The Christmas Megapack Page 11

  “It is often cited as the longest word in the English language, but there are longer ones. I can tell you are no science-fiction fan—Robert A. Heinlein used a variation of the word floccinaucinihilipilificatrix in his book The Number of the Beast. I wish Heinlein would have came down to hell, but he went up to heaven—hell is for horror writers and heaven is for sci-fi writers. Well, at least we still have Edgar Allan Poe,” the devil said with a laugh.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “It is an easy word, that comes up in everyday conversation—it is so easy that even a fifth grader should know it.”

  “I am in fifth grade and I never heard of it,” Danny said. “What does it mean?”

  Satan sighed. “It means to make something out to be useless or irrelevant by depreciation—like that last question you asked.”

  “This is just a guess—f-l-o-c-c-i-n-a-u-c-i-n-i-h-i-l-i-p-i-l-i-f-i-c-a-t-i-o-n.”

  “That is a hell of a guess. And it is correct. Are you being coached by the big guy upstairs?” he points to the ceiling.

  “My dad?”

  “Never mind. If the last word was spelled correctly, you will win this contest and probably win any game of Scrabble. The word is,” Satan cleared his throat. “The word is pseudohypoparathyroidism.”

  “Can you use it in a sentence.”

  “Yes, if you don’t spell pseudohypoparathyroidism correct, I will get your soul.”

  Danny paused and thought about it. “That’s a hard one.”

  “Chop-chop, I have other souls to collect.”

  “I’ll give it a shot—p-s-e-u-d-o-h-y-p-o-p-a-r-a-t-h-y-r-o-i-d-i-s-m.”

  Satan’s wicked smile quickly turned into a frown. “Young Danny Webster, you are a walking dictionary.”

  “Well, that is what I want to be when I grow up, an author of a dictionary.”

  “You won.”

  “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!!!”

  Then Satan took out his soul-sucking vacuum cleaner and put it in front of Danny’s face.

  “But I won,” Danny cried out.

  “Sorry kid, I don’t play fair.” Satan then flicked the switch; in a matter of seconds Danny’s soul was sucked up. He emptied the soul into his black bag.

  Danny crumbled into dust and the Devil vacuumed up the dust. He then grabbed his black bag and crawled back up the chimney. It was a Hell of a Christmas after all.

  THE CHRISTMAS BANE, by S. Clayton Rhodes

  Lefty Bohach lay on his back staring at the empty bunk above him, wishing for a smoke.

  The only thing breaking the silence was the scuff of footsteps coming down the short hallway.

  “How ya doin’, Myron?” Beyond the cream-painted bars Carbon Hill’s Chief of Police, Dalton Strecker, pulled up a chair. The grate of wooden legs on tile was like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Name’s Lefty,” Bohach corrected.

  “Oh, yeah. Lefty. Tough guy like you, course you gotta have a good, strong name.”

  “’S’right,” Lefty agreed, hoping the cop was finished but somehow knowing he wasn’t.

  Strecker leaned forward. “Tell me something, Bohach, you ever consider another line of work?”

  Sensing this wasn’t going to end any time soon, Lefty sat up and gulped from the mostly cold cup of coffee from the sink edge.

  “See, I been lookin’ at your record. Printed out your whole life story.” Strecker snapped the manila file with the back of one hand. “Every convenience store you knocked over, every car you heisted, all the times you were picked up for possession, it’s all here.”

  “I’m sure there’s a point to this.”

  “Sure. The point is sewer water always runs deep.” The cop let loose a laugh every bit as grating as the scraping chair legs had been a moment before. “Seriously, though, this file...it paints a picture. It says, ‘Strecker, this here’s one hapless crook who couldn’t do worse if he tried.’”

  An understatement if ever there was one, Lefty had to admit. He’d been passing through town this morning and what should happen but they stopped him for a busted brake-light, of all things. When the patrolman called in, dispatch ran a routine check and learned Lefty was wanted for a whole slew of misdemeanors. These were in addition, of course, to the two counts of armed robbery. He was promptly put on ice until he could be transferred after the holiday.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Strecker went on, “they’da nabbed you sooner or later if not here. Guys like you always trip up.”

  Lefty pretended to inspect a hangnail. Maybe if he continued acting bored, Strecker would eventually get the hint. No such luck. The cop kept yakking until Lefty finally lost it and told him to piss off.

  “Easy, tiger. Just making conversation. Still, I do hafta wonder...with all the times you’ve been caught, jailed, and let back out, did it ever cross your mind there could be an easier way to make a buck?”

  In addition to getting under Lefty’s skin, the cop had an uncanny talent for zeroing in on the sore spots. “I, I don’t know how to do anything.” Lefty instantly hated himself for showing any sign of weakness.

  Strecker laughed again—that rattling, gut-busting laughter. “Well, isn’t that the saddest thing? You can’t learn to push a mop, so you fall into a life of crime.

  Chowtime’s in twenty, slick. Have any special requests for your Christmas Eve dinner, seeing as how it may be your last?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I’ll bring you something nice.”

  * * * *

  The “something nice” turned out to be a two-piece meal from KFC. The chicken was stringy, the biscuit dry. Lefty flushed the potatoes, which were as tasty as wallpaper paste, down the toilet.

  Later, a little after ten o’clock, based on the bonging of the courthouse tower clock, Strecker returned. He snapped on the corridor lights and brought the chair close again.

  Lefty squinted his eyes against the fluorescent glare. “What, are you bored or something, Chief? Why you keep pestering me?”

  Strecker grinned. “Okay, I admit I mighta been a little hard on you earlier, but my point remains. Consider redeeming yourself, Bohach. Turn yourself around before it’s too late.”

  “I’ll agree to anything. Just lemme get some sleep, willya?”

  Strecker ignored the comment, instead saying, “Ever hear of a fella by the name of Krampus?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Thought as much.” The manila file with Lefty’s rap sheet Strecker had held before had been replaced by a worn leather book, which the police chief slid through the bars. “Have yourself a looksee.”

  It was a scrapbook, and the spine cracked when Lefty opened it. Inside was a real treat. Beneath the protective sheeting were pages of postcards yellowed with age, colored prints, and sketches. And every image contained some form of devilish creature.

  “That fella there,” Strecker continued once Lefty had his initial glance, “is Krampus. Sometimes called Black Peter, Black Rupert, and a slew of other names.”

  Lefty continued leafing through. The cards were clearly Christmas in nature but in each one the hairy demon was present. The interpretations varied, but on a few details all the artists were consistent. He had the hindquarters of a goat, a long tail, curving horns, and eyes shining like lamps. In most cases, he was threatening children or brandishing switches.

  Strecker scratched a slack jaw then attempted an explanation. “I’ve been researching this guy for a while now. Not a lot to be found out, either. What I have gathered is that Christmas is a constantly evolving holiday. And more has been forgotten than has been kept. It began as a pagan celebration—this was before the church got involved. To get the unwashed masses on board with the idea of organized religion, the Church says, ‘Okay, y’all can keep your winter solstice, so long as when you celebrate you honor the birthday of our Lord and Savior.’ The Roman Catholics set it for December sixth, the day the real St. Nicholas died—the one who lived in Turkey, not the one sha
king bells for The Salvation Army. The Protestants eventually moved things to the twenty-fifth. As for Krampus, some European traditions say he was St. Nicholas’ dark servant, while others suggest they’re flip sides of the same coin.”

  Lefty cleared his throat and said, “Look, Strecker, don’t you have some place to be Christmas Eve?”

  Again Strecker’s face broke into a grin. “Kid, you may think this is some kinda funny, but I’m doing you a favor. Remember I said I was here about your redemption? We’ll see if you have the brains to do the right thing once I’m done.”

  An ice storm had moved in an hour or so before, and sleet chattered at the thick glass and heavy-gauge mesh within the window overhead. Having seen enough of the book, Lefty passed it back through the bars.

  Strecker flipped through the album, stopping at one particular page and turning it around for Lefty to see. “Look here. A perfect example of Krampus’ relationship to Christmas.”

  In the picture was an old-fashioned St. Nicholas, looking suitably bishop-like in his pointy hat and white robes and giving out sweet rolls to the penitent children. Meanwhile the decidedly evil-looking Krampus waited just outside the doorway for his turn at the not-so-good children cowering beneath a table. On another postcard, the demon had a wicker basket strapped to his back, and in the basket a distressed toddler thrashed. The ground beneath them gave way to a chasm of flames—presumably the way to hell.

  Strecker offered Bohach a smoke and Lefty cupped the Camel tip to flame.

  “You sure those pictures are legit?” Lefty wondered, waving out the single match. “I mean, how come I never heard anything about this Krampus ’til now?”

  “The Christians of the late 1800s kept their kids in line with threats of Krampus coming for their souls. I suppose by and by folks got to thinking a devil coming to Christmas was unsettling for anyone’s holiday, and he fell by the wayside. If you’ve ever heard about Santa Claus leaving switches instead of toys for the bad kids, it started here. A holdover from the Krampus days.”

  Lefty blew smoke at the bars. “I appreciate all this, Chief, don’t think I don’t. Christ, there’s nothin’ I like better than bein’ woke up to hear some good ole-fashioned fairytales. But I just don’t get it. First you say you’re here about my redemption then you show me pictures of Satan’s second cousin. What gives?”

  Strecker smiled. “I did promise we’d talk about your salvation, Bohach, and we’re almost there. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers. “Just stay with me a bit longer, okay?”

  Lefty spread his hands and said around the cigarette, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

  Strecker nodded. “As it happens, we got our own version of Krampus right here in Carbon Hill. Only we call him the Christmas Bane.” He must have seen Lefty’s eyebrows raise because he said, “That’s right. You’re probably thinking, ‘Crazy old cop, now I know you’ve gone round the bend,’ but it’s true. Near as I can tell, he showed up in the late 1950’s, ’bout the time the coal mine petered out. A widow woman was first to see him. Spied the old boy from her bedroom window one Christmas Eve, traipsing past her house going on midnight. He had, she said, eyes big as saucers and a headfull o’ teeth like fence pickets. Goat-hoof feet clomping through the snow, and a long, ratty tail whooshing behind him. Come morning, everyone learned some old geezer on Route 21 bought the farm. Then the widow spilled the beans on what she saw. Everyone thought her tree was a few apples short of a bushel, let me tell ya. Until the next Christmas, that is.”

  The chief went on to say how more people spotted the Christmas Bane over the years, and on each yuletide season since some hapless soul would be found dead in his bed, asphyxiated by a gas leak or electrocuted from a freak mishap with the tree lights. Folks didn’t know what he was or where he came from, but they got into the habit of putting out plates of food on their front stoops as sort of an offering. ‘Eat this food and not my soul,’ must have been the message they hoped to convey. According to Strecker, it must have worked, too. But the folks who had a black spot on their soul and didn’t believe in the Christmas Bane or left no offering...those were the folks who were likely to be singled out.

  Lefty laughed a little. The police chief did spin an interesting yarn, and his Satanic scrap-book was a great visual aid. “And you figure this local bogey will set his sights on me tonight?”

  Strecker didn’t bat an eye. “I figure it’s a good bet, and I suggest keeping an open mind on this. Could save your skin.”

  “All right,” Lefty said. “If Krampus and your Christmas Bane are one and the same, where’s he been between the time these cards were printed and the fifties?”

  “Good question, and don’t think I haven’t studied on it some. The way I see it, every legend or myth must grow out of some germ of truth. You just gotta know where to separate the wheat from the chaff. Don’t you ever get the feeling there’s a presence at Christmas time? People talk about the Christmas spirit, but maybe it’s more than a mood. Maybe it’s like in that Dickens story, where there’s a ghost of Christmas. And maybe there’s a bad spirit, as well as the good. You can’t have one without the other.”

  Lefty shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Sure. And they stopped printing the cards and things with Krampus on them. If people didn’t think about him, seems to me that would drain his power down a mite? So he slinks off somewhere to hide. And where does he go?”

  “To Carbon Hill,” Lefty ventured a guess.

  “Exactly!” Strecker grinned again. “Maybe you’re not so stupid after all. This place is known as the town that was built on coal. The mine tunnels go way into the hills. Perfect place for the likes of Krampus to hole up and wait for folks to start believing again. And maybe before the coal ran dry, the miners tunneled a bit too deep.”

  “And just maybe they woke up your Christmas Bane?”

  “Give the boy a gold star, yes! It coulda happened that way. Why not?” Then Strecker unsnapped his breast pocket and brought out a cellophane-wrapped cheese Danish. “Figured I’d do my Christianly duty, tell you the score and bring you this. Something to offer to the Christmas Bane tonight. You unwrap this and stick it outside your cell before you hit the sack and you should be fine.”

  Lefty shook his head. “You’re serious. You really believe this crap?”

  “Look, Bohach, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Yeah, there have been a lot of people who’ve seen this jake at one time or another. Upright citizens I have no reason to doubt. But it’s up to you to weigh what I told you and decide for yourself.”

  Lefty shook his head. “Sounds like a buncha townies scarin’ one another. What do they call it...mass hysteria?”

  Strecker’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Could be, but are you willing to take that chance?” He shoved the Danish through, but since Lefty didn’t reach for it, it fell to the cell floor. “Do what you like. Leastways I’ll be able to sleep now that I done my good deed.”

  With exaggerated purpose, Lefty picked up the pastry, walked to the wastebasket, and dropped it in.

  “Suit yourself,” Strecker said. He checked his watch. “Ten-thirty-five. Guess that gives you just shy of an hour and a half to repent or leave out some food. But I don’t reckon you’ll do, either. Headin’ out now. The sergeant’ll look in on you from time to time. Been nice knowin’ you, Bohach.”

  He gave Lefty a final cigarette and one match to light it—one last smoke for the condemned man.

  The fire door slammed shut and the overhead lights winked out.

  * * * *

  In the darkness of his cell, Lefty listened to the wind howl outside. The furnace vents weren’t kicking out heat like they should, so he pulled the second blanket up to his chin. And he mulled over all that Strecker had told him about Carbon Hill’s seasonal bogeyman.

  Crazy stuff, sure, but he couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t hurt to leave out a little food and honor the local tradition. It wouldn’t mean he bought into it or anything like that. It would be mo
re like knocking on wood or sidestepping a ladder. When in Hicksville, why not do as the hicks?

  In spite of his previous brave front, Lefty felt around in the darkness, then took the Danish out of the wastebasket. He also fumbled around for the greasy paper plate he’d eaten his dinner off of. He popped open the cellophane of the pastry, laid it on the paper plate, and arranged everything beyond the cell bars. Then he licked the icing from his fingers and lay back on the cot.

  It was only through the thin beginnings of sleep that he later heard the courthouse clock strike eleven.

  * * * *

  “Whazzat?”

  Lefty awakened with the sensation that someone was close by. It was as though the someone was staring at him.

  He would have shrugged it off if not for the thick, nasally breathing coming from beyond the cell bars. The fog of sleep lifted as Lefty thought, It’s that desk sergeant come for a bed check. That’s all.

  But no flashlight swept over his cell, and after a moment or two, there came a clicking sound.

  As of hooves clomping on the linoleum.

  The Christmas Bane? Lefty thought. No friggin’ way....

  And yet whoever was standing beyond the cell door squatted down, groping at the Danish. Lefty’s pulse elevated slightly at the idea of what might be in the darkness with only a few metal bars separating them.

  Then came the sound of the Danish being slurped down.

  Lefty drew away from the bars. He could almost sense the stranger’s head swiveling at the rustle of blankets.

  But he knew there was no such thing as the Christmas Bane. No how. No way. Had to be that Strecker’s idea of a joke. Get the prisoner riled with some outlandish tale then scare the cheese out of him later. Well, Lefty Bohach wasn’t a guy to be played. He searched his pocket for the match Strecker had left him. It didn’t light right off. Not on the first or second try. But on the third, the flame threw a small glow within the cell.

  And beyond the rungs was a face, which looked as though it hadn’t seen the light of day for years. It also had curving horns and a head-full of picket teeth.