Alternate Gerrolds, page 12
And then they invited the seven-year locusts.
All the writers, both serious and not-so, showed up; some of them wearing buttons that said, “Turn down a free meal, get thrown out of the Guild.” Artists too, but they generally had better table manners. One year, two of them got trampled in the rush to the buffet. After that, Lydia started weeding out the guest list.
This year, the unofficial theme of the party was “Satan Claus is coming to town.” The tree was draped in black crepe, and instead of an angel on top, there was a large black bat. Steven Dhor even promised to participate in a “summoning.”
“Little Bob still whimpered softly. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. Finally, Millie got out of her bed and crept softly across the floor and slipped into bed next to little Bob. She put her arms around him and held him close and began whispering as quietly as she could. ‘He can’t hurt us if we’re good. So we’ll just be as good as we can. Okay. We’ll pray to baby Jesus and ask him to watch out for us, okay?’ Little Bob nodded and sniffed, and Millie began to pray for the both of them. ...”
I got there late, I had other errands to run; it’s always that way on the holidays.
Steven Dhor was holding court in the living room, sitting on the floor in the middle of a rapt group of wanna-bes and never-wases; he was embellishing the legend of Satan Claus. He’d already announced that he was planning to do a collection of Satan Claus stories, or perhaps even a novel telling the whole story of Satan Claus from beginning to end. Just as St. Nicholas had been born out of good deeds, so had Satan Claus been forged from the evil that stalked the earth on the night before Jesus’ birth.
According to legend—legend according to Dhor—the devil was powerless to stop the birth of baby Jesus, but that didn’t stop him from raising hell in his own way. On the eve of the very first Christmas, the devil turned loose all his imps upon the world and told them to steal out among the towns and villages of humankind and spread chaos and dismay among all the world’s children. Leave no innocent being unharmed. It was out of this beginning that Satan Claus came forth. At first he was small, but he grew. Every year, the belief of the children gave him more and more power.
“The children slept fitfully. They tossed and turned and made terrible little sounds of fear. Their dreams were filled with darkness and threats. They held onto each other all night long. They were awakened by a rumbling deep within the earth, the whole house rolled uneasily—”
Dhor had placed himself so he could see each new arrival come in the front door. He grinned up at each one in a conspiratorial grin of recognition and shared evil, as if to say, “See? It works. Everybody loves it.” I had to laugh. He didn’t understand. He probably never would. He was so in love with himself and his story and the power of his words, he missed the greater vision. I turned away and went prowling through the party in search of food and drink.
“They came awake together, Millie and little Bob. They came awake with a gasp—they were too frightened to move.
“Something was tapping softly on the bedroom window. It scraped slowly at the glass. But they were both too afraid too look.”
Lydia was dressed in a black witch’s costume, she even wore a tall pointed hat. She was in the kitchen stirring a huge cauldron of hot mulled wine and cackling like the opening scene in Macbeth, “Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble—” and having a wonderful time of it. For once, she was enjoying one of her own parties. She waved her wooden spoon around her head like a mallet, laughing in maniacal glee.
Christmas was a lot more fun without all those sappy little elves and angels, all those damned silver bells and the mandatory choral joy of the endless hallelujahs. Steven Dhor had given voice to the rebellious spirit, had found a way to battle the ennui of a month steeped in Christmas cheer. These people were going to enjoy every nasty moment of it.
“A huge dark shape loomed like a wall at the foot of their bed. It stood there, blocking the dim light of the hallway. They could hear its uneven heavy breath sounding like the inhalations of a terrible beast. They could smell the reek of death and decay. Millie put her hand across little Bob’s mouth to keep him from crying.
“‘Oh, please don’t hurt us,’ she cried. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Please—’”
I circulated once through the party, taking roll—seeing who was being naughty, who was being nice. Goodman Hallmouth was muttering darkly about the necessity for revenge. Writers, he said, are the Research and Development Division for the whole human race; the only specialists in revenge in the whole world. Bread Bryan was standing around looking mournful. George Finger wasn’t here, he was back in the hospital again. Railroad Martin was showing off a new t-shirt; it said, “Help, I’m trapped inside a t-shirt.”
And of course, there was the usual coterie of fans and unknowns—I knew them by their fannish identites: the Elephant, the Undertaker, the Blob, the Duck.
“And then—a horrible thing happened. A second shape appeared behind the first, bigger and darker. Its crimson eyes blazed with unholy rage. A cold wind swept through the room. A low groaning noise, somewhere between a moan and an earthquake, resounded through the house like a scream. Black against a darker black, the first shape turned and saw what stood behind it. It began to shrivel and shrink. The greater darkness enveloped the lesser, pulled it close, and—did something horrible. In the gloom, the children could not clearly see; but they heard ever terrible crunch and gurgle. They heard the choking gasps and felt the floor shudder with the weight.
“Millie screamed then; so did little Bob. They closed their eyes and screamed as hard as they could. They screamed for their very lives. They screamed and screamed and kept on screaming—”
Steven Dhor got very drunk that night—first on his success, then on Art and Lydia’s wine. About two in the morning, he became abusive and started telling people what he really thought of them. At first, people thought he was kidding, but then he called Hallmouth a poseur and a phony, and Lydia had to play referee. Finally Bread Bryan and Railroad Martin drove him home and poured him into bed. He passed out in the car, only rousing himself occasionally to vomit out the window.
The next morning, Steven Dhor was gone.
Art stopped by his place on Christmas morning to see if he was all right; but Dhor didn’t answer his knock. Art walked around the back and banged on the back door too. Still no answer. He peeked in the bedroom window, and the bed was disheveled and empty, so Art assumed that Steven had gotten up early and left, perhaps to spend Christmas with a friend. But he didn’t know him well enough to guess who he might have gone to see. Nobody did.
Later, the word began to spread that he was missing.
His landlady assumed he’d skipped town to avoid paying his rent. Goodman Hallmouth said he thought Steven had gone home to visit his family in Florida, and would probably return shortly. Bread Bryan said that Steve had mentioned taking a sabbatical, a cross-country hitchhiking trip. Railroad Martin filed a missing person report, but after a few routine inquiries, the police gave up the investigation. George Finger suggested that Satan Claus had probably taken him, but under the circumstances, it was considered a rather tasteless joke and wasn’t widely repeated.
But ... George was right.
Steven Dhor had come awake at the darkest moment of the night, stumbling out of a fitful and uncomfortable sleep. He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed—and then he saw me standing there, watching him. Waiting.
I’d been watching him and waiting for him since the day he’d first spoken my name aloud, since the moment he’d first given me shape and form and the power of his belief. I’d been hungry for him ever since.
He was delicious. I crunched his bones like breadsticks. I drank his blood like wine. The young ones are always tasty. I savored the flavor of his soul for a long long time.
And, of course, before I left, I made sure to leave the evidence of my visit. Art saw it, but he never told anyone: sooty smudges on the bedroom window, and the ground beneath it all torn up and churned, as if by the milling of many heavy-footed creatures.
This is another story about Christmas. Consider this a warning. It is not safe to eat the fruitcake just before going to bed.
The Ghost of Christmas Sideways
WHEN THE GHOST APPEARED, Kris Kringle was humping an elf.
The centuries-old oak bed was creaking and groaning like a whale with indigestion, as Kringle pounded furiously away. The headboard banged against the panelled wall with every thrust. Kringle’s red pants were down around his ankles, so were his silk boxers. The flabby pink mounds of flesh that were his buttocks shook like two great bags of jelly; they looked like Christmas puddings, all blotchy and purple with veins.
“Kriiiinnngllllle. ...” the sepulchral voice repeated ominously, this time accompanied by the rattle of rusty old chains.
The fat man didn’t hear it—or maybe he didn’t want to hear it. He kept grunting with lust, again and again, while beneath him, the elf—almost smothered by his weight—shrieked in ecstasy or discomfort. It was impossible to tell.
“Kringle! Goddammit! Stop that now!” demanded the voice.
Kris Kringle rolled over abruptly, rising up on one elbow, his tumescence shrinking and disappearing into the folds of flesh at his groin. “Ho ho ho!” he boomed jovially. “Mmmmeeeeerrrrrrryyyyy CCChhhhrrriiisssstttmmmaaaaassss!! And what would you like Santa to bring you, little boy?” Beside him, the elf lowered its knees from where they had been pressed against his chest. He wore an annoyed expression as he struggled to sit up, straightening his long blonde wig, and at the same time trying to pull down the nearly-transparent nightie to cover his childish modesty. His lipstick was badly smeared.
“Kringle . . . !” The apparition’s words came from the darkest depths of the grave; they were hollow and raspy and carried the weight of years. “I have come for you!” Again, there came the hopeful rattle of moldering chains.
“Wait a minute, goddammit!” squeaked the elf. It reached up onto the headboard behind itself, fumbling for the remote control. At last, it found the clicker and hastily punched the pause button. Santa stopped booming in the middle of a loud enthusiastic “Ho—!” His deep voice trailed off slowly, the bright twinkle faded from his eyes, and some of the redness faded from his bulbous nose. The machinery whirred softly to a halt and Santa sat silently waiting, his naked lap open.
“Odds bodkins!” squeaked the elf. “What is it this time?”
In response, the tall gray specter elongated itself, stretching out one bony arm to reach across the intervening distance. It plucked the elf up out of the cushiony feather bed and held it aloft. “Do you recognize me, Brucie Kringle? Ho ho ho . . . !” it moaned.
The elf’s eyes widened in sudden horror. “Ye gods and little fishes!” He chittered like a cockroach with a thyroid problem. “I thought we killed you!”
“You did!” rasped the wraith. “Ho ho ho—!” It rattled its long popcorn chains and leered malevolently. Its eyes burned like ornaments.
The ghost made a mysterious gesture and—
Suddenly, the two of them were standing out in a frozen cold wilderness, the blue sun was a bitter pill on the horizon. A furious wind whipped at the elf’s nightgown. Nearby, a red and white striped pole stood next to a tiny cottage. “Look!” pointed the ghost, stabbing with a bony finger at the tiny house. A yellow window glowed with beckoning warmth. Framed by red and white curtains, Santa’s body, stuffed to an ample girth with styrofoam peanuts, rocked steadily back and forth in a motorized chair. It puffed merrily at its pipe. Periodically it lifted its hand and waved out the window, while a synchronized recording repeated Santa’s infectious laughter against a background of Jingle Bells.
“A very good job you did, little sprite! You left no detail unattended to.”
“Thanks,” blushed the elf, forgetting for the moment its precarious predicament.
The ghost made another mysterious gesture and—
Suddenly, the two of them were standing in a cold gray field—no horizon, only gray mist and cruel grass. Nearby, stood three men clad in hunters’ garb and carrying rifles. Suddenly, one pointed upward. The other two raised their rifles, took careful aim and fired off three quick shots each. The reports of their weapons sounded small and flat against the silent tundra—but far in the distance, a dark object plummeted heavily to the ground, smacking into it with a terrible wet impact.
“You sold my reindeer to a hunting farm!” the apparition accused.
The elf squirmed in the bony grip. “Hey! That wasn’t my idea. The lawyers ordered it. They said we should downsize the operation. We needed to invest in new transportation. And we got a terrific detail from the Airbus Consortium. The goddamn elk were too old and too slow anyway—and you never paid any attention to how much those hayburners ate, did you? The upkeep was horrendous! If we didn’t act when we did, the whole thing would have gone into Chapter 11. Down the tubes without a flush. At least this way, we have a chance to compete against the Japanese—”
“Always with the excuses, Bruce! Remember, an excuse only satisfies the person who makes it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—the old-fashioned ways are always the best. The time-honored tradition of the Christmas spirit—and all that jazz. But have you seen how Christmas is celebrated lately?” This time the elf made a mysterious gesture. “Look at this, you fat old fart—”
This time, the haunt and the elf found themselves in a gaily-lit concourse, a suburban mall filled with joyous music, dazzling decorations, towering displays, spotless storefronts and crowds of anxious looking people milling from one ramp to the next with desperate expressions on their faces. Many of them were parents, escorting small children.
The children wore costumes of all kinds. The girls were mostly dressed as glittery princesses, ballerinas, winged fairies with plastic wands, mermaids, cowgirls and witches—a lot of little witches. The costumes of the boys reeked of violence—they were killers of all kinds: gunslingers, terminators, ninjas, turtles, batmen, supermen, vampires and pirates. Many of the costumes seemed to be generic, probably purchased from the Disney outlet in the mall. At each store, tired-looking employees in gay apparel smiled wanly and passed out generic candies.
“This is Christmas now!” declared Bruce Kringle, pointing at a shop window showing Santa waving from a pumpkin patch, another shop window showing Santa riding on the back of a witch’s broom, a third display showing the gay old saint passing out candy to costumed children at the front door of his North Pole workshop, and a fourth one showing Santa sitting in the command seat of the starship Enterprise while a dozen little Vulcans in green uniforms smiled and waved.
“But this is not Christmas—” the spook whispered. “It’s only Halloween .”
“Yeah, that’s another thing. We had to merge the holidays. Greater profit potential. Longer selling season. We had to drop the Christ angle, of course. Too tricky. But now, we get into high gear the first weekend before Halloween and we go straight through until the middle of January.”
“What have you done?” the ghost demanded cavernously.
“Hey—this was all your idea,” the elf replied strongly. “We pick up another five percent just with the post-season white sales. We’ve got a Japanese conglomerate funding the expansion, and we’re looking at an eventual extension of the selling season all the way into Valentine’s Day. Of course, the long-term goal is to make Christmas a year-round festival. You always said, you wanted people to have the spirit of Christmas all year round. Well, this is the necessary first step—merchandising.”
Brucie Kringle was about to explain about cost-leveraging and swingmarkets, when suddenly, from nearby, came a blood-curdling shriek of terror.
“What’s that?” asked the ghost.
“Uh—it’s just a little extra innovation. Something to shake them up a bit. An idea we got from the amusement parks.”
“Tell me!” demanded the wraith.
“Um—better yet, I’ll show you.” Shaking free from the bony grasp of the specter, the elf jumped down to the tiled floor, grabbed the haunt by its cobwebby robe and dragged it toward a ramshackle-looking structure; it seemed to have been dropped in a heap in front of the entrance to the Broadway. A short line of people waited to enter. Periodically, a hunchback would stagger out of the entrance, grinning and drooling, to wave another small group of people inside. As they watched, another terrifying scream came floating over the top of the walls.
“What’s happening in there?” said the spook.
“It’s called a haunted house. We’re scaring the bejesus out of them. It helps to put them in a buying mood—”
The ghost and the elf joined the line—nobody paid them any undue attention. Shortly, the hunchback guided them into the interior of the fabricated structure, where they were treated to a series of tableaus portraying the worst excesses of vampires, chain-saw murderers and backalley abortionists. The rooms were decorated with coffins, skeletons and big glass jars with strange-looking creatures floating in amber alcohol. They saw corpses, dismembered body-parts and all manner of hairy little bugs and slimy snakes and worms. Deformed mutants leapt out of the walls at them. All around them, the costumed children laughed and shrieked in delight. Flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder punctuated the screams of the banshees and the moans of the zombies.
“See!” said the elf, when they found themselves out in the crush of the mall again. “It’s all in fun. Nobody gets hurt. Okay, yeah—so it’s not dancing sugarplums. But you were out of touch with all that sugary crap. Don’t you know that sugar is bad for kids. This is more realistic—more educational. It’s more in tune with the times. I mean, just look at yourself! Do you think you really represent the spirit of Christmas?”
