. That just wasn’t right, that was weird. She had no idea who they were, or what they were, except for the tall one, the one with horns, that one she recognized right away . . . that one was Satan.

Margret picked up her phone and dialed the Goodhope police station. She was pleased to hear the new hire, that young officer, Noel, instead of that rude, bossy Dillard, who’d once reprimanded her for picking the flowers growing in front of the post office.

“Goodhope Police Department. Officer Roberts speaking.”

“This is Margret Dotson, on twenty-one Hill Street, over by the Methodist church.”

“Yes, ma’am, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Well, something just stole my newspaper.”

“I . . . see.”

“Yes, I was hoping you could come over here and get my property back.”

“Hmm, yes, well . . . we’re a bit busy at the moment. Maybe—”

“Maybe nothing. It’s standing right across the street. Why don’t you get on over here and arrest it before it runs off?”

“Mrs. Dotson, I’ll be sure to drive by just as soon as I can. Here, why don’t you give me a description of the suspect.”

“Well, there’s six of them. They’re wearing strange outfits, dark faces, horns, and glowing eyes. One of—”

“What? Oh, gosh! Oh, jeez!” the young officer’s voice rose. “Did you say you were across from the Methodist church? The one near First?”

“Why yes, that’s exactly what I said. There ain’t but that one.”

“Ma’am, stay inside. We’re on our way.”

Margret hung up the phone, a smug look on her face. She had no intention of staying inside. She made herself a gin and tonic, walked out on her porch, and watched the group of devils head up toward the front of the church. She took a seat in her porch swing, looking forward to the show.

LINDA SCOOPED THE grilled cheese out of the skillet and onto Abigail’s plate. Dillard entered the kitchen through the den entrance, coming up behind her, not running, just strolling in clutching the ball-peen hammer, in nothing but his black socks and gloves.

Abigail screamed, a shrill, piercing sound, and Linda spun around. Dillard swung for her head. Linda darted back, crashing into the stove. Dillard hadn’t counted on her moving so fast, and the hammer smashed against the counter, the momentum causing him to stumble. A second later, he found an iron skillet coming at him and tried to duck. Linda connected the flat of the pan against the side of his head—a flare went off, all bright light. Sizzling grease splattered across the side of his face, the searing heat causing him to scream and stumble back. He clasped his cheek, dropping the hammer. Through the blinding pain he saw her rear back for another swing. She clutched the panhandle in both hands, her face contorted with disgust and venom, a savage snarl escaped her throat as she brought the skillet round. Dillard threw up his arm, catching the blow with his elbow. The skillet flew from her hand, bounced off his shoulder, and clanged across the floor.

Linda dashed out of the kitchen over to where Abigail sat staring on in shock and horror, grabbed her, pulling her over to the sliding glass door. Linda gave the door a yank; it clacked in its track but didn’t slide open. In her panic, Linda yanked it twice more before realizing it was pinned.

Dillard snatched up the hammer and came after them, tromping into the dining room before she could pull the locking pin loose. Linda grabbed Abigail and fled in the only direction left—the living room. There was no way out of the living room except past Dillard; the only other choice was down into the basement. But this didn’t concern Dillard, because there was no way out of his basement. He had them trapped, only the couch and coffee table standing between them.

Dillard took a moment to catch his breath, to pull himself together. He plucked a clump of cheese from his hair, wiped as much grease from his face as he could. His skin felt as though it were still burning, his headache was back, back with a vengeance.

He threw a leg over the back of the sofa, started to climb over. Linda snatched up the bowl of decorative wooden apples off the coffee table, and threw one at him. Dillard put his arm up, the apple striking his elbow, the same elbow she’d clobbered with the pan, and a fresh jolt of pain shot up his arm. “Stupid fucking bitch!” he screamed.

She threw another, and another, then the bowl, forcing him to duck, and when he did she leapt over and yanked the basement door open. She darted inside, tugging Abigail after her, and slamming the door behind them. He heard their feet drumming down the basement steps.

He hesitated, unsure what she was thinking. It was a ground basement, a cellar. She knew there was no way out other than by the windows, and those were small, set high on the walls, and sealed shut with old paint. There was no way you could pry them open without tools.

Dillard walked to the basement door, pulled it open, and peered down the stairs. He heard something fall over, a creak then a loud clang, and instantly knew where they were. “Shit.” He rushed down the stairs, around the stairwell, to the metal door built into the wall.

What Dillard liked to brag about as his wine cellar was, in fact, a bomb shelter left over from the previous owner, a relic of the Cold War era. It had a very substantial metal door and, like most of these shelters, it latched from the inside. Dillard had removed the decades-old drums of K-rations when he’d moved in, and renovated it along with the rest of the basement, putting in racks, amassing a pretty good collection of wines. He grabbed the latch and gave it a hard yank. It didn’t budge. “Shit!”

He stood there, staring stupidly at the door. This is not fucking happening. He raised the hammer, brought it down hard upon the latch. A hollow bong filled the basement, the sound driving into his head like a spike. “Fuck!” He closed his eyes, pressed his temples until the throbbing lessened. He examined the latch. The hammer had hardly made a ding. He steadied himself against the wall and tried to think through his headache. There was no way he could bust that latch with a ball-peen hammer. He needed something more substantial, needed the sledgehammer out of the shed. “And some earmuffs,” he said under his breath. “Don’t you dare forget the goddamn earmuffs.”

He made it halfway back up the stairs when he heard his police radio squawk, heard Noel’s high, excited voice. “Dillard,” he cried, “Dillard. Heck, Dillard come in!”

Now what? Dillard wondered, but had a pretty good idea and hustled up the last few steps and over to the dining-room table. He snatched up the radio.

“Yeah, this is Dillard.”

“Dillard, it’s them! That gang! They’re right here in Goodhope! What’d we do?” The boy talked a mile a minute, stumbling over his words, any trace of procedure gone right out the window. Under other circumstances, Dillard would’ve smiled at the boy’s befuddlement.

“Whoa, now. Slow down. Where in Goodhope?”

The boy managed to calm down enough that Dillard could understand him. “We got a report of five or six of them. They’re at the Methodist church.”

Up on the north side of town, Dillard thought. “Meet me in the parking lot. No sirens or lights. And don’t do anything except keep them in your sight until I get there. Got it? On my way.”

Only he wasn’t on his way. He had two girls badly needing taking care of. He was in what his grandfather called one fine pickle. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, trying to think. Decided he had to do something about his headache. He stumbled into the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet, knocked over several bottles of medications until he found a prescription bottle labeled Imitrex—took double his normal dose. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, realized he was still naked. “Oh, for fuck sake.” He grabbed his pants and slid them on, then his shoes. “Okay, priorities. What’s the priority? Sort it out. It’s Jesse . . . that little shitfuck Jesse. Because there might not be another chance to kill that son’bitch. And the girls? Well . . . they ain’t going nowhere are they? No. I can see to that.”

He finished dressing as fast as he could and rushed back down into the basement, shoved the freezer over, blocking the storm shelter door, came back upstairs, throwing the basement door deadbolt as an added precaution. He snatched up his radio, did a last quick look around. Tried to convince himself things were under control here, at least for now, at least until he could get back. A couple minutes later he was in his cruiser heading north toward the Methodist church, one thing on his mind: killing Jesse Walker.

ISABEL PULLED LACY into the shadows next to the front steps of the Methodist church. She knelt down, looked Lacy directly in the eyes. “Okay, Lacy. It’s time. Like we talked about. You ready?”

The little girl’s face clouded. “I don’t want you to go, Isabel.”

“I know. I don’t wanna go neither. But I got to. So, I need you to be strong . . . strong for the both of us. Because if you start crying, you’re gonna make me cry. Then they might catch me. I might get in bad trouble.”

Lacy set her face and nodded. “I won’t cry none, Isabel. Promise.” Isabel saw then just how much mettle this little girl had, understood that she had to be strong to have survived what she’d been through.

Two women, both looking to be in their late thirties, both overweight, with faces that appeared to have seen plenty of hardship, came up the walkway, mounted the steps, and entered the church. They looked like good, God-fearing folk to Isabel, hill folk, the kind of women she felt she could trust.

“Lacy, I want you to go inside and introduce yourself to those two ladies. You remember what I told you to say?”

“That my mamma and daddy are dead. That a lady I don’t know dropped me off. That she told me to find someone to help me.”

“That’s right. Now give me a hug and run on in there after them.”

The girl hugged her, hugged her as tight as a six-year-old could. Isabel had to blink back the tears, knowing the last thing Lacy needed right now was to see her crying. Isabel pulled away, pointed Lacy in the direction of the steps, and gave her a light push. Lacy headed up the steps, reached the big doors, hesitated, giving Isabel an unsure look.

Isabel nodded and blew her a kiss.

Lacy tugged on one of the heavy double doors. It budged a little, but she couldn’t get it open. She tried twice more, then looked at Isabel and shrugged.

“Heck,” Isabel said, dashing out of the shadows and up the stairs. She pulled the big door open, ushered Lacy in, and took a quick peek inside. A foyer with double doors led into the chapel; through the stained-glass windows, she could hear music and see people moving. A flight of steps headed down on the right and left side of the foyer. She caught sight of a handwritten sign that read: DIVORCE RECOVERY. An arrow pointed down the stairs on the left, and Isabel understood where the women must’ve been heading.

“That way,” she called to Lacy in a hushed tone, pointing toward the stairs.

“Huh?” Lacy said, looking confused.

“The women went down—” Isabel heard voices coming up behind her, and a quick glance over her shoulder revealed four women heading up the walkway. Having no other route, she ducked into the foyer, snatched Lacy by the hand, and hustled her down the short flight of stairs. They pushed through a set of swinging doors at the bottom of the steps and came out into a long, dim corridor. There were two doors ahead, the closest one was shut, the one at the end of the hall stood open, a bright light pouring out into the hall, revealing another handwritten sign.

Laughter, the drumming of feet, people were coming down the stairs behind them. Isabel ran up to the first door, gave the knob a twist. It was locked. There was nowhere else to go. She put her shoulder into it, gave it a hard slam, the door held. She tried again, harder, heard the doorjamb crack.

“Excuse me. Can we help you?”

Isabel spun about to find four women staring at her from the bottom of the stairs. She tried to keep her head down, her eyes averted.

“Do we know you?” a stout woman, wearing a woodland-green hunting jacket, asked loudly. She was the smaller of the four, but her manner let you know right away that she didn’t put up with any nonsense. “Girl, look here at me.” She took a step closer, got a better look at Isabel, and stopped in her tracks. “What in the hell?”

“What’s going on?” another voice called from the opposite end of the hall. A woman, slight of build and wearing a simple knee-length dress, stood in the glow of the room light. “Gail, is that you. What’s the matter?” Three more women came out of the room behind her.

Isabel realized she was trapped. She gauged the women in front of the stairs, figured she would have to rush them, barrel her way through, and hope for the best. Only she wasn’t so sure she could, not if they put up a fight. These were big, hard-looking women, wearing flannel shirts and boots, the wives and daughters of miners, solid women who’d raised plenty of kids and been around more than their fair share of mean. And just when Isabel thought things couldn’t get much worse, five more women came down the stairs, peeking curiously over the others, trying to get a better look at her and Lacy.

“It’s one of them!” one of the newcomers shouted. She pointed at Isabel. “Look. One of the ones from the paper. One of the crazies that’s been causing all the trouble.”

“Lady, whatcha doing with that little girl, there?” the woman in the hunting jacket asked, and Isabel heard everything she needed in that tone, knew what she was being accused of, knew her trouble had just ratcheted up a notch.

“Cindy,” the woman called. “Go call the police. Tell Mark and the boys to get down here. Quick now, run!”

One of the girls in the back of the pack scampered back up the stairs. Isabel understood that she had to do something quick. She took a step away from Lacy.

“Don’t even think about it,” the woman said. The women pushed the double doors shut behind them, flipped the latch, and tightened ranks. “You ain’t going nowhere.”

REVEREND OWEN STOOD halfway up the ladder, clutching a mirrored disco globe the size of a basketball to his chest.

“Hold it steady, Scott,” he said with more than a hint of frustration.

“I got it already, Granddaddy. Here, you want me to hang it?”

“No,” Reverend Owen snapped. “I don’t want you to hang it. I want you to hold the dadgum ladder steady.” The reverend wasn’t the least bit happy about turning his church into a disco hall, but he wasn’t blind, either, at least not yet. He could see that his congregation was aging and if he didn’t step up his efforts with the younger generations, soon he’d have no church at all. Still, at times, he felt he was spending more time catering to social club activities than preaching the Good Word.

The reverend missed the old days, back when his wife and him went door-to-door, a Bible tucked beneath their arms, spreading the gospel, giving people who had nothing something to believe in. He recalled being chased off by dogs, being shot at, being cursed and ridiculed. But that had only fired him up, because he was a soldier of the Lord, casting out Satan wherever he found him, and filling the hard-living folks of Boone County up with the Holy Spirit. It’d been a long time now since the reverend had last felt the Holy Spirit pumping in his own veins, long time since he’d felt much other than the fatigue of managing his ever-mounting administrative duties and the frustration of sorting out the petty squabbles of his congregation.

Reverend Owen was about to take another step up the ladder when he heard shouting coming from the basement. He looked down at his grandson and rolled his eyes. “Had a bad feeling about that divorce counseling shindig from the outset. Get together a bunch of bitter women and there’s always bound to be trouble.”

Cindy burst through the chapel doors and collided with Mrs. Powell, knocking the tray of candles she was carrying from her arms and onto the floor.

“Scott, get over there quick! Get them candles put out!” Each year the reverend tried to talk them out of using all those candles, and each year Mrs. Powell and her Seniors Decorating Committee insisted on lining the windowsills with them, claiming it was tradition, just like the popcorn streamers. And the old-timers clung on to their conventions like ticks to a dog’s ear.

Cindy slapped out the candles on the floor and jumped to her feet, looking as though she might hyperventilate at any moment. The reverend tensed; Cindy was prone to hysterics, and he braced himself for her latest round of drama. “There’s one of them devil people in the basement!” Cindy cried. “And it’s got hold of a little girl. I ain’t fucking shitting you! Call the police! Someone call the goddamn police!”

Reverend Owen thought about calling the police on Cindy’s foul mouth. He took a step down, doing his best not to drop the disco ball, doing his best not to fall off the ladder, got one foot onto the floor, and that’s when the devil walked into his church.

It pushed right through the double doors, stomping past Cindy and Mrs. Powell, and headed up the center aisle. Satan was a lot larger than the reverend had imagined, standing seven feet tall, with wild, stringy black hair, pitch-black skin, a tail, glowing red eyes, and massive horns twisting up from his forehead.

All commotion ceased, the chapel fell quiet, even Cindy was speechless. They stared: the kids, the adults, all of them. Their faces shocked and fearful, backing away, giving this devil all the room it wanted, but not the reverend, not Owen Augustus Elkins. No, sir. Satan had just picked the wrong church, the wrong preacher to tread on. If the devil wished to scrap, to pit its black dogma against the reverend’s faith, then it was in for a brawl, for the reverend was a soldier of the Lord. And for the first time in nearly twenty years Reverend Owen felt the Holy Spirit pumping again in his veins. The reverend stepped forward, blocking the devil’s path.

The devil glared at the Christmas tree, tried to sidestep the reverend, but the reverend held his ground, struggling not to be cowed by the very size and vileness of the beast before him, calling on the Lord to give him strength. The devil locked eyes on him. “I have come for my tree,” he pronounced in a deep, gravelly voice. “Now out of my way you wretched little man.”

The reverend wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Tree? Satan wanted . . . the tree? The reverend had no idea why Satan wanted his Christmas tree, but he sure as heck wasn’t about to let him have it. The reverend shook his head and stood his ground.

“It is a Yule tree,” the devil said. “It does not belong in this house. Why do you, a man of the cloth, feel it is acceptable to make a mockery of Yule? To trample upon the beliefs of others?”

The reverend hesitated. A Yule tree? What’s he talking about? Be careful, he cautioned himself, trickery is his language. He’s trying to throw you off balance, that’s all. And he heard his own words come to him: One mustn’t allow the devil to get the upper hand. “You dare challenge the Lord’s authority in His very house? God will not stand for such. In the name of the Lord Almighty I cast ye out! Now be gone, Satan! Be gone!”

“Satan? I am not Satan!” the beast growled. “I am Krampus, the Lord of Yule. Now if you do not get out of my way I will tear out your heart and eat it!”

The reverend held up the disco ball, meaning to throw it at the unholy beast before him if need be. “Back, devil! Return thee to Hell!”

The beast rolled its eyes. “I am not a devil, fool. Do you ever wonder why you seek the Devil with such vigor? I shall tell you. Because you cannot face your own wickedness. The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you. So look at yourself, for you are the only devil in this room.”

“You trick no one with your flimflam,” the reverend shot back. “I see you, for Jesus lends me His eyes. The Good Lord sees you and will smite you with His sword of righteousness. He will cast thee back into the eternal flame to burn and burn!”

“Burn? Smite? Punish? Why is your god so intolerant? So jealous? Why must there be only one god? Why is there not room for many?”

“What?”

“One god, why can you honor only one god?”

“Why . . . every child in Bible school knows the answer to that. It is the first commandment: ‘You shall have no other gods before me.’ ”

“You have not answered my question. Wherein lies the harm? Since earliest time men have sought the shelter of many gods, harmony with all the wild spirits. It would seem the more gods one had standing watch over one’s self the better. Would it not?”

“I will not denounce the Lord if that’s what you’re asking. Jesus is my Savior and I shall not stray from His flock.”

The devil’s shoulders sagged a bit at that and Reverend Owen knew he was winning, that the Holy Spirit was wearing Satan down.

“Silly man, no one is asking you to denounce anyone. Only to open your heart. To invite them all into your house.”

“I believe only in Jesus and the Good Lord above.”

The devil perked up at that. “And Santa Claus? Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

Santa Claus? What did Santa Claus have to do with anything? “Of course not. Santa Claus is a fantasy.”

The devil grinned, let out a small laugh. “There. That, at least, is something we can agree on.” He patted Reverend Owen lightly on top of the head, then shoved him aside, continuing up the aisle toward the tree.

The reverend stood there for another minute, unsure of what had just transpired. He certainly didn’t feel as though he’d passed any great test of his faith, that he’d put Satan rightly in his place. As a matter of fact, the only way he really felt at the moment was highly annoyed, and now the gangly beast was shaking his Christmas tree, shaking it so hard that the ornaments were flying off in all directions, smashing and crashing into the walls and floors. What is it with that tree? “Hey!” the reverend cried out. “Stop that! I’m telling you to stop that!”

The devil ignored him, giving the tree a tremendous shove and toppling it over onto the pulpit, ornaments bouncing and shattering all over the place.

“NO! NO! NO!” Reverend Owen screamed and threw the disco ball. The mirrored globe hit the creature on the back of the head, shattering upon its horns. The devil stumbled forward, but didn’t fall. It shook its head, shaking the bits of broken glass from its mane, turned, locked its eyes on the reverend, eyes that had become two burning slits of venom. A low, dangerous growl escaped its throat. It snarled, showed them its sharp teeth. The reverend saw no reasoning being here, no soul to banter and debate. He saw a primal beast, something wild, something bloodthirsty and savage. The reverend fell back a step, another, turned to flee, and collided with the ladder, knocking the top rung off its perch against the chapel’s ceiling. The tall ladder teetered a moment, then started downward, gaining momentum, crashing through all the streamers—the very ones he’d spent the last two hours putting up—and smashing down atop the pews.

Reverend Owen watched aghast as the paper streamers landed in the candles perched along the windowsills, amazed at how quickly they caught fire. Whatever materials the Sunday school teachers had used lit up like a fuse. The flaming streamers hit the curtains, the original curtains put up when they’d first moved into the place back in ’68, which, guessing by the way they were starting to blaze, predated any fire codes. In no time they had fires going on both sides of the church.

“FIRE!” Cindy screamed at the top of her very capable lungs. “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” People found their senses and began a panicked rush for the exits.

Reverend Owen didn’t move. He stood there, watching the rapidly growing flames, and did something he’d never done before. Within his own church, Reverend Owen took the Lord’s name in vain, not once but over and over again.

OFFICER ROBERTS HEARD the shouts and screams from almost a block away. He sped up, taking the last corner hard, shooting into the parking lot of the church. He’d driven over without using his siren and lights, as the chief had instructed, to keep the element of surprise, but watching the people streaming out from the front doors of the church, he didn’t believe it even mattered.

He snatched up his rifle, jumped out of the cruiser, using the car for cover, bracing his rifle across the hood just like they’d taught him at the academy. He was only about thirty yards from the front steps, but it was still hard to tell who was who as he watched figures running to and fro—mere silhouettes in front of the growing flames.

Noel glanced up the street, hoping to see the chief’s cruiser heading his way. Dillard had ordered him to stay back, but folks needed help, things were getting out of hand fast. He hit the mic. “Chief, I’m at the scene. We have an emergency. Please advise.” He waited a few seconds that felt like forever and hit the mic again. “Chief. Copy.” Nothing. Where was he? What was taking him so long? Noel changed frequencies, put a call in to the dispatch. “Dispatch, we got a ten . . . a ten . . .” His mind drew a blank, all the codes went out the window. “We got a fire, Methodist church in Goodhope . . . possible dangerous suspects.” He heard his voice rising, racing, forced himself to slow down. “Hell, we got all kinds of trouble! Send fire and rescue . . . let the sheriff know right away!” He got a confirmation that help was en route, then the radio clicked again and Dillard’s calm voice cut through the static. “Just hold on. Cutting across First now. Almost there.”

Noel started to reply, but forgot what he was trying to say, because a towering figure with horns came out of the burning church, towing a Christmas tree behind him and carrying a man over his shoulder. The suspect matched the description, no doubt about that whatsoever. He dropped the man down from his shoulder into the snow. Officer Roberts recognized the man, it was Reverend Owen, he looked confused but okay.

The deputy locked the sight of his rifle on the suspect—the man, or beast, or whatever it was—tried to hold his aim steady. “Oh, good gracious alive! Dillard you better get your ass here and quick!”

A LOUD THUD reverberated through the ceiling. Isabel and all the women looked up.

“What the hell’s going on up there?” the woman in the hunting jacket asked.

A moment later they heard screams, cries, and the sound of feet drumming overhead. Isabel had a pretty good guess. Aw, shit, Krampus. What’ve you done now?

Someone up the stairs screamed “FIRE!”—and at that moment smoke began to pour out of the ceiling vents.

“OUT!” The woman in the hunting jacket yelled. “The place is on fire! Everyone get out!”

The group of women standing in front of the double doors all turned and rushed for the exit, pushing those closest to it into the doors. And since the doors only opened inward, toward the hallway, this jammed them shut.

“Stop! Wait!” someone yelled. “You’re gonna all have to back up.” It was the woman behind Isabel, the one in the simple dress. She started down the hall toward the wedge of women. “Stay calm. You must stay calm.”

A few women were trying to pull themselves out of the tangle, but the others, in their panic, only pushed harder. Isabel started forward, intent on pulling the women off one another, when she heard screams coming from behind her.

At least a dozen women had come out of the room at the far end of the hall and were stampeding toward her. Lacy stood right in their path. Isabel scrambled to get to her, but she had no chance. The woman, the one in the dress, grabbed Lacy, shoved her into the shallow door well, the one in front of the locked door. The women drove past. Isabel didn’t see what happened, the next thing she knew she was knocked back down the hall, slammed to the floor, and caught up in the press of grappling bodies.

The air grew dense, the smoke making everyone cough, spurring on the panic. Isabel found herself pinned, struggling to get air in her lungs. She heard her name, a deep, booming call that resonated above the din of screaming, crying women. There came a terrific snapping and splintering of wood, and all at once light appeared at the top of the double doors. There came another snap, more splintering, and a large chunk of the door ripped outward. She saw him then, his glowing eyes and unmistakable silhouette. Krampus wrapped his large hands on the door, let out a roar, and gave a mighty tug. The door frame popped and snapped, one of the double doors broke free, crashing down onto the steps.

And there stood the Yule Lord, tall and terrible, the Belsnickels just behind him. Krampus pulled the women out of the tangle, pushed them up the stairs; the Belsnickels, in turn, lead them out of the death trap.

“Isabel!” Krampus yelled, his voice frantic. “Where are you?”

“Krampus!” She managed to get a hand free and wave. Krampus shoved women left and right, plowing his way to Isabel, grabbed her, and pulled her to her feet.

“Hurry!” he cried, pushing her toward the stairs.

“Wait,” Isabel shouted. She looked down the dim, smoky hall searching for Lacy. And there she was—in that woman’s arms, the one in the dress. The woman coughed, her eyes streaming with tears, but she held tight to Lacy. Isabel leapt to them, put an arm around both of them, and steered them to the stairs. The last couple of women were stumbling up the steps with the help of Jesse and Chet. Isabel led Lacy and the woman up and out, followed lastly by Krampus.

They came out into the night air. Isabel drew in a deep breath; never had air tasted so sweet. Ash and glowing cinders fell upon the snow, smoke billowed around them. Isabel saw Krampus’s tall, horned figure before the hellish landscape, surrounded by his Belsnickels, and could not help but think of Satan and his host of demons.

“Come,” Krampus called. “Let us find the Yule goats before they stray.” He headed back around the side of the church, followed by the Belsnickels, all of them disappearing into the smoke.

People were gathering in the parking lot. Isabel started to lead the woman and Lacy that way, spotted a police cruiser barreling into the lot, nearly hitting two bystanders. It skidded to a stop beside another cruiser. Isabel halted, dropped to one knee, gave Lacy a quick kiss on the cheek, and hugged her tight. “I gotta go, Lacy. You be good. Okay?”

“You be good, too,” Lacy said and hugged her back.

Isabel stood, clutched the woman’s arm. “Her name is Lacy. Please look after her.” The woman gave her a confused look, but nodded earnestly, picking Lacy up and heading away from the flames. Isabel wanted to watch them go, but tears blurred her vision and she turned back, darting away into the smoke after Krampus.

CHIEF DILLARD DEATON leapt from his car, almost forgot his shotgun, reached back in, yanked it across the seat.

“Aw, jeez!” Noel cried, running over. “Chief, man, am I ever glad to see—” He stared at Dillard’s face. “Heck, chief, what happened to you?”

“Where are they?” Dillard asked, walking briskly toward the fire.

Officer Roberts jogged to keep up. “Um . . . well . . . hard to say with all the smoke, y’know. They were heading around the side of the building last I saw.”

“I told you not to let them out of your sight.”

“I know, but the sheriff told me to sit tight until backup arrived.”

“What?” Dillard spun on his heels. “The sheriff? You called this in?”

“Well, yeah. Had to. We’re outside the town limit. Outside our jurisdiction.”

“Do I look like I need a lecture on whose jurisdiction we’re in?”

“But the fire. I thought it was procedure to—”

“Shut up. Just shut up!” Dillard almost punched the boy, almost laid him out flat, and wouldn’t that have added an interesting layer to his growing list of troubles. He stepped forward, got right into Noel’s face. “I don’t wanna hear another word about procedure. You go back to the vehicles and wait for the goddamn sheriff to show up. Got that? Don’t you move unless I say so. Got it? Got it?”

Noel nodded and headed back, looking every bit the whipped pup. The truth was Dillard planned on going down there and shooting Jesse dead on sight and he sure as hell didn’t want Officer Boy Scout anywhere near him when he did—didn’t want any witnesses at all.

Dillard heard a distant siren racing their way. Dammit. Just what I don’t need. Fuck! Gotta find that boy quick-like. He chambered a round, pushing through the smoke. He spotted footprints in the snow, at least five or six sets, followed them around the back of the building, where they ended in a cluster around a wadded-up newspaper. He found deep ruts and fresh droppings—deer or goat maybe, he wasn’t sure which, only sure that nothing quite made sense. If he’d happened to look up at that moment, he might’ve caught sight of a sleigh pulled by two large goats heading east, toward the hills, but just then flashing lights caught his attention. It was the sheriff, pulling into the parking lot.

Dillard rubbed the bridge of his nose, tried to stifle the growing pain behind his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired, very old. “Gonna be a long night. Gonna be a long fucking night.”