Krampus

Chapter Sixteen Horton’s

Jesse watched Krampus stare at the plastic play gym and the handful of toys scattered about the yard of a small ranch home somewhere just south of Whitesville. Krampus had been staring—without a word, without so much as a grunt—at the toys for going on twenty minutes. So long that Jesse began to wonder if he’d planned to get out of the sleigh at all.

The whole crew was quiet, lost in their own thoughts, perhaps contemplating the craziness at the church—or, like him, how they’d ever ended up with this strange, moody creature in the first place. Jesse was quickly losing whatever hope he might’ve held that there’d be a resolution to any of this . . . some path that might lead to a way out.

They’d already visited two homes, both without much incident, but also without much enthusiasm. Krampus had actually walked past a blow-mold Santa without smashing it. Jesse got the impression the Yule Lord was just going through the motions, even his speech to these children had lacked any real passion. Jesse felt he was on a sinking ship with no way to jump overboard. He exchanged a glance with Isabel, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. Isabel shrugged back. After another long moment, she cleared her throat. “Krampus,” she said in a soft tone. “Maybe we should head on back. Take the night off.”

“Why, what a splendid idea,” Vernon added. “Certainly has my vote.”

Isabel cut him a sharp look.

“What?” Vernon said in a defensive tone. “If Krampus is in one of his intolerable moods, I see no reason why we should all have to suffer along.”

“He is right,” Krampus muttered. “There is no more need. It has all been in vain, I fear. The world does not want to remember, and now it appears . . . I am out of time.”

“Out of time?” Isabel asked. “What do you mean?”

Krampus only shook his head.

“Krampus? What’s going on?”

Krampus looked up the driveway, sighed, grabbed the switches and the sack, and stepped out of the sleigh. “You can join me if you wish. Matters not.” He started up the drive. The two Shawnee jumped out and followed.

Isabel elbowed Vernon. “Could you not be such a jerk?”

“You know,” Vernon said, sounding uncharacteristically terse. “Sometimes you forget that I’m not along for the joy of it. I’m his prisoner . . . his slave. Frankly, I really don’t give a damn what happens to the old goat.”

Chet nodded. “Amen, brother.”

“Well, some of us do,” Isabel said, slipping out, chasing Krampus and the Shawnee up the drive. Jesse looked at Vernon and Chet, shrugged, and followed after Isabel, catching up with them as they gained the porch.

Krampus reached for the door handle and froze. He let out a gasp. Jesse followed his eyes to the steps, saw nothing more than two pairs of shoes, started to ask what the matter was, then looked again.

The shoes were propped up as though on display in a shoe store; arranged within each shoe sat an array of candies. A card stood pinched between the shoes.

Krampus dropped the sack and the birch branches, reached for the card, held it open so they could all see. Krampus’s hand actually trembled. The card read: HAPPY YULETIDE, KRAMPUS. WE ARE VERY GOOD KIDS. LOVE, MARY AND TODD.

“Well, I’ll be,” Isabel said.

“Bet they read about Krampus in the paper,” Jesse said.

“Maybe,” Isabel said, “or maybe we visited one of their pals or some of their kin last night.”

Krampus dropped to one knee. He plucked up the candies, held them in his palms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for your tribute.” The Yule Lord wiped at his eyes and Jesse realized the great beast was actually crying. “Their reward,” Krampus said. “They need their reward. Jesse, retrieve some coins.”

Jesse picked up the sack, held it out.

“You gather them. My hands are full,” Krampus said without taking his eyes from the treats; he held them as one would most precious stones.

Jesse pulled open the sack, hesitated. Hadn’t Krampus spoken of these coins being in some sort of hell? Jesse wasn’t sure he wanted to go putting his hand in hell . . . any hell. Everyone waited on him. He sighed, thought of the triangular coins, and inserted his hand. He felt coldness, closer to the feeling of fear than an actual temperature. The chill penetrated right to his bones, to the very marrow. It tingled, almost painful, made his teeth hurt. Jesse tried to concentrate on the coins, wanting to get things over with as quick as possible. His hand bumped something crusty and brittle—rotting things came to mind. Then something touched him, more of a caress, like someone pulling gauze across his skin. He let out a small squeal, yanked his hand out. “Fuck, Krampus. There’s something in there!”

Krampus let out a snort. “Of course. The dead. Do not fear, they cannot hurt you. They are only ghosts . . . lost souls, the ones that could not find their way home.”

Jesse peered into the smoking darkness, thought he heard something—wailing. Sounded faint and far away, but there was no mistake, he heard them. He shuddered as a chill slid down his back.

Krampus put on a mischievous grin. “You just want to be careful not to fall in. You would wander about those endless catacombs until your body wasted away, the dead following your every step . . . waiting to claim you as their own.”

Jesse swallowed loudly, did his best to focus on the coins, and stuck his hand back in. This time his fingers found what he was searching for. He pulled out a handful of the triangular coins and held them out to Krampus.

“Good, place them in the shoes.”

Jesse did. Six coins total. “Those are gonna be some happy kids,” Jesse said. “Probably buy themselves a right decent car with that.”

Krampus handed each of the Belsnickels a piece of candy and held one back for himself, a red lollipop. He stared at it a moment, the way someone would upon a long-lost photo from their youth, then pulled off the wrapper and slipped it into his mouth. “Our work here is done,” he said, and headed down the drive to the sleigh. Jesse noticed a light spring to Krampus’s step. The Yule Lord hopped aboard, glanced back at the house, and nodded, the moonlight glistening off his broad smile.

“The Yule Lord has returned at long last.”

KRAMPUS PRACTICALLY SKIPPED up the drives of the next several houses, his tail swishing playfully back and forth, almost wagging. He did not sneak or creep about, not anymore, he entered boldly with a loud cry and cheer of Yuletide greetings. The Belsnickels scrambled to subdue alarmed parents while Krampus thrilled and terrified the children with his tales and gifts. At one home, a man actually unloaded both barrels of his shotgun and would’ve most likely killed Vernon had Chet not managed to wrestle the gun away. They flew from house to house, skimming the treetops, Krampus shouting out Yule cheer to any and all he saw below, and soon Jesse lost count of the homes they hit.

Sometime well past midnight, they heard music as they were flying fast above a lonely stretch of highway well out in hill country. They flew around a bend and saw a building set off the highway. A handful of cars, motorcycles, and trucks were parked in the glow of the neon beer signs. Krampus circled over the place, watched a cluster of people carrying on and laughing as they stumbled their way into the joint.

Jesse caught the name, Horton’s, and realized he knew the place, that he’d actually played there once, a while back. He recalled it had a rough crowd, one of those joints where they put chicken wire up in front of the stage to keep the players from getting hit with beer bottles.

“Is it a feast hall?” Krampus asked. “Or a tavern, perhaps?”

“It’s a bar,” Chet said. “Another crappy little honky-tonk.”

“What are they celebrating?”

Chet shrugged. “Another day on this shitty planet be my guess.”

Krampus nodded. “It is indeed a good day to celebrate.” He dropped down, landing the sleigh behind the bar. He grabbed the sack and hopped out.

Jesse recognized the tune; a sloppy version of that old Oak Ridge Boys’ tune, “Elvira.” Jesse had always hated that song. But it’s loud, Jesse thought, and sometimes that’s all that matters.

“Come,” Krampus said and started away.

“Don’t suppose I might sit this one out?” Vernon asked.

“No. It is time to celebrate the return of Yuletide. Time for all of us to celebrate.”

“Yes, well, I was afraid of that.”

They climbed out and followed the Yule Lord around to the front.

Chet began chuckling to himself. “If this goes even half as well as that church, then we’re in for one hell of a fine time.”

“Might be more his crowd,” Jesse added.

“No,” Vernon moaned. “He doesn’t have a crowd. This will be another disaster.”

“Can’t wait,” said Chet.

HORTON WHITE STOOD behind the bar. A picture of Neil Diamond autographed to him hung on the wall above the rows of liquor, right beside the one of Hasil Atkins. Everyone around Boone County had a soft spot for old Hasil, but Horton couldn’t say the same about Neil. Folks just didn’t care much for the old crooner and weren’t the least bit shy about letting him know it. Horton kept the picture up nonetheless, because he liked Neil Diamond, a lot, and because this was his bar and he’d put up anybody’s picture he damn well felt like. Of course if folks didn’t start buying some drinks soon, this wouldn’t be his bar for much longer, be just another run-down shack along the highway.

The first of the month was almost on him and Horton had no idea how he was going to make rent. He knew he couldn’t afford to be late again, not with the General threatening to bust up the place if he was. He usually pulled in a pretty good crowd between Christmas and New Year’s, counted on it to catch up financially, but not this year, especially not tonight. Maybe thirty folks had shown up, tops, about half his usual crowd, and the worst of it, no one was buying. He’d had to let his cook go last month, which left him managing the bar while trying to take short orders. Not that anyone was exactly lining up for his burned French fries and microwaved hot dogs.

He scanned the sullen faces. Folks were out of sorts, appeared beaten down, tired, even the band couldn’t keep the beat—kept screwing up their sets. Nothing too unusual about that, what was unusual was the fact that no one seemed to give a hoot. No boos, or catcalls, certainly no one throwing bottles. Only two people were on the dance floor, Martha and Lynn, dancing with each other as usual on account that none of the men wanted to dance with them.

Other than a handful of bikers, it was mostly regulars: Rusty, Jim, Thornton, and the rest of that bunch from the mill. Tom Mullins and his four brothers had shown up, making Horton a bit nervous at first, as trouble followed that family around like a hungry puppy. But even Tom was mellow tonight, sipping—not drinking—his beer, just playing pool with that butchy gal Kate from down Goodhope way. The bikers were mostly keeping to themselves over in one corner. Horton smelled weed, wanted to ask them to take their smokes outside, not because it bothered him none, only because maybe then they’d drink a bit more. But he didn’t know these boys, didn’t want to stir anything up, but he sure wished someone or something would stir things up—something to get the evening going.

“Shit,” Horton said, speaking to the handful of dour faces before him at the bar. “Someone die I don’t know about? Or maybe the post office just forgot to deliver everybody’s welfare checks?” No one gave him so much as a snicker.

The door opened; Horton didn’t bother to look over, at least not until he caught the look on Lucy Duff’s face. A man, a very tall man, entered the bar along with a cold gust of night air. The lights were dim, but not so dim that Horton couldn’t see that the man had horns twisting right out of his forehead.

“Well bend me over and fuck me silly,” Lucy said, her words slurred. She elbowed her friend Nelly. “Hey, Nell, check that one out.”

Six more figures came in behind the tall devil man, dressed in old-time costumes, their faces streaked black. Some of them wore furs, and masks with horns. But it was their eyes that made Horton uneasy, the way they caught the light and gleamed orange in the shadows.

Is this a joke? Horton wondered. Someone’s gotta be playing a prank on me, because last I checked we weren’t running any costume contests. He spied a large sack; the tall one handed it off to one of his gang, a lean-looking man, spoke something in his ear and pointed to the bar. Oh, fuck. Horton understood the disguises, realized that they were actually about to try and rob his place. Horton stepped quickly over to the icebox, set his hand on the sawed-off under the counter. Are they nuts? Do they have any clue the kind of folks they’re dealing with? Horton guessed half his patrons were packing right this minute, and the rest carried a knife or some other means of defense. Hard men and hard women, the kind of folks that didn’t back down from a fight. Horton had no doubt that if these fools drew weapons, someone was gonna end up full of holes.

“It’s them,” Lucy said. “Y’know. The ones from the paper.”

“What ones from the paper?” Nelly asked.

“Dan,” Horton said sharply. “Hey, Dan. Back me up.”

Dan sat next to Lucy. Horton had spent half a tour in Nam with Dan, knew Dan didn’t go anywhere without his piece, knew he was a good man to have at your back. Dan saw that Horton had his hand under the counter, looked to the door, and sobered up quick. He shifted round, dropped his hand into his jacket pocket.

The lean man with the sack approached the end of the bar. The man was even creepier up close. The makeup and that odd glow to his eyes looked so very real. Horton had no idea how he got his eyes to do that. Some new type of contacts?

“Mister,” the slim man said. “Beg your pardon. Got a question for you.”

Horton stared at the man from where he stood, not about to take his hand off his shotgun. “Yeah, what can I do you for?”

“Like to open the bar for the evening.”

Of all the things Horton had expected the man to say, that wasn’t on the list. He cut a glance over at Dan, but Dan’s eyes stayed locked on the man.

“I bet you would, son,” Horton said. “Bet everyone in here would.”

“Don’t worry . . . we’ll be paying up front,” the man said and shoved his hand into his sack.

Oh, shit! Horton felt his heart leap into his throat. He’s going for his piece. Horton yanked the shotgun out from beneath the counter, leveled it at the man. Dan tugged out his .38.

“Whoa!” the lean man said. “Hold on a sec, now. It ain’t what you’re thinking.”

“How about you take your hand out of there nice and slow,” Dan said. “Then we’ll figure on what we’re thinking.”

The man nodded, then did something funny. He shut his eyes as though concentrating real hard. Horton wondered if maybe the guy was jacked up on something. Horton stole a quick glance over at the rest of the gang, knowing this would be when they’d make their play. Only they hadn’t moved, weren’t even looking his way. Just standing there watching the band like nothing in the world was going on.

“Okay,” the man said. “I’m gonna pull my hand out nice and slow. I’d appreciate it if you two don’t shoot me when I do.”

“Well, now that all depends on what’s in your hand,” Dan said. “Don’t it?”

The lean man slowly withdrew his hand and instead of a gun he held a clump of tarnished triangular coins. He laid them on the counter. “These are gold. Should be enough to cover it.”

“This some sort of joke?” Horton asked.

The man shook his head. He didn’t look like he was joking.

“He wants to pay with play money,” Dan said and chuckled.

Horton started to join in when a glint of gold caught his eye. He stepped forward for a closer look. Horton had done a spot of panning in his day with his grandfather in the hills. He knew what real gold looked like, felt like, tasted like. He picked up one of the coins, weighed it in his hand, bit it. His breath left him. “Well, I’ll be damn, Dan. This is real.” He counted seven coins in front of him, more than enough to buy all the beer and liquor in the joint.

“If you let me stick my hand back in this sack, I can add a bit to that.”

“What?” Horton said, still mesmerized by the amount of gold sitting on his bar. “Why, yeah, son. Go right ahead. Knock yourself out.”

The lean man pulled out five more coins. “That oughta do it. Don’t you think?”

Horton didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words.

“What’d you say? We got a deal?”

Horton nodded. “We sure do. We sure as hell do.” He set the shotgun back in its hitch and quickly slid the coins into his bar towel, wrapping them up, getting them out of sight. He was amazed at how heavy they were. Hell, he thought. Got rent covered for a year or so. Maybe even a vacation or two. He hid them up under the ice chest, out of reach of any sticky-fingered barflies.

Nelly, who’d been nursing the same beer all night, gave Horton a sheepish smile. “Why, I’ll take a shot of bourbon, Bob, straight up. And, hey, make it the good stuff, will ya?”

“Yeah, me too,” Lucy said. “Make mine a double.” She looked the lean man up and down. “Hey, just who the fuck are you guys?”

The man smiled. “You’ll see. Just keep your eye on the tall ugly one over there.”

JESSE NODDED TO Krampus and gave him the thumbs-up. Krampus nodded back and proceeded across the dance floor, headed toward the stage. The two dancing women stopped and stared at him. Jesse pulled up a stool, having no idea what Krampus was up to, not sure he wanted to find out.

Chet, Vernon, and Isabel wandered over, pulled up stools next to Jesse. The two Shawnee stayed in the shadows, keeping a close eye on the Yule Lord, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the bar.

Krampus stopped in front of the chicken wire, turned, and surveyed the crowd. Now, with the stage light on him, people were starting to notice that there was a seven-foot-tall devil in their midst. But they didn’t react the way Jesse would’ve expected, especially after what had happened at the church. No hysterical shouting and screaming; instead, plenty of confused double takes, pointing, and drunken laughter, but mostly curiosity, folks trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

Krampus said something to the band, a three-piece, and they stopped playing. Instead of angry protest, a few folks actually clapped.

The stage—or platform, rather, as it wasn’t more than a foot high—was draped in Christmas lights, two slow-spinning spotlights of yellow, red, and green, shown from either side, adding a festive, dramatic touch to Krampus’s presence.

“Hey, asshole,” someone shouted. “This ain’t Halloween.”

Jesse realized that no one understood that a true monster stood among them. They obviously thought Krampus was in costume. Jesse hoped it stayed that way so they could soon be on their way without anyone getting stabbed or shot.

Krampus raised a hand. “Please, hear me . . . for I would speak.” It was his tone that captured their attention, powerful and resonating—the voice of a god. Krampus waited as the snickers died down and the hall slowly fell quiet.

“Well, get on with it then,” a stout woman called from the bar. “Ain’t got all night.”

Krampus grinned, and there was something beguiling in that grin, like an invitation to play, and, to Jesse’s surprise, he found plenty around the bar smiling back.

A brash young man over by the pool table took a couple of steps forward and shouted, “Hey, just who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

Krampus set eyes on him, intense, piercing eyes, eyes that made it clear they’d hold one accountable for what was said. “I am Krampus, the Yule Lord,” he boomed. “I come to celebrate the splendors of life and seek worthy souls to join me. People who wish to make merry . . . to shout, dance, love, brawl, and sing. Souls willing to turn their backs on the angels and share in a little debauchery. To be alive now . . . this very night. To shake their fist in the face of death, knowing whatever ills tomorrow may harbor nothing can steal this moment if you live it with all your vigor. What say you? Will you drink with me this night and chase the Draugr from the shadows? Will you sing with me to Mother Earth, to all the ghosts of Asgard? Will you herald in Yuletide with me?”

People were nodding, were eating it up. Jesse saw the same fervor on their faces as those of the Shawnee. There was no denying that there was something infectious about the Yule Lord’s spirit; Jesse could feel it in the air.

An old man, bent and rail-thin, wearing a sweat-stained cap atop long, silver hair, squinted at Krampus and called out, “Who’s buying?”

The crowd laughed and the Yule Lord laughed with them. “I am,” Krampus exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “Tonight is a night of excess. All the mead one can hold and all on me.”

Almost every head swiveled to the barman, hopeful faces searching for confirmation. The barman nodded. “Open bar all night!” he called. With that, a great cheer rang out and most everyone in the tavern headed for the bar.

The band started back up, a spirited rendition of Willie Nelson’s “Whiskey River.” Krampus waded into the crowd. One of the bikers handed him a beer and cried, “To Krampus!” Mugs were raised all around, accompanied by shouts of “Krampus! Krampus!” The Yule Lord drank down the beer, took another, then another.

“Well,” Chet said. “I ain’t gonna sit here and let them drink this place dry on their own.” He grabbed a pitcher of beer, rounded up a few glasses, and filled them up, handing one to Isabel, Jesse, and to Vernon. Isabel dragged Wipi and Nipi over, shoved a beer into each of their hands. “Come on, time to enjoy yourselves a little.”

The Yule Lord grabbed two women from the bar, hooked his arms into theirs, and began to dance. Both of the women squealed, and a loud hoot went up from the crowd and soon more women joined in. Krampus swung from arm to arm, a sort of square-dance jig. The tavern erupted in howls. The band broke into “Muleskinner Blues,” kicking up the tempo and really belting it out. More and more folks joined in until the entire dance floor was full of men and women hooting, hollering, clogging, and acting like fools.

Drinks were spilled, tables and chairs knocked over, but Krampus’s spirited laughter could be heard above all the ruckus, a booming sound that warmed the heart. Jesse had never seen this side of the Yule Lord, and it occurred to him that he was seeing the real Krampus, the Krampus of ancient times, the great and wild Yule spirit that galvanized mankind to brave the darkest primeval nights, kindled their will to survive the trials of the harshest winters. He could almost see the horned beast dancing this very jig within the communal houses of primitive man. Jesse saw the way the people fed on Krampus’s spirit, and how, in turn, Krampus fed on theirs. And understood now just why those shoes, with their small tribute of candies, meant so much to the Yule Lord. That what Krampus needed more than anything was a flock to shepherd, to protect and inspire. Jesse found he was tapping his toes and smiling, that he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help but get caught up in the fervor.

“Well, I’ll be damn,” Chet grumbled. “Everyone’s sure in a good goddamn mood. I was hoping to see the old goat take a few in the stomach, not prance around like a mountain troll.”

“I commiserate with you wholeheartedly, chum,” Vernon said. “Who would’ve guessed a bit of candy was all it would take to turn Old Tall and Ugly around.”

“That was a whole hell of a lot more than a piece of candy to Krampus,” Isabel said. “I think that was his validation, proof that his spirit has truly returned to this here world.”

“Hey look.” Vernon pointed and let out a laugh. Wipi and Nipi were out on the dance floor, stomping their feet with the best of them.

“Sure look to be having a blast,” Isabel said.

Vernon stood, extended his arm to Isabel. “Shall we?”

Isabel lit up with a big smile. “Heck yeah!” She hooked her arm in his and the two sauntered out onto the floor.

Jesse glanced at Chet. “You see that?”

“See what?”

“Over there. That guy, the one with the red bandanna.” Jesse nodded to a bearded biker with an impressive paunch, kicking up his heels on the floor. “He’s had his eye on you since you walked in.”

“What? So?”

“So? So? Are you blind? I believe he wants to dance with you.”

“Fuck you, Jesse. Why’d you always gotta be such a dickhole?”

Jesse laughed, and it felt good to laugh. He leaned back against the bar and watched Isabel dance. She danced really nice, a lot like Linda used to. Jesse thought of all the nights Linda and him had danced together and slowly his smile faded. He ached to hear her laugh again like in the old days, to feel her close to him as they slow-danced, and there, surrounded in a sea of smiles, laughter, and cheer, Jesse felt completely alone.

“I miss Trish,” Chet said, looking fairly miserable. “Sure wish she were here to dance with.” Hearing Chet voice his same sentiment startled Jesse, then he noticed the way Chet watched the couples, the longing in his eye—wasn’t too hard to understand.

“Fuck,” Chet said. “Swear to God, if I ever get out of this mess, gonna do right by her. Sure as hell I am.”

Jesse nodded, took a long swig, and lost himself in thoughts of what he’d do if he ever got free.

Krampus appeared in front of him, holding a guitar. Jesse blinked as though awakened from a snooze. Krampus held the guitar out to him. “Come, music man. Play me a song.”

Jesse stared at the guitar as though it might bite him. “No, that ain’t happening.”

Krampus took a seat next to him. “I would like to hear you sing.”

“No, I told you I was done with that.”

“Jesse, what do you believe in?”

“Krampus, we’ve already been over this. I told you I don’t believe in nothing.”

“No, that wasn’t what you said. You said you didn’t know.”

Jesse shrugged.

“Well, I do know,” Krampus said. “You believe in music. It is at the heart of you.”

“No, I’m done with music.”

“You can never be done with music. No more than you can be done with breathing. The day you quit is the day you die.”

“Krampus, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you don’t seem to understand . . . I got other things on my mind and—”

“I know, the Dillard. We will go and take care of him.”

“You done said that before.”

“Jesse, if you will get up there and play me a couple of songs, then I give you my solemn word that we will leave this place and go kill that bad man.”

Jesse stared at Krampus. “Is that the drink talking or do you mean it?”

He met Jesse’s eyes, held them. “You have my oath as Yule Lord.”

Jesse scrutinized his face a moment longer, saw that the creature indeed meant it, at least at this moment he did, and Jesse decided that was the best he was going to get. Jesse stood and took the guitar. He skirted the dance floor and waited on the side of the stage for the band to finish up their song. When they did, he asked if they’d like to take a break and get a beer, then stepped up onto the stage.

All eyes fell on him and he felt sure they could see right through him, could see that he just didn’t add up. Jesse slipped the guitar strap over his shoulder, strummed the strings, twisting the keys, pretending to tune the guitar while trying to get a handle on his nerves. He adjusted the mic and looked out over the crowd, unable to shake the feeling he had no business on stage. He swallowed, started to say something, then forgot what it was.

“You gonna sing or just gawk at us like a chicken?” a woman shouted and everyone laughed.

“Like to . . . share a little number . . . with you,” he stammered. “Something I came up with a while back. It’s called . . . ‘Night Train.’ ”

He hit the strings, caught a few sour notes. Stopped.

“Next!” someone cried, followed by a few boos.

“Sorry about that . . . been a little while.”

People began turning away, laughing and cutting up, drifting back toward the bar for more drinks.

Jesse’s chest tightened. Who am I fooling? He made himself start up again, hit a few more sour notes, but this time kept going. His fingers were still a bit stiff, but he knew that wasn’t the problem. He began to sing, his voice stale, he could hear it, could see it on their faces.

People shook their heads, a few put their hands over their ears, laughing, laughing at his singing. Jesse caught Krampus watching him from the bar, the Yule Lord’s eyes steady and intense. Krampus spoke, and even though there was no way Jesse could’ve heard him across the crowd, he did, actually feeling it more than hearing it, deep down inside of him. “Free your spirit.”

It was silly nonsense, but Jesse closed his eyes, tried to forget the crowd, concentrated on his music. Slowly the din of the crowd faded and it was just him and his guitar, alone, just like in his room. The tension melted away, the stiffness left his hands, his fingers found the right chords, and he began to sing, to really sing.

It was an up tempo number, a song about a man running away from his mean, mean woman. About a minute into the song the music came alive, the melody and notes became so clear he could almost see them. The music flowed through him, felt more like he was weaving a spell than performing a song, and he strummed the guitar hard and fast as though meaning to tear loose the strings. He finished the first song and went right into the next, and then another. And it was as though someone had pulled cotton from his ears and he was hearing his own music, his own voice, for the first time. He wasn’t sure if it had something to do with the spell Krampus had woven about the tavern or his heightened senses as a Belsnickel, or maybe a little of both, but what mattered was that he liked what he was hearing just fine. Decided his songs weren’t half bad after all, were quite good, actually.

Jesse opened his eyes and found the crowd thought so as well, folks no longer cutting up but watching him, marking the beat, and moving to the rhythm. He’d never felt such a connection with an audience, it was as though he was touching their souls. He saw Krampus grinning at him and knew then that the Yule Lord was right, he could no more quit music than breathing, and while he needed air to live, he needed music to truly be alive. He stamped his boot with the beat, shouted and yowled with the best of them, sang on and on, his voice clear and strong, the music lifting him higher and higher.

Krampus moved among them, bopping and clapping in time. A deep hum arose from the crowd, a warm sound, almost a purr. The music took on a life of its own, the melody of his song fading as he strummed the guitar to some distant, primitive beat. Krampus began to chant and the crowd joined in. Jesse found himself chanting along, his song forgotten, babbling without meaning, only feelings. At some point the band had joined in and the pounding of drums and deep pluck of the standup bass swelled, setting the pulse. Every person in the hall moved out onto the floor romping, dancing, and stomping to the beat. They nodded and swayed, eyes half closed as though in a trance.

The primal rhythm grew, filled Jesse from head to toe, to his very core. The crowd pushed together, forming a wide circle, hands on the hips of the person in front of them. Krampus headed the parade, circling round and round the hall, the two women from the bar holding on to his tail, laughing and stumbling after him. The beat continued to rise as though a hundred drums had joined them. Jesse felt cocooned in the warm cacophony of sound. The hall grew murky and the lights flickered like flame, sending a host of shadows dancing across the wall and ceiling, the shapes of men and woman hopping and prancing. Jesse blinked, saw some with horns and tails, then beasts, stags, bears, and wolves all swirling together across the walls like ancient cave paintings come to life.

At some point Jesse must have joined in, because he found himself adrift in that sea of bodies, feeling as though floating in a dream. The drums were accompanied by hoots and howls, not just those of the men and women, but bleating, braying, growls and howls. He heard his heartbeat, then the heartbeat of all those around him, they fell in sync to the rhythm, and he understood it was not drums he was hearing but the pulse of life itself, of Mother Earth. It pumped through him, a sensation of purest joy, and he saw how he was part of this pulse. How he truly belonged. An overwhelming affection for those near him, for life, for all life swelled in his chest.

The heartbeat hammered on, the dancers broke from the circle and began writhing and grinding together, it seemed there were more and more people in the room, many wearing bones, half-dressed or nude, some wearing masks and covered in ash and paint. At one point Jesse found himself in the clutches of a woman, his hands on her bare sweaty hips, her tongue in his mouth. She smelled of honeysuckle, had pointy ears, and—he blinked—there were small antlers growing from the top of her head. She spun away from him and a moment later he held the fore-hooves of a goat, the beast swirled him around, laughing, its yellow eyes full of mirth. Jesse laughed right along with it.

Outside the revelers, within the deepest shadows, Jesse perceived other shapes, shapes of things he’d never seen before, yet some deep part of him recognized. He shivered. They, too, seemed drawn to the heartbeat, but, Jesse sensed, for a different purpose. The shapes watched them reproachfully, but none entered the circle of light, ducking away as though in pain each time Krampus laughed or bellowed.

Krampus began to chant again, and they all joined in, laughing, drinking, whistling, shouting, and swirling into one another, all of them drunk on his spirit. Jesse had no idea how long this went on, only that at some point he collapsed and either fell asleep or lost consciousness.

SOMEONE SHOOK JESSE awake. He opened his eyes and found Krampus grinning down at him. Jesse looked about at the sleeping, snoring bodies. They lay everywhere, some curled up together right on the dance floor, others draped across the bar, tables, and benches. He searched for the woman with the antlers, found no sign of her, or the wild, painted people either, or any of the other strange beasts.

“It is time to go put things right with the Dillard. Are you ready?”

Jesse sat up quick, nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’m ready.”

Krampus’s grin widened, a dangerous, toothy smile. “Then let us go and be terrible.”

They headed outside, the chill helping to wake Jesse up. He stumbled after Krampus, feeling light-headed. The rest of the Belsnickels sat waiting in the sleigh, looking exhausted but happy and content, even Vernon.

A ghost of a dawn showed along the ridge line. Jesse stopped in his tracks.

A bear sat in the snow beside the sleigh. A very big bear.

Jesse started to point this out when he noticed the three deer standing next to the bear. He glanced around, saw more deer, another bear, raccoons, a fox, rabbits, animals of all sorts. They were gathered around the tavern. He also noticed that much of the snow and ice around the tavern had melted away, leaving a broad swath of exposed earth. Here and there new grass sprouted, leaves and fresh buds bloomed from the nearby trees, even a few fresh flowers peppered the landscape.

Jesse glanced at Krampus.

Krampus shrugged. “We sang to Mother Earth last night. She heard us.” He plucked a flower from the snow, sniffed it. “And this with the spirit of just a handful of drunks. Imagine . . . imagine what we might do with a thousand voices, a hundred thousand, a million.”