Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus (10 page)

Henry would leave the room when he was told, but sometimes Clara showed a decidedly independent tendency to disobey. “Do you remember who comes to visit naughty children, Clara?” Clara would reply when called by name, however, and there was no reply. There was only silence. “Who is there?” Mr. Pennyrake demanded, beginning to feel rather aggrieved.

There was another sound then, a deep rumble, as if a bear had somehow learned to purr. Mr. Pennyrake, about to turn round, suddenly found he was not at all inclined to see who or what was behind him. He asked again, “Who is there?”

The rumble repeated, and the fire seemed to tremble in the grate. There was a voice behind him. “Shall we have a guessing game?” it said. It was an extraordinary voice, like thunder speaking. It sounded as though it came from a mouth unaccustomed to forming words of any sort, let alone English ones. “Someone here has done wrong.” Mr. Pennyrake felt a sort of warmth, a presence behind him.

The voice continued. “It is time for my Christmas visit.” Now Mr. Pennyrake, frozen to his seat, heard a scraping against the wood of his chair beside his shoulder.

The voice was closer to him now, as was the scent of fur and burning leaves, creeping round his chair like tendrils of fog. “And I am not your uncle.”

Mr. Pennyrake vainly searched his thoughts for an appropriate response. Somehow he doubted that telling this creature, whatever it was, that he did not believe in it and had only told his children that story to frighten them into proper behavior would be well received. He fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his cheeks. “Yes, of course,” he said, with a bit of a crack in his voice, “I am most indebted to you, to be sure. But I flatter myself I have the matter well in hand.”

This time Mr. Pennyrake could feel the vibrations of the wild rumble through his chair. “I am not required,” the voice said, only the hint of a question in its inflection.

Mr. Pennyrake was not at all desirous of giving offense to this being. “I am loath to take up your valuable time on such a trivial matter as this, if you take my meaning. I am sure you will forgive…” his words were extinguished as he felt his hair being disturbed by a snorting and snuffling all round his head, as if he were the Christmas turkey, being sniffed to see if he were cooked through.

“But I have come,” said the voice. “An example must be made.”

“It is just what I say myself,” said Mr. Pennyrake, and he attempted a chuckle, but it died upon his lips as he saw something he hadn’t before. There was a basket, sitting directly next to the fire. He felt quite sure he didn’t own a basket so large as that. “But perhaps I could simply tell the children you were here, and there would be no need for that.” His arm feebly indicated the basket.

“I will not leave with nothing.” The voice was soft, and yet it filled the room. As his mouth was too dry to speak, Mr. Pennyrake took a moment to consider. He eyed the basket, wondering which of his children this creature intended to take. Clara was the most trying to his patience as a rule, but then again, as son and heir, Henry was so far proving a bit of a disappointment. He supposed Mrs. Pennyrake would find it an inconvenience to replace either one of them.

Behind him he could hear the creature breathing. The breaths sounded as if they came from very large lungs indeed. Perhaps it would be best to let the creature make up its own mind. In fact, the basket was sizable enough to hold both children, quite easily. The breathing sound drew closer, as did that animal smell.

Mr. Pennyrake ran his tongue over dry lips. “I’ll just fetch them then.” He ventured to stand, praying his legs would hold him as far as the door, but a weight on one shoulder pressed him slowly back into his chair, squeezing with an uncanny strength. The sound of the creature’s breathing seeped into Mr. Pennyrake’s ears and mouth and all the spaces between his clothes and his skin.

The rumble behind him grew so loud Mr. Pennyrake thought (and, be it admitted, ardently hoped) that the noise would rouse the house. “The young will be thoughtless,” said the voice. “They will disobey, they may even be naughty. But only those old enough to know better can be truly,” the breath was hot on his cheek, smelling of wood smoke and pine forests, “truly wicked.” The fire guttered as if a gale were blowing though the room. Mr. Pennyrake began to shrink down into his chair, but he was caught by something sharp and claw-like biting into his shoulders. He sat, immobile, as something warm, wet, and rough dragged itself across his face from chin to eyebrow.

The fire suddenly leapt high and roared in the grate, and for an instant the massive shape of something horned and hairy loomed before Mr. Pennyrake’s vision. Then the fire died all at once, as if snuffed like a candle, and Mr. Pennyrake was swallowed by the dark. Now there was nothing but the voice, spreading into his lungs, filling them up until he could barely breathe. “I have not come for your children,” it said, lower than a whisper. “I have come for you.”

* * *

Mrs. Pennyrake knelt down, surveying her children in their Christmas finery. She straightened Clara’s sash and smoothed a lock of Henry’s hair from his forehead. Then she gave them each an approving kiss. “Jane will fetch you when all our company has arrived,” she told them. “And remember, no asking for presents, but say thank you if you receive any.” At this point, the children resumed bounding about the nursery in their excitement as Mrs. Pennyrake descended the stairs, musing to herself. How very changed they both were. Henry had been dry so long she had at last had a pair of short trousers made for him, and he was quite puffed up with the responsibility of being the man of the house. And Clara, too, was growing into a pleasant companion who occasionally let others get a word into the conversation.

Mrs. Pennyrake felt a lightness of heart she could not in any way account for. Everyone had been so kind, that much was true. The servants had done everything they could to ease her mind. Jane in particular had been invaluable. Though she could not explain it, maids had never stayed long in her employ before, especially ones as pretty as Jane. But with Jane managing the house, Mrs. Pennyrake had met the challenges of her husband’s mysterious disappearance the best she could. People calling to see her and attempting to pay back money they owed Mr. Pennyrake caused her the most distress. She refused to allow anyone to make her any repayment, for it seemed she had plenty of money, far more, in fact, than she had ever imagined. Truth be told, she began to think she had no idea what sort of occupation her husband had practiced at all. He had always told her he performed a valuable service, but Mrs. Pennyrake could not understand how it could be valuable when these poor individuals came worriedly, even tearfully, to her door to ask, even beg, to be given more time to honor their agreements with her husband.

She had met the most agreeable people in this manner, however. There was Mr. Youngson, for example, who always played at cards, but never gambled. Then there was Mrs. Arbuthnott and her family, who would be arriving any moment now. Mrs. Pennyrake could not think of any reason for a gentleman like her husband to keep a lady’s pearls in his desk drawer, and had given them back to Mrs. Arbuthnott straightaway. She was quite happy to promise to say nothing to Mr. Arbuthnott about the matter, and the two ladies had become great friends. Although, and perhaps Mrs. Pennyrake only imagined it, she always felt Mrs. Arbuthnott looked relieved when her inquiries about whether Mr. Pennyrake had been heard of were answered in the negative.

And of course, there was Mr. Redfern. Mr. Redfern had made himself indispensable in every way, helping her with the police inquiry or business matters, dropping round to keep her company, playing with the children; in short, doing any little thing for her happiness and comfort. But still, no one had heard from Mr. Pennyrake since a year ago this very night. No, she could not in any way account for her high spirits.

Mrs. Pennyrake heard the knocker just as she was passing the front door, so she called to Jane that she would answer it herself. There on the doorstep, a happy flush on his round face, was Mr. Redfern. Mrs. Pennyrake begged he should come inside and asked if she could take his hat. He gladly held it out, but did not relinquish it, and their fingers touched over the brim. Neither let go. “You are the first to arrive,” she told him. (He always was.) She took a breath, and spoke again. “Before the others arrive,” she said, examining his hat intently, “I hope you will allow me to tell you how very grateful I have been for your friendship this past year since…” she trailed off. She began again. “You know things have been difficult for us, Mr. Redfern. And I—”

Mr. Redfern pulled his hat a little closer to him and bent his head to the level of hers, hoping for a glimpse of that charming dimple which appeared on her cheek when she smiled. “Charlotte,” he said earnestly, “I do despair of you ever calling me Nicholas.”

At last she met his gaze, a blush suffusing her cheek. “Nicholas then,” she whispered, as she hung his hat on a hook beside the door. “Shall we go up?” As the two proceeded up the stairs to the drawing room, Mrs. Pennyrake smiled, just enough to provoke the appearance of the celebrated dimple, and she allowed Mr. Redfern to draw her arm through his. She was awfully fond of Christmas.

* * *

Lissa Sloan spent a year as book reviewer for Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poems and short stories are published or forthcoming in Enchanted Conversation and Specter Spectacular II: 13 Deathly Tales. She also writes and illustrates for younger readers.

Seventh Night of Krampus: “Santa Claus and the Little Girl Who Loved to Sing and Dance”

by Patrick Evans

Inspiration
: The first time Patrick Evans ever heard the name ‘Krampus’ was in this anthology’s call for submissions. It was obvious to him that Krampus was all the anger Santa Claus had been repressing for centuries. Nobody can be that relentlessly nice without eventually snapping and growing claws.

“My name is Kandi Kane and I’m eight years old,” she said. Her voice, with its studied lisp, oozed like icing onto a gingerbread house. “I’m a triple threat because I can sing, dance, and act, and everyone says I have perfect comic timing. Comic timing can’t be taught, you know.”

“My, but you’re a big girl, too,” Santa said, wincing in pain. Kandi had wrapped her python of an arm around his neck to prevent gravity from dragging her massive body off his lap. His bad hip was like a log in a fire, shot through with crackling red and yellow veins of flame.

It was late November. Santa’s mall tour.

Kandi gave him a flat look of frosty condemnation, her bleach-blonde ringlets framing a heavily made-up face whose features seemed altogether too tightly squeezed together into one tiny central region. “You’re Santa. You’re not allowed to call little girls fat,” Kandi said, one eyebrow arching. “You just damaged my self-esteem.”

Santa didn’t like thinking nasty thoughts but this time he couldn’t help himself. The girl’s face looked like an arsehole. Literally, an arsehole, a puckering little circle of nastiness in a fat pillow of butt cheek. Santa’s guts twisted at the very thought. It was a sign of how far he had fallen that he could make such a cruel observation about a child.

“I haven’t eaten a carbohydrate since I was six,” Kandi said, “but the fact is I’m big-boned, and big girls only get funny fat-kid supporting roles and that’s the tragedy of my existence, because I was born to be a leading lady. So you have to give me double this year for calling me a fatty.”

There was no way this kid was eight-years-old. Easily 11 or 12. Too old to be working him in a mall. Santa felt his pulse quicken with anger, and the fog—that infernal fog and the horrors it portended—rolled into his head again. Thickening.

Santa had been assured the fog was purely psychological. But he could actually feel it in his head, filling his skull, tickling the surface until it rolled over the inner surface of his eyes and obscured his vision. And the fog didn’t just dull his eyesight. It stole his omniscience. The longer distances were lost and he could no longer see who was naughty or nice. There, in his Enchanted Castle at the Rutherford Plaza, he could barely see the pimply teenage attendants the mall hired, with their skinny long legs in green elf-tights. He could barely see the long bloated lineup of impatient parents and screaming kids.

And then, as he felt Kandi squeeze him harder, pressing her cheek to his and smiling brilliantly, the grey pall over his eyes was torn by three blinding flashes of light in quick succession.

A large woman stood at the foot of his throne. She was an adult version of Kandi. She wore her hair the same way, only her face was lined with age and worry. She was conducting three men, hired professional photographers, who were positioned around the throne. Two standing, one kneeling.

“Smile, Santa,” the woman called to him. “Keep smiling. Keep chatting. All very natural.” The cameras kept flashing.

Kandi grabbed Santa tighter, snuggling in, smiling brilliantly for the cameras as she spoke.

“You’ll be proud of me, Santa, because I don’t want any toys for Christmas this year,” Kandi said. “All I want is for you to break someone’s ankles.”

“Ho! You’re pulling Santa’s beard!”

“Hardly. Cyndy Symmons is the only kid in town who’s almost as good as me at jazz-tap, and we’re both auditioning for the Home Wholesalers commercial on Boxing Day. But she’s anorexic. I would be too if I didn’t retain water. The producers will think she’s prettier than me and she’ll get to play the dancing twist mop and I’ll be stuck playing the car tarp.”

The fog, recovering from the camera flashes, was thickening again.

Kandi was batting her eyelashes. “You don’t want me to be typecast as a car tarp for the rest of my career, do you, Santa, baby?”

Santa blinked his own eyes several times, but he couldn’t blink away the fog. “You—you say you want a car tarp for Christmas?”

Kandi’s lip, covered in frosted pink lipstick, curled.