The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

      Strecker grinned. “Okay, I admit I mighta been a little hard on you earlier, but my point remains. Consider redeeming yourself, Bohach. Turn yourself around before it’s too late.”

      “I’ll agree to anything. Just lemme get some sleep, willya?”

      Strecker ignored the comment, instead saying, “Ever hear of a fella by the name of Krampus?”

      “Can’t say that I have.”

      “Thought as much.” The manila file with Lefty’s rap sheet Strecker had held before had been replaced by a worn leather book, which the police chief slid through the bars. “Have yourself a looksee.”

      It was a scrapbook, and the spine cracked when Lefty opened it. Inside was a real treat. Beneath the protective sheeting were pages of postcards yellowed with age, colored prints, and sketches. And every image contained some form of devilish creature.

      “That fella there,” Strecker continued once Lefty had his initial glance, “is Krampus. Sometimes called Black Peter, Black Rupert, and a slew of other names.”

      Lefty continued leafing through. The cards were clearly Christmas in nature but in each one the hairy demon was present. The interpretations varied, but on a few details all the artists were consistent. He had the hindquarters of a goat, a long tail, curving horns, and eyes shining like lamps. In most cases, he was threatening children or brandishing switches.

      Strecker scratched a slack jaw then attempted an explanation. “I’ve been researching this guy for a while now. Not a lot to be found out, either. What I have gathered is that Christmas is a constantly evolving holiday. And more has been forgotten than has been kept. It began as a pagan celebration—this was before the church got involved. To get the unwashed masses on board with the idea of organized religion, the Church says, ‘Okay, y’all can keep your winter solstice, so long as when you celebrate you honor the birthday of our Lord and Savior.’ The Roman Catholics set it for December sixth, the day the real St. Nicholas died—the one who lived in Turkey, not the one shaking bells for The Salvation Army. The Protestants eventually moved things to the twenty-fifth. As for Krampus, some European traditions say he was St. Nicholas’ dark servant, while others suggest they’re flip sides of the same coin.”

      Lefty cleared his throat and said, “Look, Strecker, don’t you have some place to be Christmas Eve?”

      Again Strecker’s face broke into a grin. “Kid, you may think this is some kinda funny, but I’m doing you a favor. Remember I said I was here about your redemption? We’ll see if you have the brains to do the right thing once I’m done.”

      An ice storm had moved in an hour or so before, and sleet chattered at the thick glass and heavy-gauge mesh within the window overhead. Having seen enough of the book, Lefty passed it back through the bars.

      Strecker flipped through the album, stopping at one particular page and turning it around for Lefty to see. “Look here. A perfect example of Krampus’ relationship to Christmas.”

      In the picture was an old-fashioned St. Nicholas, looking suitably bishop-like in his pointy hat and white robes and giving out sweet rolls to the penitent children. Meanwhile the decidedly evil-looking Krampus waited just outside the doorway for his turn at the not-so-good children cowering beneath a table. On another postcard, the demon had a wicker basket strapped to his back, and in the basket a distressed toddler thrashed. The ground beneath them gave way to a chasm of flames—presumably the way to hell.

      Strecker offered Bohach a smoke and Lefty cupped the Camel tip to flame.

      “You sure those pictures are legit?” Lefty wondered, waving out the single match. “I mean, how come I never heard anything about this Krampus ’til now?”

      “The Christians of the late 1800s kept their kids in line with threats of Krampus coming for their souls. I suppose by and by folks got to thinking a devil coming to Christmas was unsettling for anyone’s holiday, and he fell by the wayside. If you’ve ever heard about Santa Claus leaving switches instead of toys for the bad kids, it started here. A holdover from the Krampus days.”

      Lefty blew smoke at the bars. “I appreciate all this, Chief, don’t think I don’t. Christ, there’s nothin’ I like better than bein’ woke up to hear some good ole-fashioned fairytales. But I just don’t get it. First you say you’re here about my redemption then you show me pictures of Satan’s second cousin. What gives?”

      Strecker smiled. “I did promise we’d talk about your salvation, Bohach, and we’re almost there. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers. “Just stay with me a bit longer, okay?”

      Lefty spread his hands and said around the cigarette, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

      Strecker nodded. “As it happens, we got our own version of Krampus right here in Carbon Hill. Only we call him the Christmas Bane.” He must have seen Lefty’s eyebrows raise because he said, “That’s right. You’re probably thinking, ‘Crazy old cop, now I know you’ve gone round the bend,’ but it’s true. Near as I can tell, he showed up in the late 1950’s, ’bout the time the coal mine petered out. A widow woman was first to see him. Spied the old boy from her bedroom window one Christmas Eve, traipsing past her house going on midnight. He had, she said, eyes big as saucers and a headfull o’ teeth like fence pickets. Goat-hoof feet clomping through the snow, and a long, ratty tail whooshing behind him. Come morning, everyone learned some old geezer on Route 21 bought the farm. Then the widow spilled the beans on what she saw. Everyone thought her tree was a few apples short of a bushel, let me tell ya. Until the next Christmas, that is.”

      The chief went on to say how more people spotted the Christmas Bane over the years, and on each yuletide season since some hapless soul would be found dead in his bed, asphyxiated by a gas leak or electrocuted from a freak mishap with the tree lights. Folks didn’t know what he was or where he came from, but they got into the habit of putting out plates of food on their front stoops as sort of an offering. ‘Eat this food and not my soul,’ must have been the message they hoped to convey. According to Strecker, it must have worked, too. But the folks who had a black spot on their soul and didn’t believe in the Christmas Bane or left no offering...those were the folks who were likely to be singled out.

      Lefty laughed a little. The police chief did spin an interesting yarn, and his Satanic scrap-book was a great visual aid. “And you figure this local bogey will set his sights on me tonight?”

      Strecker didn’t bat an eye. “I figure it’s a good bet, and I suggest keeping an open mind on this. Could save your skin.”

      “All right,” Lefty said. “If Krampus and your Christmas Bane are one and the same, where’s he been between the time these cards were printed and the fifties?”

      “Good question, and don’t think I haven’t studied on it some. The way I see it, every legend or myth must grow out of some germ of truth. You just gotta know where to separate the wheat from the chaff. Don’t you ever get the feeling there’s a presence at Christmas time? People talk about the Christmas spirit, but maybe it’s more than a mood. Maybe it’s like in that Dickens story, where there’s a ghost of Christmas. And maybe there’s a bad spirit, as well as the good. You can’t have one without the other.”

      Lefty shrugged. “I guess so.”

      “Sure. And they stopped printing the cards and things with Krampus on them. If people didn’t think about him, seems to me that would drain his power down a mite? So he slinks off somewhere to hide. And where does he go?”

      “To Carbon Hill,” Lefty ventured a guess.

      “Exactly!” Strecker grinned again. “Maybe you’re not so stupid after all. This place is known as the town that was built on coal. The mine tunnels go way into the hills. Perfect place for the likes of Krampus to hole up and wait for folks to start believing again. And maybe before the coal ran dry, the miners tunneled a bit too deep.”

      “And just maybe they woke up your Christmas Bane?”

      “Give