Twelfth Krampus Night (12 page)

“I specifically said ‘I came for that pompous perversion on the floor'. I didn't say I came
only
for him.” Perchta's blade slid over the ragged belly wound Beate inflicted on Karl.

He shook uncontrollably. “Please don't!”

“I was going to carve off your penis first, then your balls, and
then
gut you. You'd be praying for a needle through the cock by that point.”

Karl blubbered. “I promise I won't do it anymore! You can come for me if I do! I know you'll be able to find me! Please! Spare me!”

“Very well, I will.” She stowed her blades and walked to leave the churn tower.

“What?” Karl and Beate said it together.

“I'll admit it's tempting to finish you off now. But recent events have convinced me to spare you for a little while.”

Karl looked at Krampus. “
Him
?”

“No. I came here for Heinrich and Heinrich alone. But I agree with the frau. I have a hunch you won't rape anyone ever again.”

“It's time for you leave, Karl.” Perchta gestured to him and waved her hand forward. “After you!”

Karl took two steps toward the doorway. “You're not going to kill me from behind?”

“I give you my word, for what that's worth,” she cackled.

“And you only came here for Heinrich?”

“I already said that, Karl,” Krampus said. “How the master missed you is beyond me, but sometimes names slip through the cracks. I would've had
fun
with you.”

Karl then turned to Beate, who still held a knife. She answered before he spoke: “I've harmed you enough already, Karl.” She dropped the blade. “Your survival is in your hands.”

The younger lord smirked. “I can pretty much survive anything—if this day is any indication.”

Karl turned to exit and was met by Otto standing in the doorway. At first Karl thought himself rescued and then recalled what he'd said earlier.

He raised his hands for calm. “Otto, how long were you out there?”

“Long enough to say the day's not over yet, my lord.”

The broadsword-wielding knight, despite being cut, battered and bruised, nimbly moved and punched Karl in the gut, leaving him on the floor, breathless.

“Go, all of you.”

Perchta had already left. Beate tapped Krampus's leg to get his attention. “Don't kill him, please.”

“Thank you, Beate! I knew you'd forgive me!” Heinrich looked at Krampus's scowl, and then to his bride-to-be, who sported a similar visage.

“I asked him not to kill you, Heinrich,” she said. “I didn't say he couldn't
punish
you.”

Krampus chuckled and carried a whimpering Heinrich down the darkened stairwell.

Beate turned to Otto. “Now what do I do?”

The knight kicked Karl's face, laying him flat, and then pinned him with a heavy boot. “Stay here tonight. Go back to the village in the morning. Others will too. Travel in a group. I will come to check on you, although it may not be for several days. The baron
will
return, and he won't like what he finds here. But you're in no danger from anyone in the castle. I promise you that.”

“Thank you.”

Otto recalled the first time he'd seen Beate that morning, indifferent to the girl's plight, but no longer. “I know Gisela hurt you, but nothing justifies what happened to her. And Heinrich's piggish betrayal doesn't warrant murder either.”

She thought about it. “I don't think the Krampus will kill him. I hope he doesn't.”

Otto applied pressure to keep Karl still. “You're young, Beate. You'll find a deserving man.” He glared at the young lord, who appeared on the verge of hyperventilating. “So will my daughter.” Then to Beate, “Take time to grieve, wait for things to return to normal. A good life is still possible, despite all of this.”

She laughed to herself, an inexplicable cackle. “Normal? I relied on a lunatic harpy—my best friend's murderer—to save my life tonight. I gave a giant monster permission to beat up the man I had planned on marrying next week. I view everything that Heinrich, Gisela, Wilhelm and Karl did as immoral. But to those monsters—the Krampus and Perchta—all of that twisted behavior
is
normal. It's why they exist. I woke up this morning happy, blissfully unaware that everything around me was fraudulent. My
normal
life was a perception void of skepticism. Surviving Twelfth Night taught me I can't let that happen again, if I'm ever to trust anyone.” She smiled at the knight. “Thank you for your kindness. I don't mean to be dismissive.”

“I didn't take it that way. You should be on your way, though. Take care of yourself.
That
, I know you can do.”

“I appreciate that.”

She took her first step down the stairwell.

“Beate, wait.” Otto said. “You can do one more thing.”

She turned. “Yes?”

“You can say goodbye to Karl.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

A few days later.

The three of them spread a large piece of parchment across a flat stone that served as a table within a torchlit cave rarely seen by human eyes.

When one finished scouring the immaculately penned document, the reader gave a small, greasy candle to the next participant in line. And the process repeated itself twice more, leaving the contract checkered with wax droplets.

“Is everything in order?” the old man said.

“Yes, master.”

“Frau Perchta, are the terms to your liking?”

“Bavaria's mine except on December fifth, and on occasion December sixth, and if your hairy underling can't finish the job on either of those days, he waits until next year and doesn't rear his ugly head until the next December fifth. No exceptions. Is that what I'm reading?”

“Correct, and what will you do?” the old man said.

“If whichever miscreant your goon was after manages to elude him on December fifth or sixth, he'll let me know who—and if that same miscreant is on
my
list, I leave the wretch for Krampus to catch the next December.”

“Splendid.”

“And what if I cannot get one of
my
marks in January, and I provide you the name and that kid is on Krampus's list the following December?” she said. “Does Krampus leave that brat for me?”

The old man pointed at the contract. “Go to section B, subsection D—third paragraph.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes!” Perchta pored over the document, mumbling words as she read them, and then out loud: “It is left to the sole discretion of Saint Nicholas whether Krampus may pursue one of Perchta's failed attempts from the previous season, seeing that Perchta has twelve days to mete out punishment or reward, and Krampus only has, at most, two days.” She smirked, tapping her foot, ruminating over the terms. “Wait, why is it up to
you
?”

“The child who eluded you could redeem himself or herself the following year, and in such a case, the child might be on my list for reward. And I imagine if that is the case, you would consider slipping the child a coin. Am I right?”

“Well, that
rarely
ever happens,” she said. “Once bad, usually always bad.”

“There are exceptions,” the monster said.

“Nobody asked you!” She threw up her hands. “Okay, fine. Where do I sign?”

Krampus pushed her out of the way, pricked the pad of its forefinger with its thumbnail and scratched its name in blood across one of three blank lines.

“I
have
a pen.” The old man held up a quill feather.

“I've got work to do.” The monster pointed to a gagged, roped young man quivering in the cave's corner.

Perchta grinned. “I'll take the pen, thank you.” She watched Heinrich shake as she wrote her name.

The old man scribbled last and then rolled up the parchment and tucked it under his red robe. “Now then, do you need an escort out, Frau Perchta?”

“I can find my own way.” She fiendishly smiled at Heinrich and turned to Krampus. “Can I watch?”

The monster, not looking at her, slipped its ruten from the barrel on its back. “This is between me and him. And I will not begin until you leave.”

The old man gripped a long crosier and held out his hand. “Come, Frau Perchta, I shall accompany you.”

She grunted. “
Fine
. Maybe on the way out you can explain to me how you came across that big lummox. Was it like finding an abandoned puppy?”

The old man chuckled. “Not exactly, and I prefer to keep some things secret. Otherwise every saint would want one.”

She shook her head and walked beside the old man through a dark tunnel.

“Perchta.” The monster's voice reverberated around the walls.

She ducked back into the cave. “Yes?”

“I like you.”

“Well, isn't
that
sweet?” She waited for it to reply, but Krampus stayed focused on Heinrich, who'd closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. “Thank you. I suppose. And I agree with Beate. Do not kill him.”

Krampus looked at her. “Do you think it is okay if I eat some of him?”

Heinrich's eyes bugged out and darted back and forth from the monster to Perchta, who tilted her head, expressing
Really?
.

Unseen by Heinrich, Krampus gave her a quick wink.

“Oh, well if
that's
the case, his legs look scrumptious.” She cackled and left to catch up with the saint.

About the Author

Matt Manochio lives in New Jersey. You can learn more about him at
wwwMattManochio.com
.

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The Dark Servant

Sentinels

Santa's not the only one coming to town...

The Dark Servant

© 2014 Matt Manochio

It has tormented European children for centuries. Now America faces its wrath. Unsuspecting kids vanish as a blizzard crushes New Jersey. All that remains are signs of destruction—and bloody hoof prints stomped in the snow.

Seventeen-year-old Billy Schweitzer awakes on December 5 feeling depressed. Already feuding with his police chief father and golden boy older brother, Billy's devastated when his dream girl rejects him. When an unrelenting creature infiltrates his town, endangering his family and friends, Billy must overcome his own demons to understand why supposedly innocent high school students have been snatched, and how to rescue them from a famous saint's ruthless companion—that cannot be stopped.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Dark Servant:

December 5

Travis Reardon drove his Mazda CX-5 out of his parents' three-car garage and met the foggy darkness typical of his early morning drive to high school—yet the odor, slight but detectable even with the windows up, gave him pause.

The eighteen-year-old senior lowered his window to identify the smell. His new crossover's headlights were all that guided him down the windy driveway to Winchester Road. Streetlamps didn't exist in this densely wooded stretch of Hancock Township. It was one of the few places in rural New Jersey where light pollution didn't ruin starry skies.

“Gross” was all he said as he raised the window and continued his fifteen-minute commute to school. He reached into his book bag on the front seat for his iPhone and dialed his girlfriend. He put the phone on speaker and placed it on his lap.

“Hey, baby,” a female voice answered.

“You miss me?”

“Parts of you,” she purred. “You on your way?”

“As we speak. How 'bout you?”

“In my car, in the school parking lot. Waiting. I'll wander on over in, oh, just a little bit. I'll be cold, baby. My legs especially.”

“You minx. Any tests today that I can take your mind off of?”

“English, some Shakespearean Othello nonsense. God forbid we learn something that can actually help us succeed in the real world. Since when does knowing a few lines from some old play make you well-rounded? It's not like quoting Iago will help me land a job.”

“Unless you become an actress.”

“Hardy har. Any tests on your horizon?”

“I play football, honey. Tests don't mean dick. My throwing arm does. That's all Virginia Tech cares about right now.”

“So, it's Virginia Tech today? What happened to Boston College?”

“I go back and forth. It's a nice luxury to have when multiple schools offer you free rides. Christ, it
stinks
!”

“Excuse me?”

“Not
you
, baby. I've been on the road for like five minutes and there's this awful smell all over the woods. It keeps getting worse. Like something died.”

“I hope it doesn't stick to you. Sweaty can be sexy. Smelling like roadkill? Not so much.”

“It's just, I can't describe it. I hope whatever it is died quick.”

“Let's not end things by talking about dead animals, big guy. I'll leave you with this. I'm going all Anne Hathaway today. It's a good thing the paparazzi aren't waiting around to photograph me stepping out of my car. It would be quite the naughty picture in the school paper.”

“You are such a tease—I love it. See you in ten.”

“Bye, sugar.” And she was gone.

Travis pumped his fist. He'd reach second base in the morning and throw touchdowns that night. Howard Stern prattled on satellite radio in the background and Travis noticed the temperature outside was in the thirties, appropriate December coldness. Dirty remnants of a freak Thanksgiving snowstorm littered the landscape. There'd be no respite from the white stuff. A blizzard was set to blanket the tristate area come evening.

What a gyp,
Travis thought.
Why couldn't the damn thing wait to start Sunday night? It'd wipe out school on Monday, maybe Tuesday too. What a waste.

The road was clear, save for the occasional salt stain, and he stayed under the forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. He wasn't going to let a deer leap from the shadows and smash into his early graduation present from Daddy.
Maybe a dead deer's stinking up the place?
They infested northern New Jersey and he regularly hunted them with his father and uncle. It wasn't a skunk's scent, the lingering kind that eventually dissipates. This alien reek intensified.

He decelerated when the first of two stoplights that punctuated his journey came into view, and that's when the shriek shattered his ride. The Mazda's closed windows blunted what seemed to be the screams of prey being mauled by a pack of beasts.

Just put it out of its misery, please,
he thought.

And then the wails ceased. Travis stopped at the red light and turned off Howard Stern. Curiosity led him to lower his window and he was arrested by the odor and silence, broken only by his breathing. He counted five Mississippis of quiet before an anguished scream rippled through the air and then devolved into a growl. Travis swore he heard a chain clanking every time the thing drew breath to resume its gnarling.

“Some kind of guard dog that escaped?” Travis asked aloud. His nerves spiked the way they did the first time he saw police lights in his rearview mirror—his dad was mayor—no speeding ticket that day.

“Turn green. Turn green already,” he commanded the light.

The snarling persisted from afar, but from where? Travis fumbled through his glove box and found his emergency flashlight. He acted like a high school quarterback and scanned the forest to his left. Eyes darting back and forth, the beam danced from here to there, and instead of finding an open receiver he spotted huffs of condensed breath puncturing the darkness, as if some unseen bull was preparing to charge his red Mazda.

The light turned green and Travis floored it. He had to trust that no deer ahead of him would jump into his path. A pickup truck passed him going the opposite direction, as did a couple of school buses out to retrieve their loads of kids. He'd traveled ten miles since leaving home, and his headlights illuminated the final stoplight, meaning he was five minutes away from school.

The howling resumed and grew louder as Travis approached the light.

“Jesus
Christ
, what
is
that?” he blurted.

He looked in his rearview and swiveled his head over his shoulders, looking for something trailing him. Nothing. But the howling, brewed deep in the bowels and belched skyward, would not die, nor would the smell.

Travis had to slow down. The cross street always had some school traffic this time of morning and he'd be crazy to blow through the red light that greeted him.

“Just keep it together,” he told himself. He scanned left and right and saw a school bus in the distance, traveling toward the light from his right. Travis despised this signal because of the length of time it took to change. The bus would pass him, and perhaps another would too, before the light turned green. He'd felt on edge before, when two-hundred-pound linemen were bearing down on him. But that was a game.

His shaking grip on the steering wheel at the ten and two positions made it appear as if he were bending an iron rod. He wanted to be at school. He wanted his green and white football jersey that he wore under his varsity jacket to broadcast to the world that he and his teammates were superior specimens within a sea adrift with regular students. He'd even French-kiss and cop feels off his girlfriend—who admitted she wasn't wearing a
shred
of underwear—before the homeroom bell, all of it five minutes away.

The school bus headlights approached. He kept his window down despite the putridity. He neglected to turn on Howard Stern. He wasn't in the mood to find out how old the Kardashians were when they all lost their virginity. Instead, he heard earthmoving footfalls and a growl erupting into an otherworldly roar.

Travis turned to his right to see through the passenger's window a dark mass burst through the forest.
Screw the light,
he thought.
Just go!
But it was too late. The thing barreled into the side of the Mazda, lifting it off the ground. The bellowing thing repeatedly rained down a heavy chain with watermelon-sized links—the kind that could lower drawbridges—onto the Mazda's hood, crushing the vehicle's engine into a stall.

Travis went to unbuckle his seat belt but again was too slow as the creature's hairy right hand smashed through the window and began to thrash and grab. The Mazda's headlamps and dashboard lights still worked and illuminated dark tangles of grimy fur attached to a log-thick forearm.

A meaty, calloused hand with crescent-shaped talons raked though Travis's seat belt. The hand grasped through Travis's jacket and jersey, talons slicing into flesh on his chest. Its grip firm, the thing pulled Travis across the passenger's seat and out of the window. It disregarded the pain Travis felt as it dragged his body over jagged edges of the remaining window glass, its shards wedging into his thighs.

Now fully extracted, Travis remembered a long tongue waggling around fangs, and his six-foot-two-inch body reduced to being a rag doll's, tossed by hand
over
the beast's head and into what Travis surmised was a wooden crate strapped to its back. His skull cracked against the crate's base, dazing him. Now he knew what a notebook felt like in a backpack.

Jesus, how big is this thing?!

And then running. Travis's legs jutted out of the crate and his head smacked against wood as his kidnapper bounded through the forest's dead leaves and snow. And the running stopped, but not the movement.
Gliding?
His stomach churned as if he were plunging on a rickety amusement-park ride.

Besides the beast's howls, the last bit Travis remembered before losing consciousness was the smell that started the nightmare: the odor of a malevolent force that invaded New Jersey twenty days before Christmas.