Part 6 (1/2)
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What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?
A BRAND NEW CHRISTMAS.
Growing up, Christmas was never anything special-though I thought it should be. I usually got new socks (I don't complain about that as a gift anymore). My parents were lower-middle cla.s.s, my mom a physical therapist for the state, my dad a tool-and-die man. We lived in an old drafty house and I always ruined whatever present I got by sneaking a peek while they were working at some point shortly after Thanksgiving. Then I grew up, my brother and sister grew up, and our family stopped celebrating it together.
Not too long ago my mom retired and three months after had a stroke that threw her into a coma. It rattled us. Hard. It put things in perspective. It effing hurt. The whole family pulled together, and then a brand new Christmas was upon us. We cried a lot because she was still alive and we cried because she was different and we cried because all those years of distance and anger we all shared were for nothing-nothing-and such a waste of time when we looked at her there, with her troubled eyes, unable to form a coherent sentence, and frustrated with herself because she'd always been so strong-willed. But that Christmas was special despite how awkward it was. Very special.
So Christmas hadn't been all that great when I was a kid. Big deal? Not really. Through my twenties it was pretty much nonexistent as a family celebration. I was to blame for that too. But the tragedy that knocked my mother down, as horrible as it was, brought us together like never before. It was one of the best Christmases we've had because we were doing more than standing in the same room. We worked as a team to help her, we learned to give each other the gifts of time, compa.s.sion, understanding and love.
Not even Santa Claus can give you that.
And he has a sleigh and a bunch of little slaves.
-Lee Thompson.
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A KRAMPUS CHRISTMAS.
by Ryan Bridger.
Eric Errichson had been naughty this year.
He hadn't thought that stealing his sister's diary was all that terribly bad; and he had good reason to tape its pages to the lockers at school. She'd broken his bike first, after all, and on purpose.
Setting a tack on Sister Bridget's chair might have been what b.u.mped him off the ”nice” list any other Christmas season, but this was different: he was double dog dared. At that point it became about family honor, and that's not naughty at all.
And it couldn't have been the time when he rode his bike up through the neighborhood, smas.h.i.+ng mailboxes and breaking windows as he went-he'd brilliantly convinced everyone it had been Bryan Jacobi behind the spree.
Besides, all that happened back in September when the sky was still blue, but barely.
Maybe none of those things had done it. Or then again, maybe it was all of them combined, mixed with the other things he'd done and forgotten.
Whatever it was, Eric Errichson stood frozen in the living room, shaking and staring at the tall, goat-legged black thing that had emerged from the fireplace.
”h.e.l.lo,” the thing said. Its long, red tongue, hung low to the knees, wagged while he asked, ”Are you Eric Errichson?” He shook the rusty chains draped over his shoulders. Rusty bells attached to them sounded off in a cacophonic symphony.
Eric Errichson said nothing, but nodded.
”Good,” said the thing. ”Do you know who I am?”
He said nothing again, but shook his head. He felt something drip onto his bare feet, realized he'd wet his pants.
”I am Krampus,” the thing from the fireplace said. It bowed, showing the full curvature of his spiraled horns. His s.h.a.ggy, black fur blew in a phantom breeze.
”Oof!”
Eric's eyes shot back to the fireplace. A plump, red suited old man had fallen there, struggled out with a large sack of toys.
”Saint,” Krampus growled.
”Krampus,” Santa Claus nodded, patted the beast on the shoulder and moved past. He began to fill Evelyn Errichson's stocking with all manner of toys and trinkets.
”Santa?” sobbed Eric. ”Help me?”
”Can't do it, ho ho ho!” laughed Santa Claus. He wheeled around with a list in his hand, pointed somewhere in the middle. ”See? Eric Errichson, not on the nice list.” He quickly finished stuffing the stockings that didn't belong to Eric Errichson and disappeared up the chimney.
”h.e.l.lo, Eric,” rasped Krampus in a voice better suited for something dead.
”h.e.l.lo.”
Krampus swung a rusty chain, struck Eric in the jaw.
”Mom! Dad! Mom!” Eric tried screaming, but more blood spilled from his mouth than sound. Before he could count the teeth that fell on the floor, Krampus scooped him up and dropped him in an iron basket the giant goat-man had slung on his back.
Soon they were outside, and cold air helped put out the fire Eric felt inside his swollen mouth.
”Saint,” Krampus rumbled. Eric could feel hatred reverberate through the iron. ”Where now? Where next? Check your list!”
”Ho ho ho!” Eric heard through the howling wind.
”Check it twice!”
”Ho ho ho! Well, right over there! Another naughty one!”
”Good,” replied Krampus, and they were off.
”Hey!” Eric mumbled, trying his best to speak through the sun-hot pain. ”I want to go home!”
Eric didn't know how to describe Krampus' laughter, but he'd never forget it, as long as he lived-which he decided may not be very long.
”I'm taking you to h.e.l.l,” Krampus chuckled, ”Where they'll hurt you. Put things in your mouth and make you stand on things and fall off things. Stay in places and not let you in others. Say things to you or not say anything at all.”
”Cause I'm not on the list?”
”Cause you're not on the list.”
”Well, what about Bryan Jacobi?”
”Bryan Jacobi?”
”Yeah, the real a.s.s! Says mean things 'bout the sisters when they're not around. Poisoned a dog earlier this year, but he wasn't caught. Bragged to all of us about it, though! Beat up a first-grader, too. But he did it behind the dumpsters. Kid told his folks he fell or something. h.e.l.l, he even went around the neighborhood breaking mailboxes. Ain't that a federal crime or something? He on the list?”
”Where does he live?”