Krampus: The Yule Lord (38 page)

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.”

M
ARGRET
D
OTSON 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.

L
INDA 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.

I
SABEL PULLED
L
ACY
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.”