Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus (12 page)

“Not literally,” Spectra said. “Nick, it’s no accident that you chose this Krampus person to identify with. Think. What does the name ‘Krampus’ suggest to you?”

“I—I dunno. What?”

“Krampus. A kicking in your belly. A cramp.” Spectra smiled softly. “There’s no monster living in your belly, Nick. You’re cramping up from all the emotions you’re suppressing. And this Krampus persona isn’t your enemy. Anger, hostility, aggression—these are emotions that evolved over thousands of years, and they’re protective. They tell you when something’s wrong, when your boundaries are being crossed. If Krampus represents your anger, then rather than trying to fight him, perhaps you can befriend him instead. Think of him as a friend who’s trying, in his own clumsy way, to help you understand your feelings better. And our work here is to integrate the two of you so that there isn’t a Santa, and there isn’t a Krampus, there’s just Nick—a good man with a typically human range of emotions.”

“You really think… that’s possible?” Santa said.

“It’s not just possible,” Spectra said. “We’re going to make that happen. As a team.”

Nick could hear the compassion in her voice. And he knew it was sincere. He trusted her.

The fog in his head lifted.

* * *

Over those final weeks leading to Christmas Santa was happy and productive. Every time he felt the fog roll in, the rage kicking inside his stomach, he would say to himself, “Krampus is my friend,” and the fog and cramps would subside. Mrs. Claus phoned and said she was proud of him. She said she wished she could come home on the next plane but the abscess on Myrtle’s butt cheek had just burst and Mrs. Claus was needed to help her get in and out of her sitz bath.

On Christmas Eve Santa flew laughing into a soft snowfall, the metal of his golden sled flaring like fire in the moonlight, the reindeer jingling, and the chimneys of the world magically slackening, yawning wider and wider for the jolly fat man and his toy sack to slide down.

It was a perfect Christmas Eve.

In the dawn light of Christmas morning Santa was drying his boots by the fire in his den on the 30th floor of Tower B, sipping a celebratory egg nog with Spectra and Warren, his butler elf.

Just then the phone rang.

Assuming it was Mrs. Claus calling to congratulate him, Santa bounded across the floor so fast the room shook.

“I didn’t get my present,” came the tight little voice over the line.

“Who is this?” Santa said.

“It’s Kandi Kane, you fat bastard. Why the hell is Cyndy Symmons still walking?”

“How did you get this number?” Santa said, trying to slow his breathing in that soothing way Spectra had taught him.

“You think I don’t have connections?” Kandi replied.

Weeks ago, when Santa had told Spectra what happened the day Kandi sat on his lap at the mall, Spectra said that the little girl was obviously a terribly abused child whose stage-mother—the woman directing no less than three photographers—was robbing her daughter of a childhood to make up for her own frustrated show business ambitions. Knowing this, Santa had taken extra care to leave Kandi something special: a Barbie Dream House, erecting all five stories in the living room and populating it with Barbie and all her friends.

“Little girl. You were given a lovely doll house, for which any child would be very grateful.” Santa was practicing the “assertive” voice Spectra had taught him. This was to help him resolve conflict as soon as it arose instead of burying his anger and letting it fester.

“Yeah?” Kandi snarled. “Well Barbie and her friends are now bald and floating face down in the bathtub.”

Over the phone Santa could hear a grown woman’s voice in the background. “Kandi? Sweetie—your agent says he—well, he says he doesn’t take calls on Christmas day.”

Kandi lowered the phone and shouted back at her mother.

“And I don’t take ‘no’ on Christmas day or any other damn day, so unless you wanna be floating next to Barbie in the bathtub, get that son of a bitch on speakerphone!”

“I will, I will, Poopykin. Then pancakes!”

“No! Waffles!”

Kandi returned to Santa.

“You’ve got ’til midnight to break those ankles, fat man. If I lose the twist mop gig at tomorrow’s audition, it won’t be me who’s sorry.”

Click.

The sudden brutal kick in Santa’s belly made him double over and fall to the floor in agony, toppling the phone stand and shattering the glass winter-scene snowball that sat beside it. Mrs. Claus’ favorite.

* * *

Dr. Spectra had Santa tear apart a feather pillow with a crude drawing of a little girl’s face on it. Then they did their breathing exercises. Then they chuckled at how wonderfully human we all are to react so powerfully to people like Kandi, who do nothing to deserve such a large helping of our thoughts and feelings.

That made the kicking stop. Santa’s mood picked up through the day and he laughed that night in his old booming way, sitting at the head of the table and carving the Christmas turkey for Spectra and all the elves.

And then on December 28th, just after sundown, a polar storm started moving in. When Santa didn’t come to their therapy session, Spectra found him down in the lobby of Tower B, staring grimly through the glass doors.

“I hear dogs,” he said.

“Dogs?”

“A sled team.”

Spectra listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

“My omniscience may not be what it used to be, but I can still hear dogs a mile off. Someone’s coming.”

“In this storm?”

“Storm’s just starting. They’ll make it.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Spectra could hear the dogs barking too. Soon then they emerged into view, a team of 12 huskies pulling a golden sled with a woman in a blue parka working the reins. The drawstring of her hood was pulled tight around her suffering red face, lacerated by wind and snow, with storm-drawn tears frozen on her cheeks. Beside her sat a plump little figure in a white hooded cape with a gold trim. As the dogs halted in the nimbus of light emitted by the tower lobby, Santa recognized Kandi’s mother. And inside that white hood, the tiny, cruel face of…

No. It couldn’t be.

He staggered back a step.

“Nick?” Spectra put her hand on his shoulder. “Who is it, Nick?”

He shook his head over and over, grabbing his belly in pain.

Kandi and her mother disembarked. Kandi’s mother pushed open the lobby door and held it for Kandi who walked imperiously inside and stood in front of Santa.

“You had your chance, fat man,” Kandi said. “I was a good girl all year and I asked you for one damn thing and you didn’t give it to me. Cyndy Symmons landed the dancing twist mop role in the Home Wholesalers audition.” She poked him in the belly. “I told you you’d be sorry. And I meant it.”

* * *

In the big chairs around the fire in the den they were joined by Warren, who served everyone a huge mug of hot chocolate.

“Now one of the best ways of really talking something out,” Spectra said with a warm and ever-so-slightly condescending smile, “is to try our best to validate what each of us is saying and feeling. For example: Kandi, I’m hearing that you feel a lot of anger and disappointment that you didn’t get what you wanted for Christmas, and that makes me feel sad.”

Kandi calmly sipped her hot chocolate and winced. She handed the mug to her mother.

“Blow on it.”

Her mother, with trembling hands, took the mug and started to blow.

“Okay,” Kandi said to Spectra. “What I’m feeling is that I want to puke just looking at that outfit you’re wearing. If I spend any more time around your stupid floral prints I’m gonna need a hay fever injection. So why don’t you and your feelings and your stupid flowers just screw the hell off?”

Santa, furious, tried to jump to his feet. Spectra, seated beside him, pulled him back down. “No, Nick,” she said firmly. “An angry reaction is exactly what she wants.”

Spectra turned to Kandi’s mother. “Darla. Kandi is obviously a very troubled young lady. Have you ever sought counseling for—”

“Has she ever!” Kandi cut in with a cruel laugh. “But the joke’s on her. Dr. Richards is on my side and says Mommy has to do more to be supportive of my gifts.”

“It’s true,” Darla said in a trembling voice. “Dr. Richards says I’m far too controlling.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop blowing!” Kandi barked.

This little girl wasn’t making it easy, but Spectra was determined to model healthy communication skills for Nick.

“Kandi, you’ve said some hurtful things tonight,” Spectra said. “I need to lay some boundaries here. While you’re a guest in this home you can either treat all of us with respect, or you can leave.”

“It’s not your home, Potpourri,” Kandi sneered. “And my business is with tubbo here.”

Spectra was going to try again to lay those boundaries, but Santa placed his hand on her wrist. “Let her speak. I’m okay.” He winced once in terrible pain, a sure sign of kicking in his belly, but then his face went calm. “You’ve come a long way to talk to me, little girl. So say your piece.”

“You wanna hear my piece?” Kandi smiled darkly, and then, in the very next moment, her eyes erupted in tears. She spoke in a small, frightened voice. “I’m scared if I say anything the big mean fat man will come back. He knows where I live. He said he
watches
me when I’m asleep!”

Reaching into her mother’s purse she pulled out a little rag doll. Her finger started pointing to various areas on the doll’s body.

“He touched me here,” she said slowly, and then, with gathering speed, “and here. And here and here and here.” Kandi rubbed her eyes. “Yes, thank you, officer. I would like a lollipop.”

She tossed the doll to the floor, crossed her legs, and smiled.

Santa nodded. “I see. You’re threatening me.” He pointed at the rag doll. “With this.” And then his voice roared with a fury so sudden and violent that Spectra, Warren, and Darla all jumped in unison. “With this!”

“Nick, she’s a sick, troubled little girl!” Spectra implored.

“Oh, Santa, cutie,” Kandi said. “I’m not threatening you now. You got your threat back in November, at the mall. Me and Mommy filed the police report as soon as we left your Enchanted Castle. We were laying a bit of groundwork in case I ever had a reason to get even with you.” She smiled, ever so sweetly. “Remember when I sank my fingernails into your wrist? When you tossed me off your lap? The cops were scraping out DNA samples and photographing my bruised bum an hour later. But, see, I was just too
terrified
of the big, bad man to give them your name.”

She stood up, strode forward, placed her hands on the armrests of Santa’s chair, and leaned in so close their noses were almost touching.

“Until today,” she said. “I reckon the cops will set out as soon as the storm lets up.” Then she straightened again, yanked her hot chocolate away from Darla, and returned to her seat. “I timed my call to the police so they’d be delayed by the storm. I wanted a chance to see you before the cops got here with their DNA kits. I wanted to get a good long look at your stupid face when you heard what’s coming.”

She sipped her hot chocolate.

“You’re through, Santa. Washed up. It’s
over
, fatso. And all because you were too damn selfish to make one beautiful little girl’s Christmas dream come true.”

Spectra looked at Santa. The look on his face frightened her. It was all wrong. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t scared. He appeared to be in a state of complete serenity. And he wore just the faintest smile.

“Nick….”

“Spectra,” he said. “I’m fine. Really. It was like this the last time. In Europe, 1871. The pain in my belly finally just stops, and I feel this tremendous sense of peace as if—well, as if I’ve died. Like my body and my troubles are no longer my own.” He closed his eyes, blissfully. “Krampus is my friend.” He sighed. “I think, perhaps, you’d had better run, Spectra, dear.”

And then she saw it. A foot. No—a hoof. A hoof pushing outwards from inside the ample flesh of Santa’s belly, popping open his coat and rolling his white undershirt up to his nipples. It was extending his belly, stretching it thinner and thinner until the skin seemed shrink-wrapped over the hoof.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Kandi said. “Does he know how disgusting this looks?”

The hoof, so clearly delineated under Santa’s skin, protruded a full two feet now. Santa’s navel looked ready to tear open. His eyes opened a crack. They were rolled to the back of his head so that only a sliver of the whites showed. Spectra recognized the rapid eye movement of a sleeper. She hesitated, then grabbed Santa’s forearm and shook it to rouse him. “Nick! Nick! Wake up!”

Warren had seen enough. He hopped to his feet.

“Folks, it’s been a pleasure knowing you,” he said. “I’ll be hiding in the dumbwaiter which, I’m delighted to say, Miss Kandi, your ass could never squeeze into.”

With that he ran from the room.

The hoof straining against Santa’s belly was now kicking wildly inside its sheath of skin.

“Will someone tell me what the hell’s going on?” Kandi said. She remained seated, still holding her hot chocolate. Her mother was standing now, backing against the brick facade that arched over the fireplace.

Another hoof appeared: this one in Santa’s throat. As it stretched through his many chins his head fell back like a Pez dispenser. A log in the fireplace made a loud cracking noise and again Spectra jumped in her seat. But was it a log? Or had the old man’s neck just snapped? That hoof forcing Santa’s head back—all the way back to his shoulder blades now—must have broken his neck. So was he dead? Was Santa Claus dead? His arms hung limp at his side, his limp knees turned inward.

And then with a bang so loud the windows shattered and the storm came roaring in, Santa’s entire body blew backwards, knocking his chair back, and landing in the shadows just outside the circle of firelight in which they all sat. All that was left of him over there in the dark was a jumbled mound of red wool and white fur trim, and, jutting ceiling-ward, the wiry hairs of a thick white beard.

Krampus landed in a ball on the floor in front of the fire. At first all Spectra could discern was a huge black rounded mass soaked in a reeking pearly-white ooze. The smell of it! She knew that smell—the sickening smell of infection. Yes, it was pus. And fat. The creature was covered in pus and fat!