"-And then the Krampus sneaks into the house at night and forces the bad children into a basket, where he takes them away and beats them with reeds and stuff!" Tommy Ripke declared, flexing his fingers like claws as he loomed over his younger sister. Well, he loomed as best as he could with only about a foot or so over the younger and smaller girl. It was enough, though, to get her to shout.
"Moooom!" She cried, clutching her stuffed piglet tightly in her arms, brown eyes wide in surprise and shock. The very idea that something could violate Christmas seemed horrifying for the girl. The sigh her mother gave while scooping the girl up was reassuring in that way.
With mother now present on the scene, Tommy was already trying to compose a reason why he shouldn't be in any real trouble for scaring his sister. One came to him readily enough. "If I don't scare her like this now, how is she going to become desensitized later in life?" He insisted.
"I'd rather you weren't trying to desensitize your sister to things like kidnapping and beating children." Mrs. Ripke huffed softly, keeping the small girl in her arms a moment longer. "Honestly, Tommy, you're supposed to be looking out for Stephanie, not… this."
"It's harmless." Tommy insisted, but for now, said no more.
From his own spot near the table, David Ripke finally decided to speak, setting down his drink and stretching his arms over his head. "Maybe it is, but come on, isn't scaring a little kid a bit like shooting fish in a barrel? Why not go build igloos outside with your friends instead, or something?"
"What year do you think this is?" Came Tommy's half-amused half-incredulous reply. "Why be out in the cold when I can play video games?" He inquired instead, darting away from the remainder of his family to retreat to his own room where said video games awaited him. It wasn't long before they could hear the soft thumps of his feet on the steps and his bedroom door closing in the morning quiet.
Meanwhile, though, Stephanie began to wriggle in her mother's embrace at the mention of 'building igloos' and finally took that opportunity to voice her excitement. "I wanna build a snowman!" She declared enthusiastically before managing to escape her mother's arms, giggling as she landed. "Where's my coat?" The girl inquired, her earlier outburst already well forgotten.
"It's by the door-" David stated, smiling at his daughter. "don't forget to put on your snow boots, too." He reminded her. "And stay near the porch where mom and I can see you." The family patriarch concluded, telling himself that the living room windows were big enough that they could observe Stephanie from there and have the hot cocoa ready once she'd made her snowman. Maybe in a few minutes he'd go out and help her hunt up some sticks and rocks to make up the face and arms of her creation?
Wordlessly, the girl was already running off to get changed for an exciting morning out in the snow.
"We shouldn't let her just run off like that." Mrs. Ripke pointed out, lowering her voice slightly. "What if something happened out there?"
David finally focused his attention on his wife with a gentle tap of his fingers on the table. "Jill, we're miles from anything except the neighbors and even they're a bit of a walk. Unless you think the Yeti is going to come and snatch up our children-" He had started to suggest somewhat jocularly, but the words caught when his wife interrupted.
"A yeti I wouldn't worry about." She remarked, folding her arms across her chest. "I'm just not sure we should keep buying from those catalogs we keep getting-"
"Come on, Wondertainment has given us some very good Christmasses." David protested. "It's not like we're criminals ordering from them."
"Aren't we?" Jill pressed, however. "It seems like a lot of people on their forums stopped responding lately. And all the hoops we had to jump through, even with that address." She continued, making a noise like a teakettle in her frustration. "We should at least be more concerned about where all of these things are coming from."
It wasn't the first time they'd had this debate ever since that first toy catalog had appeared in their mailbox. Not that it seemed to stop them from buying the amazing products within, it seemed.
"You're just being paranoid, honey. People stop posting on forums all the time. It doesn't mean anything is wrong."
—-
Outside, Stephanie hummed to herself, entirely oblivious to her parents' debate inside of the house was high stepping her way through what, for her, was calf height snow. The stuffed pig remained in her arms as she chatted with the loyal toy from time to time. "I bet we can make the biggest snowman ever with all of this!" She declared, nodding her head as she pretended to hear the stuffed piglet respond to her. "That's right! As big as the house!" The little girl was ambitious if she was nothing else.
With her hands dipped into the snow, the girl came up with her first snowball and began patting it down before placing it on the snow and beginning to roll it, letting the little ball become bigger as it continued collecting more powder. By the time her baseball sized project had become roughly basketball sized she became aware of something else in her field of vision.
At what she'd been told time and again was the edge of the family's property someone was standing there. Not quite close enough for her to get a good look at the figure with the glare of light off of snow. But he, for now Stephanie was certain it was a 'he', was tall, she could tell that much.
More curious than frightened, the girl picked her stuffed toy back up, cradling it in her arms. "What do you think Piggy?" She whispered to it. "Is that Santa?" Without waiting for a reply, or maybe she had waited, she took a step forward, raising her voice to call out to the man. "Are you Santa Claus?"
The large figure remained silent, however. Apparently deciding to take this as confirmation, Stephanie picked up her foot again and trudged forward in the snow, squealing in excitement. "I've been really, really reaaaaaallly good this year!" She promised, drawing another step closer to the ever silent Santa. "You're skinnier than I thought you'd be." Stephanie added with a giggle. "Do you need cookies and milk? We have lots in the house!"
"Stephanie!" Jill Ripke's voice echoed from nearby trees and carried well across the otherwise fallow fields. "What are you doing?" The older woman insisted from where she stood on the porch. "Who are you talking to?"
"Santa!" The little girl declared gleefully, turning away from her mother to point towards the man she'd seen. But when she turned her gaze back towards where he'd been, to point him out to her mother, the figure was already gone! She frowned then. "He was right there…" Stephanie insisted with a pout.
Jill Ripke smiled indulgently and shook her head. "Well, Santa Claus is magic. Maybe he was checking on you before going back to the North Pole?" She suggested. Or, she considered, Tommy might have been trying to play another trick on her. They didn't need any more 'Krampus' scares, she concluded. "Why don't you come back inside, I'll make you some hot cocoa with the big marshmallows that you like."
After entering the house, it seemed the encounter with Santa had been forgotten amidst the hot chocolate and Christmas specials by both mother and daughter. Likely it would have stayed forgotten if not for the conversation at breakfast only a few days later, when Stephanie declared to all at the table: "I saw Santa looking in my window last night." She spoke these words without a care while she attempted to drag another pancake onto her plate. As if the jolly old elf peering into her window in the dead of night was an entirely normal, even expected, occurrence. "He was making weird noises and it woke me up."
Tommy had speared his sister's pancake with his own fork, grinning as he prepared to remind the girl of his tales of the Krampus, and see if he could frighten her again; the idea died away immediately when Stephanie continued her tale unperturbed, however.
"How come Santa doesn't wear clothes? Isn't he cold?" She inquired, full of curiosity as much for the answer of her question as to why she was now the center of attention of the entire table.
"What-" David began, before clearing his throat and setting down his coffee. "what did you say?" He managed to complete, sharing a look of concern with his wife. Part of him hoped she'd simply had a very strange dream, although what could prompt such a dream was also possibly a matter of concern.
Between large mouthfuls of pancake, which the child had managed to secure from her now silent older brother, she managed to speak. "Santa!" Stephanie chirped. "he was lookin' in my window an' he didn't have clothes on." She elaborated.
"That's what I thought you said." David Ripke managed slowly, his voice rather soft now. He and Jill shared another look and seemed to both make the same conclusion in much the same moment. Years of marriage, or simple common sense being the deciding fact could be anyone's guess. "I'm going to check outside," he started, his jaw feeling tight as he flicked his gaze between both of his children. "and see if there's any shoveling or ice that needs to be dealt with." He insisted.
"Oh, good idea." Jill declared, forcing her tone into a pleasant sing-song. "When you get back, I think I'll go into town and pick up a few things." She insisted. Arranging to have the locks checked or better ones installed ASAP also at the forefront of her mind.
Better safe than sorry, Mrs. Ripke reasoned. No doubt her husband felt the same way, she noted, as he slipped on his coat and immediately disappeared through the door.
—-
The elder Ripke rounded the house as quickly as his legs would carry him, his eyes scanning the snowfall for shoe prints or, worse, footprints. His hands clenched into fight fists at the idea that some… pervert might have been staring into his daughter's room last night. This evening, he decided, Stephanie would sleep in his and Jill's room. He doubted his wife would object. He was just beginning to tackle the question of what to do with Tommy when he came to a stop. His walk over, and the results even worse than he might have feared.
Mr. Ripke' heart sank into his stomach to realize that, yes, there were foot prints in the snow at his daughter's window. He cursed softly then, barely taking note of the size of the prints which were… big. No other word for it. But something else caught his eye, something etched onto the siding of the house, just below Stephanie's window. A circle, inside of it were a gable of lines and curves. It might have been a word or a symbol straight out of some bad fantasy movie, but whatever it was David couldn't for the life of him place it.
Not that he needed to.
All David Ripke needed to know was that someone had come very near his house, and the fists he'd drawn tightened even more as he stared, wide eyed, at the scene for several moments longer. When it finally occurred to him to take some kind of action, he pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures of it all.
That much done, at least, he dialled 9-1-1 next. Finally, he called Jill and suggested she take the kids into town for… something. Anything, really. He'd wait for the police and see what they had to say.
—-
Night had fallen, with Stephanie safely cocooned in blankets on her parents' bed, and Tommy having likewise, taken up temporary sleeping arrangements in a guest room near the master bedroom. While they had done their best to keep their daughter from realizing the magnitude of what was happening (albeit, after a long refresher on "Stranger Danger" and instructions to tell them right away if she saw "Santa" again, Tommy was old enough to have an inkling that something was wrong.
And he crept as silently as he could through the house now, placing one foot softly on the carpet, half listening to his parents as he held in his hands a smallish box, the cover of which was emblazoned with a cartoonish police detective, somewhere in appearance between Dick Tracy and Sherlock Holmes. The box's label proudly declared Doctor Wondertainment Li'l Detective Kit, always get your man! "If they aren't going to tell me what's going on, I'll figure it out myself." He whispered.
—-
"I think we should give the kids this one early." Jill asserted to her husband. Most of the evening had been spent in long conversation about the man peering in through Stephanie's window, the strange… symbol scratched into their house and the prints. But now, she hadn't quite changed the subject, but had altered some of the discussion. She was setting out a pair of baggies, each containing an off-white oval shaped object.
David raised an eyebrow in contemplative thought as he read the labels. "The Wondertainment pets?" He asked slowly, comprehension dawning, albeit not without speed. A couple of glasses of eggnog had slowed his wits it appeared.
With a nod, Jill pressed on. "That's right. I don't like the idea of leaving the kids alone until we know what the hell is going on. We don't have any sort of big dogs to scare away a man like that if, god forbid, he gets insi-" she choked on her words a moment. Until she'd said the words, the idea that…whoever was watching Stephanie might get inside of the house and do God only knew what hadn't even occurred to her! It was as if their home were some sacred barrier.
"I get it." David assured her, then. He took a moment to think it all over. It made sense. "…Yeah, we'll let the kids hatch their pets. They should be something helpful if the absolute worst happens. Or at least, get their minds on other things. Tomorrow at breakfast. We'll tell them it's an early present for being on good behavior."
That appeared to mollify Jill, at least for the moment, and husband and wife attempted to turn their thoughts to happier subjects with limited success.
—-
Tommy, however, had managed to sneak out of the house and back inside by the expediency of a window facing towards the copse of trees near where his sister's snowman had been. Some arduous time had been spent looking for something… anything, that might give him some kind of information about what was actually going on. A thorough search with the tools in the box had found some broken bark near the trees and, with the magnifying glass inside he'd even managed to find a tuft of white hair which he'd sealed in an 'evidence bag' that had come with the kit. It wasn't a lot, but it was… something. And, he thought with all the confidence of a 'kid detective', was probably more than the police had located so far.
By the morning he'd have this whole thing blown wide open.
As he set the hair into the detective kit's 'portable crime lab', Tommy Ripke settled into a fitful sleep, with images of a gnarled and malevolent Santa Claus filled his mind's eye, taking all manner of bizarre offense to the family. Proclaiming them naughty or nice at a whim, depending on where in the dreams he was. When the analysis of the hair had finally finished, he was given no more reassuring news. Instead, the slip of paper printed (although he'd never found out where the paper was to be loaded from) had informed him there were 'no matches' in the system.
That set the youth frowning as he settled onto his bed again. There he sat, looking to his own window in spite of the pulled curtains, and for the first time in a while thought he felt the kind of nervous fear his sister had at his stories about Krampus. He remained in those thoughts until called down for breakfast.
The table, of course, was already set. His sister had taken up the place she'd been seated at ever since catching "Santa" staring in her window that night. Whatever was going on, Stephanie was excited enough to practically be stuffing her French Toast into her mouth and making grabby hands at something in her father's grip.
"-anna hatch mine now-!" She pleaded through a mouthful of toast.
"Hatch what?" Tommy inquired, giving his best show of nonchalance.
It was Jill that answered, though, as David kept playfully dangling the baggie over his daughter's head and just slightly out of her reach. "Your father and I decided to give you two a present early this year." She explained. "This is the special present, mind you, so don't expect anything too wild under the tree."
The youngster considered that for a few seconds before taking his seat at the table. "So, what are they?"
"Pets!" Stephanie squealed to her brother. "They got us real live pets! Or… they will be live soon!"
At Tommy's quizzical look, Jill continued her explanation. "Its your Wondertainment present this year. "Custom Pets" they're called. Just… put them where you want them to grow and see what you hatch."
Whether it was timed that way or just coincidence, the hyperactive young girl finally managed to snatch her baggie away from her father and began to run off giggling. Tommy accepted his… egg, he supposed he'd call it, more gingerly. He couldn't guess at what sort of cutsey animal his sister was going to get but after last night, he was thinking something more… aggressive.
"I'll have to think about where to hatch mine." He finally mumbled.
—-
For a few days, at least, it seemed as if that had been the end of the matter. Once Stephanie had hatched her own pet in her room, receiving a small creature resembling a bipedal piglet that spent most of its time snuffling around looking for treats beneath the furniture or in the shaggier carpets all talk of "Santa" looking through the windows had ceased entirely. The tracks in the snow weren't there to be found any longer either. All thought of what had happened was cast entirely from the girl's mind as she happily played with "Buster" as she dubbed her new pet. Even the fact that David and Jill were keeping her largely indoors now hadn't truly registered… after all, she had someone new to explore the house with!
For Tommy, it had been more difficult to decide just what to do with his egg. In the end, he'd found a crack in one of the walls of the garage and slipped the small egg in between the stone crevice. What had emerged from that was markedly different from Buster. A wiry body and bulbous head lacking eyes but with large bat-like ears, it's forelegs were tipped with what could be generously called 'talons' as he scratched and scrabbled its way out of the hole and dropped to the floor.
The younger Ripke watched the… thing as he sniffed the air, turned its head this way and that to pick up sounds before assuming a posture like a gorilla and gingerly making its way towards the boy.
"Welcome to our home, Spike." Tommy Whispered.
Those days, though, came to an end all too quickly. It had started innocuously enough with new smells permeating the entire house, something pungent and foul all at once and while David Ripke sought out the source of this foul odor, Jill responded with air fresheners, potpourri and anything else she could manage. Even, in some desperate cases, opening windows to air out rooms the family wasn't using. All of this availed them nothing, however, could be found as a source even after multiple checks of the septic system and going through the entire refrigerator looking for anything that might have spoiled.
"It wasn't Buster!" Stephanie would volunteer every time the smell was brought up, clutching the cuddly faux-piglet in her arms protectively and giggling as it would press its snout to her cheek in response to the affection.
On some occasions, though, the family would catch Spike leading around Buster (in those moments when Stephanie deigned to let her beloved pet out of her sight) as the two seemed to be attempting to sniff out the source of the foul odors as well. Even their animal senses came up short, though, as they would often come up to dead ends, spending several minutes sniffing and poking (or scratching, in Spike's case) at the walls.
Even this, however, was only a minor incident compared to what came next. Nights where the family would be suddenly awakened by a not so gentle 'thump' repeating from the attic.
As soon as he was aware of the noise, David had been up like a flash, grasping a baseball bat he had begun keeping near the bedroom door since the his daughter had revealed a man peering into her window at night. Weapon in one hand and flashlight in the other, he drew down the steps into the attic and ascended quickly, taking little care for stealth; whoever was up there, he had no more patience for their sort!
Fury evaporated when he ascended the steps, replaced by confusion as he shone the light around, eventually pulling the cord for an overhead light. His eyes were wide now and he took a step back, almost falling back down the steps before righting himself. The attic was empty, save the usual boxes of stored junk… and now, a symbol very much like the one that had been scratched into the side of the house. The only difference was this one was painted on the floor. The paint, he noticed, was still wet.
—-
"We should just call he cops and leave." Jill insisted, pacing back and forth. "This is insane, something got inside of our house and did that! God, imagine if they'd gone into one of the kids' rooms!" Her voice was rising in pitch now, her speed building as she tried to burn off the nervous energy she was feeling.
David opened his mouth, then closed it again. On the whole he seemed inclined to agree with his wife. The police had, of course, been called again. The children had been taken into town to avoid too many questions. In the end, though, he shook his head. "If something is happening we don't-" he paused, swallowed, then continued speaking. "we don't want to just brush it off to someone else. We've got the police keeping an eye on the house now, running regularly to check on us. I think we should stay another few days and let the police actually catch this guy."
"That's insane!" Jill retorted, throwing her arms to the air. "You're using us, our kids, to play bait?"
Once again, the Ripke patriarch opened and closed his mouth before standing up and drawing closer to his spouse. "Look at everything up to now." He insisted quietly. "I don't know what is happening, but it seems… I don't know, fixated on us. Or-or on Stephanie. If we run, we might just be making ourselves more vulnerable to it."
It. Not 'he' or 'them'. For the first time, the idea was crossing David's mind that whatever was going on wasn't just a run of the mill pervert watching his daughter. He realized as well he wasn't sure which idea frightened him more.
—-
The new year had come, although neither parents nor children seemed much inclined to a party. Of course, David had attempted to cheer Tommy and Stephanie and keep the mood up by telling them that it was simply because they hadn't fixed 'the plumbing' yet to get rid of the smell. An excuse that worked well enough, he thought. And in the other place, the pair seemed happy enough to play with their pets.
It was beginning to seem as if the harassment was at an end, too. Maybe the police presence had frightened off whoever was doing it? Whatever the case, when the family turned in for the night things seemed… almost normal.
Tommy was only barely aware of anything happening as Spike rose up onto his hind legs for a few seconds, sniffing at the air before hopping off of the boy's bed, however and scratching at the closed bedroom door. Groggy and yawning, he sat up and moved to open it for his Custom Pet. "What, are you hung-" The question died away as he heard the 'thump' from the attic again along with another sound. Something that sent a shudder of fear through the boy.
Sobbing. He could hear muffled wails that reminded him so much of his sister that he hurriedly threw open his door with a 'bang!' that rang through the house, apparently jostling the other members of the family awake.
David and Jill spilled into the hallway a few seconds ahead of Stephanie who rubbed at her eyes with one hand and clutching Buster to her chest with the other. If any of the family had noticed the pig-like pet was trembling, they said nothing. At their feet though, Spike was yowling, the first noise any of them could remember hearing from it as it ran tight circles around them.
Before any real words could be spoken the ladder crashed down from the attic and a figure emerged, taking each step slowly. One bare foot was revealed, then another. As more of the man emerged from the shadows he revealed himself as a tall, gaunt, emaciated figure. Slung over one of his shoulders was a sack that seemed impossibly large for a man of his physique to carry, made only worse by the writhing of the fabric and muffled sobs and words coming from within, only a handful any of the family recognized.
For a moment the man seemed… surprised to find the Ripke family in the hall staring at him in dumb shock. His head swiveled slowly before he smiled at them, the thin lips parting to show a grin that was predatory and far too large for his face and yet still seemed to have more teeth than it should. When he spoke, he said only one unintelligible word, although the malice it carried was unmistakable.
"Run-" David whispered before finding his voice and firming it. "Get out of here!" He repeated more forcefully, ordering his family as he steeled himself, raising the baseball bat as he moved forward, taking a wild swing at the naked stranger in his home. The man, though, just as he was apparently stronger than his appearance gave the impression of was faster as well. And with one free hand had lashed out viciously, dragging nails down the side of the Ripke man's face until he'd gripped his neck and tossed him away like a ragdoll to the screams of the other three, already attempting to get away from… whatever this was.
With a mother's instincts, Jill had seized both of her children by the wrists and was practically dragging them behind her, casting a look over her shoulder to her husband. Silent prayers that he would save their children if not the family were the best she could offer. Tommy was looking back over his shoulder as well, stumbling through the hall in the dark, but for a different reason. "Spike! Sic-!" He shouted at the top of his lungs.
The Custom Pet arched its back and gave a shriek as it pounced at the legs of the naked intruder. Tiny talons attempting to rend flesh from the bones of his shins and knees. To Spike's credit he succeeded in drawing some small splatters of blood before the figure kicked the creature away with a snarl of anger. The animal squealed painfully as it disappeared down the other end of the hallway, and for David Ripke the darkness seemed to grow dimmer still now that the pair were alone.
Dazed and wheezing, he attempted to get to his feet like a prize-fighter who'd already taken three too many shots to the head. Even still, adrenaline was enough to bring him standing as the malnourished seeming man approached again and David hoisted the bat over his shoulders, managing to put his hips into a new swing that crashed into the other man's hip… the Ripke family patriarch fancied he heard a grunt before he felt something alarming. Fingers digging sharply into his shoulder; forceful enough to push through the flesh there. A grip strong enough that it seemed able to crush the bone on their own… and he could feel a grinding, almost hear a creaking as his body seemed to be giving way. The bat fell from lip fingers as another hand grasped his wrist with the same crushing strength. The strange… creature, for at this point David could hardly think of him as a man, raised that hand up slowly and with another too-wide smile brought his hand to its mouth and promptly bit off three of his fingers, letting the blood trickle down his lips as he chewed on the fleshy morsels while David's yell of pain filled the house.
—-
"Mommy, I'm scared-" Stephanie cried out, clutching Buster tighter to her chest as the porcine pet nuzzled at her cheek again. Whether the animal was trying to calm its owner or itself was near impossible to say. The lights were still out through the house (Jill was not going to give that… THING a trail!)
"It's going to be alright, honey." Jill attempted to give her daughter a reassurance she didn't, herself, feel. Instead she desperately weighed her options. She could attempt to hide with them in the pantry. It was a tight fit and likely one of the first places that would be searched. They could try to run, but the nearest neighbor wasn't quite a mile but across a flat field wouldn't that just make them easier targets? She swallowed hard, trying to force down her panic and make herself THINK! "I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you." That promise, at least, was true. She and David would have to be dead before they let whatever terrors that-that monster had in store for their children come to fruition.
Unfortunately, she was growing increasingly worried that it would be just the case.
Tommy winced, hearing the pandemonium from upstairs. "Get'tim, Spike." He whispered, hoping it was the other man's ragged voice as the suddenly wholly inadequate looking Custom Pet fell upon him with the wrath of an angry guard dog.
"Tommy," Jill half-whispered and half-hissed to her son, the woman's decision finally made. "take Stephanie." She insisted. "Take her and get to the Waggoner's house. Do not argue-!" She declared harshly, cutting off any protests her son might have. "When you get there, call the police. Tell them- just get them here." She added. There should have been police still observing the house, though. Wouldn't they have seen the man entering? She didn't want to think about what that meant.
While she placed Stephanie's hand in Tommy's, she groped around the kitchen until she found the drawer she wanted and removed the largest knife she could find from it.
"Go!" She ordered him again, shoving her children to the back door with her free hand.
—-
Closing the door as softly as she dared behind the fleeing children, Mrs. Ripke curled her fingers tightly around the handle of the knife, attempting to keep to the walls and corners as she crept through the house, struggling to maintain her breathing at a soft, controlled pattern. As the stairs began to creak she bit hard on her lip and stopped breathing altogether. It wasn't just the tap of feet she was hearing but also a sound of something heavy being dragged and the gentle thump of it hitting each step just a bit behind the intruder's footsteps.
Forcing herself to wait, to keep quiet, Jill stared at the foot of the stairs until she saw the hateful thing that had invaded her home and endangered her family. With a scream as much of terror as it was of anger, she raised the knife high and lunged at the thing, hoping to drive it straight into the tall, thin man's neck and struggling not to look at the prone form of her husband or the rapidly spreading patch of dampness next to him.
The whole event seemed to be moving at half speed and even at that she was too slow as the the terrible thing caught her hand with an ease that seemed almost practiced. Slowly it began to squeeze and she heard the gentle popping of the joints in her hand under the pressure, felt the burning, broken glass pain of bones breaking and the sting of tears welling in her eyes from pain and impotence to even hurt this… she had no words for it anymore. With savage strength, it dragged her closer and Jill tried, oh she tried, to lash out with her feet in kicks to his ankles and knees to elicit any signs that she would at least hinder whatever his mission was! She could feel his breath, smell something like raw meat drifting on it, she was so close now. With a choking, gasping breath she tried to pray for her children.
—-
"Come on-!" Tommy ordered his sister, dragging her through the snow behind himself. Mentally, though, Tommy was sweating at himself repeatedly. Berating himself as an idiot and a moron. In his panic, in his rush, the boy had gotten turned around; gone the wrong way! And now he needed… needed what?
At her brother's frenzied shout, a sob broke loose from Stephanie's mouth. "Is-is that Krampus?" She asked.
On the face of it, the question was nonsensical, ridiculous. But still, he answered. "No." He asserted. "No, I don't even think the Krampus likes whoever that is." He scanned the property in the moonlight and saw a new possibility looming slightly in the distance. The garage!
With his grip tightening around her wrist, Tommy hesitated for only a moment before turning around and scooping the girl up in his arms, deciding he could make better time this way and bolted through the snow until he reached the door and quickly put himself and his sister inside and locked it.
"Get in the car-" He told Stephanie at once. "and lock the doors. Don't open them no matter what!" He added, waiting until his orders were followed before prowling around the garage, opening boxes, pulling down anything he could find that might function as a weapon. And anything else was quickly stacked in front of the door. After a brief search he settled on one of the mallets from a croquet set, holding it in one hand and the wicket gripped in the other. It had points, maybe not the sharpest possible ones but he hoped a good punch would pierce skin… and maybe some other things.
For her part, Stephanie crouched on the floor of the back seat, fighting back tears as she squeezed Buster tightly in her arms. The pig-like pet made soft cooing noises and continued nuzzling against her neck as moments turned to minutes.
Neither could be certain how long they had been there, tense as they were who knew how fast time was truly passing. What mattered, though, was that they couldn't hear anything else… until they did. The handle of the locked door jiggled for several seconds before something pounded at the outside, nearly splintering the wood in a single impact. And then a hand came through the widening crack, a forearm and elbow-
Tommy managed to get over his fear and gripped the mallet tighter in his hand before running to the door and swinging. He struck the hand, not as true as he would have liked, but he hit it! The offending limb drew back and the door finally splintered, knocking aside the hasty barricade with the violence of the attack. The "Not Krampus" stepped in, glaring balefully at the boy. Tommy swallowed, backing up a few steps as he tried to collect himself. His eyes darted momentarily to the sack the old man still dragged along behind him. He heard the whimpering, the crying, the pleading coming from it and realization seemed to strike him.
"Stay the fuck away from my sister-!" Tommy did his best to roar the ultimatum, to sound and look imposing as he found new vigor, heard his mother admonishing him in his head. You're supposed to look out for your sister.
He swung with all of his might, felt the wooden mallet splinter and crack as he went off balance at the sudden lack of resistance. As he tried to recover and punch with the wicket.
Tommy didn't see what the man did so much as feel it when his body bounced off of the hood of the car and crumpled to the garage floor. His vision swimming and body aching he could do nothing more than yell obscenities and threats as he heard his sister screaming, glass breaking and… and then he lost consciousness.
In her terror, Stephanie dropped Buster as glass shattered around her. She huddled down further, trying to make herself smaller, to go unnoticed in vain. The Custom Pet had imitated its owner, cowering beneath the front seat as a massive hand reached down and gripped the girl by the back of the neck and plucked her out through the window and dropped her into the enveloping blackness of the sack. Her screams joined the other children inside.
—-
Tommy's eyes opened to the flickering of a fire lit in the living room. Dazed, groggy, possibly concussed it took him a moment to realize why that was a problem: they didn't have a fireplace. Instead, their fire pit had been dragged into the center of the room. He could smell melted plastic, among other things and realized quickly what was burning. The gifts that had been placed under the Christmas tree. His sack tied and wriggling in place of the destroyed presents.
"What are you doing-!" Jill shrieked, bound with the very sheets from the bed. Her hands turning an unpleasant shade of purple as she tried to move her fingers enough to untie the knots.
The man said nothing, though, and reached down to the pale and prone form of David, using one wrist to drag him over to the fire pit and, with a malicious glee pressed the stumps where his fingers had been towards the hot metal. A low, pained moan bubbled from the half-conscious man's lips as the unknown intruder held his flesh to the heat longer than necessary to cauterize the wound. Long enough that a scent like cooking meat began to fill the living room. Once he was satisfied, or perhaps disappointed by the lack of response, he threw David's hand down and slowly approached Tommy, producing something new.
Spike. The poor pet's head had been crushed into a pulpy mess, blood on its talons, though, evidencing that the thing had gone down struggling.
Tommy gulped as his mother shouted, screamed, pleaded with the man to leave him and Stephanie alone whatever else he might do.
Still silent and wholly indifferent to the woman's words, the demented figure plucked one of the talons from Spike with a sickening ease and knelt down next to Tommy, using his new tool to cut through his shirt and begin cutting into his chest. The boy's hisses of pain seemed to please him as his face stretched out into that too wide smile while he carved his indecipherable symbol into his flesh. Satisfied with his work he dipped his fingers into the blood welling from the cuts and moved back to Jill.
With a careless touch he began to apply the blood to her face, around her eyes and over her lips like obscene make up. When his fingers strayed close to her mouth, the Ripke matriarch did her best to snap at him, to bite down hard. To show she was still defiant to this creature. All she achieved was to be slapped hard enough she was certain a tooth had come loose.
—-
Forgotten in the garage while the monstrous intruder had set about his grotesque work, Buster slowly stopped quivering and gradually made its way out of the damaged vehicle, sniffling and searching about. Its thoughts turned towards the humans who had cared for it and especially the girl who had hardly let it out of her sight now seized by some great and terrible predator. Its mind was awhirl with emotions and thoughts. With instincts that ordinarily would have been as alien to it as… well, as the scenario it had found itself in.
As Buster moved about the garage, it saw the broken and pointed remnants of the mallet's handle, remembered the boy who had tried to protect it and the girl using it. An appendage very much like a hand reached out and groped at it until the handle, more a stake now, was in its grasp.
Its grunting and snuffling slowly took on a new character, one that could almost be called 'resolute' as it trudged out into the cold.
—-
At the house, minutes had passed in terror. Stephanie's voice still mingled with the other children, crying out for daddy, for mommy, for Tommy… for anybody who might come to her rescue. The one silver lining was she happened to be spared from witnessing the slow tortures being inflicted on her family.
Using Spike's own talons he had been drawing blood from the family to make his murals on the walls around them, treating each of the Ripkes like human sized inkwells. If one found the temerity to resist he jabbed them ever more harshly with the 'quill' he had taken to using. The other talons had been plucked off as each became too dull to use for his work, and the Pet carelessly added to the fire.
It was this terrible art show that Buster had found, slipping in through the still open doorway. Its nose overwhelmed by the scents of blood and the acrid stink of all of the burning - everything. But the timid animal plucked up its nerve and, holding the remains of the handle like a spear surged into the room. Splintered wood collided with the towering menace's achilles tendon, drawing some blood to boot! Feeling, for the first time ever, like a predator, Buster attempted to bite at the offending limb before being roughly kicked away.
The whole scene would have been absurd were it not so terrifying, as the not-quite piglet pushed back to its feet while the tall… thing, spoke in his angry, guttural and unintelligible language again, leaning down to attempt to swipe at the animal.
Surprisingly for a man who looked so close to death's door after having so much blood seep from him, it was David who was able to react first. To say he 'lashed out' at the fire pit would be to give the movement too much credit, but he knocked it over none the less, spilling burning debris towards the bare flesh of the family's assailant before he crawled, agonizingly slowly, towards the sack.
Although they weren't timing it, even as father focused on freeing daughter, son made his way to mother, his vision still blurry and head swimming as he fumbled with the knots holding her together.
Similarly handicapped by having only one usable hand, David struggled with the ties keeping the monster's bag sealed.
The fire had surprised the emaciated man, and his scowl stretched his face even more terribly than his smile. But it would have done little if not for the surprisingly quick thinking of Buster who had found a piece of something glowing hot - metal! It seemed to recognize the potential and, ignoring the searing pain as it grabbed the remnant of one toy or another, stabbed it into the man-thing's foot with as furious a cry as something that looked like a cute piglet could manage.
For the first time, the intruder seemed to actually be pained as blood seeped from his foot, almost glowing in the combination of the flames and gentle glow of the horizon beyond the window.
David had managed to succeed first; the sack fell open and out tumbled Stephanie, tears streaking her face as she threw her arms around her father's neck. But she wasn't the only one, other children fell, stumbled and crawled from the bag. More, it seemed, than should have possibly fit in there, some looking near to his daughter's five years and others so young they seemed barely able to walk.
The beastly… thing bellowed with rage when his collection was seemingly freed and he lashed out with another kick that sent the Custom Pet squealing and bouncing off of a wall. He, it, stomped towards David, towards the fleeing children, reaching out with malicious intent now -
as the first rays of the rising sun passed through the window, the horizon nearly matching the inside of the home. His fury seemed only to grow then but as he swiped his hand at one of the children, it passed through, his form fading in the growing light like a flashlight's luminescence disappearing in front of a light bulb.
Sobbing, crying children scattered in nearly every direction as Stephanie clung tightly to her father while Tommy finished freeing his mother.
The fire continued to consume the home, too much, really, for them to do much against in their various conditions. Injuries and exposure, in fact, may have yet claimed them if a new figure hadn't emerged. This one a man, dressed, thankfully, quite extravagantly and smiling broadly, if in ordinary proportions to his face.
"Oh, dear-" He murmured, drumming fingers on the lapel of his jacket as he looked around at the gaggle of children and the Ripke family themselves. "I was hoping to talk with you but this wont due at all. If you'll allow me to get you to a hospital, I think we can wait until you're feeling better."
Too broken up physically and exhausted emotionally to resist, the family as a whole acquiesced to this suggestion.
—-
It was hard to say what was stranger, the trip to the 'hospital' itself, if only by dint of the fact that they had all been ushered into a limousine, or the actual hospital which was staffed by… well, they all looked like life sized dolls all dressed as doctors and nurses, working rather silently aside from occasional generic statements such as 'Take two of these and call me in the morning.' when administering painkillers to the family.
Days passed, possibly a few weeks as they recovered. To some extent, physical therapy was begun and finally, they saw the man again, dressed in a fashion not too different from a stage magician. The Ripkes watched him take off his hat and bow theatrically.
"Hello!" He declared jovially. "I'm afraid I hadn't properly introduced myself at first. Call me 'Jack'. I represent the 'Wonderainment' Company in certain matters." Jack explained, handing out playing cards to each member of the family. The Jack, naturally. "Specifically, in this case, my employer wanted me to congratulate you on your excellent work to prove the superiority of Wondertainment products over that of one of our many competitors-"
"Competitor?" David asked, feeling the spot on his hand where his fingers had once been. "What- what do you mean?"
Jack considered for a moment before explaining. "That Holiday Menace, of course! He seems to have stolen St. Nicholas' schtick, you see, deciding who's 'naughty' or 'nice'. Unfortunately, he doesn't leave coal for the people he decides are naughty and for 'nice'… well, I could tell you stories about his toys that would curl your hair! Ah- but I wont." He added quickly as he took note of their expressions.
"But!" He asserted grandly instead. "the quick thinking of your Wondertainment Brand Custom Pets saved the day! Although, unfortunately, one had been lost. But, the other-" Pausing in his speech, Jack took his top hat off and reached inside, all the way down to his shoulder, before withdrawing Buster and handing him back to Stephanie.
Piglet and girl quickly embraced as Buster cooed and snuggled against his owner again.
"And those other children?" Jill whispered, aware and curious that she'd only seen her own two children since arriving here.
For the first time since he'd entered the room "Jack"s smile left his face and he cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, we are not equipped to handle relocation of the abducted children. However, we have made contact with a certain semi-charitable Foundation in the hopes of having them placed in caring homes." Before anyone could ask about their original homes, Jack pushed on.
"As for you, Dr. Wondertainment has, in recognition of your excellent, if accidental, brand comparison authorized a blank check to oversee your recovery, rehabilitation and, if necessary, prosthesis. I have also been instructed to offer Mr. and Mrs. Ripke jobs within our wonderful family. Quality assurance seems like an excellent place!" He continued.
"What-?" David and Jill queried in stereo. "And how did you even know-?"
"Tut tut, those sorts of questions can wait until you've all finished recovering. I would also recommend we have you placed with a workshop somewhere warmer. It is my understanding that your… friend does not care to be away from snow, and I wager he would hold a grudge. Fortunately, he's very committed to the Santa routine, so we have a whole year to deal with that problem!"
Silence fell over the family again, like a sheet. Seeming to realize he'd spoiled the mood yet again, Jack tried to smile for them.
"Ahh, perhaps I should simply leave you to Dr. Cure's care for a while. We can talk job opportunities and benefits packages once you're all feeling better. Until then, please enjoy the full range of Dr. Wondertainment's hospitality!"
That said, Jack beat a hasty retreat from the room, leaving the still perturbed family to contemplate everything that had been dropped on them.


“The big Four-Oh, huh?”
“Ah, you must be the new one!”
He smiled as the new gate guard handed back his ID badge. For a moment she held it between both their fingers, suspended in the gap between her outpost and the open window of his car.
“Wait, I- I'm sorry, can I ask you something?”
“What's that?”
“Is this your real name?”
He followed the question with a practiced chuckle.
“Sure is.”
The guard flushed in embarrassment, releasing his card to him and nervously punching a few buttons.
“Ha! Uh, well, happy birthday, Agent Baxter!”
“Yup, thanks.”
The gate rolled open and he had finally arrived onsite.
Agent Peregrine Falcon Baxter had a strange name. Usually he was just called Perry. Today was August 1st, which meant it was his eighth fortieth birthday this year. Coincidentally, it was also his actual birthday. And he wasn't forty. He was thirty five.
It started after his seizure at training camp when he was 23. The first of every month was always his 40th birthday, according to anyone who spoke to him in person. There were congratulations on a new decade and apologies for forgetting, met for the first few months with various “I'm not 40, I'm 23”'s and “It's not even my birthday”'s before Perry realized it was easier for everyone if he just smiled and nodded. So he smiled and nodded.
A few rounds through the parking lot confirmed his aching suspicion that the only remaining parking space big enough for his vehicle was right next to the one person who hated said vehicle the most.
Dr. Maxfield stared in unveiled horror at Agent Baxter's car as it pulled into the space beside his red 1968 Mustang. Perry hated to inconvenience or upset his coworkers, but he also wouldn't apologize for his choice in cars. His Honda Odyssey was bulky enough to remind him of his mail van. And being always a frugal man, he was proud that he had scored it from his neighbor for 300$ after she regretted her decision to rattle-can it matte black.
Perry dodged Dr. Maxfield apologetically on his way into the facility, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and watching the ground from under the brim of his baseball cap. But if anything was the real gauntlet of today, it wasn't the judgemental stares in the parking lot, it was the following journey from one end of the crowded building to the other.
“Hey! Isn't today your 40th birthday?”
“Happy 40th, Agent.”
“Oh, shit! I totally forgot about your 40th birthday!”
Everyone around him became an unwilling well-wisher. It was standard procedure for the first of the month, routine by this point. And he would never mention it, but part of him wanted recognition for his real, 35th birthday, even though he knew that was a selfish thing to want.
But they couldn't help it, he knew that. And his effect was, in fact, the entire reason he was here in the first place. Every first, every 40th birthday, he was to report to Site-87, check in with HR, and return to his apartment to twiddle his thumbs until midnight. According to veteran residents of Sloth's Pit, it didn't really matter if civilians came under his effect, because they were far too acclimated to weirdness to care, but it was standard protocol. And Perry Baxter was certainly not about to break standard protocol.
He was not the only Foundation employee with this type of… affliction. There are a lot more anomalous people in the world than the numbers would lead you to believe. The vast majority of them would be a waste of resources to properly lock up, so the Foundation did the next best thing to containing them: hiring them.
There was Dr. Hill, who teleported three feet due South every time he sneezed. Miss Burgess, in the cafeteria, whose voice always sounded like it was coming from directly behind you. Researcher Patton, who had to come to work in flip flops because every pair of closed-toed shoes he ever wore turned into a pair of light-up Sketchers with the laces tied together. All lovely people, as delightful as you could expect from folks constantly under a strict set of surveillance rules.
And there was Perry Baxter, who dodged the birthday greetings with forced smiles and nods, and focused heavily on his single-minded goal to reach HR, check in, and leave as soon as possible. He had a cupcake at home that he had bought yesterday. It was tradition to spend his real birthday alone.
There was a loose thread in his jacket pocket that he couldn't keep himself from pulling. Every time another acquaintance wished him a happy 40th birthday, he felt the string silently pop from the seam. He may have to sew up the pocket again, but better that than snub or snap at a coworker. It wasn't their fault, after all.
So when the HR office finally came into view, Perry picked up his pace from a shuffle to more of an amble. He knocked, even though he didn't need to, and pushed the door in slowly with his usual accompanying “Hullo! It's that day again!” but with noticeably less pep than normal. Ms. Sander breezed across the linoleum with all the adept ease of a woman who rarely left her rolling office chair, stopping perfectly behind the desk in front of him. She pushed a clipboard and a ballpoint pen into his hands, quipping about how she would never have forgotten his birthday (even though she had) and that she would be happy to give him a much-needed haircut, and he thanked her (even though he rather liked his hair the way it was). Perry scribbled his signature onto the same place in the paperwork that he did every month, and stood to leave.
On the back of the door to the HR office, hung up at his perfect eye level, was a flyer.
“DR. SMITH'S BIRTHDAY! COME CELEBRATE IN THE BREAKROOM, TUESDAY, AUGUST 1!”
Perry's relaxed smile soured to an anxious grimace.
What if he pretended he hadn't seen it? He could duck out as quickly as he could, feign ignorance to anyone who asked. But what if people did ask? What was he supposed to do then? Lie? He didn't know Dr. Smith, but what kind of coworker would he be if he didn't wish one of his peers a happy birthday? Even if it was on his own birthday, which everyone else forgot? But he would have to be in that room, with all those people, all telling him “happy 40th birthday” on his 35th birthday…
The string in his pocket popped another seam, and Perry fought off the words gnawing at the back of his mind; “worst birthday ever.”
It took so much energy not to turn on his heels toward the exit. It took so much willpower to smile back at everyone who smiled at him. It took so much effort to drag himself toward the breakroom. But what was the life of a Slightly Anomalous Person than a string of sacrifices made for the good of those around you, a life with your chin up as you gave and gave and gave with no promise of reward other than the preservation of society as it was. Accommodation of everyone else, with none left for yourself.
With a deep breath and a brief hesitation, Perry Baxter pushed open the door.
“HAPPY FORTIETH BIRTHDAY!”
A handful of his coworkers, most of whom he knew in passing, some of whom were a little anomalous like him, stood under a butcher paper banner reading “Happy 35th Birthday.”
Perry stood like a statue in the doorway, too surprised to do anything other than stare as his acquaintances cut into a grocery-store cake with a garish 35 on the top. They hollered and laughed and poured cheap cider into paper cups and they loudly and confidently wished Perry a very happy 40th birthday. Perry took a cup of cider from a grinning Dr. Hill, who sneezed and teleported backward, and he smiled.
And it wasn't that Perry's other smiles were dishonest, it was just that this smile in particular was especially honest.


In the Year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and sixty-five, a great plague struck the city of London and its environs, as has been well-documented by historians and by those who lived in and endured those times. By the time the great conflagration of the following summer burned most of the city to cinders, over half the population of London had died, both of the disease itself, and of the many curious and queer phantasmagoria that followed in its wake. Of the former, much has been written; but of the latter little has been documented for posterity, as those first-hand accounts which remain often disagree on the fundamental nature of those events, and authorities of the Church of England and of Her Majesty's government have sought at several points in the intervening decades to suppress the truth. It is with no small amount of trepidation that I have written this account, for there are many within the government who would prefer that the true history of that year remain a secret. Those who have read my diaries serialised in the London papers, however, will know that I have never shied away from telling the full and complete truth of my own experiences with the preternatural, and I consider it an obligation, both to my readers and to my forebears, that I relate what I have learned in regards to this matter. There are two prefaces to this account which I must give in order to explain the truth of these matters; the first, the biography of my grandfather, Lord David Blackwood, 6th Viscount of Westminster, and the second, the true nature of a certain race once well-known, but now little-remembered.
Grandfather was the third son of his father, Phillip Blackwood. He was never expected to inherit the family estate, and received little of the formal education and upbringing afforded to his brothers Stephen and Clifford; were it not for their untimely deaths (the details of which I dare not go into here, for the sake of their reputations) the obligation would never have befallen him. At the age of twelve, his father purchased for him a naval commission, but he fared poorly as a midshipman, lacking the necessary discipline for so formal a setting, and at the age of fifteen enlisted aboard a privateering vessel that took up arms against the Spanish off the coast of the Americas for well over a decade prior to his accession. I was not yet a boy of ten when he passed into the hands of his Maker, and he was at the time of very advanced age even by the standards of my family's well-known longevity, but even as a centenarian he still possessed most of the traits of his privateering youth; he stood easily over seven feet tall, with a gray beard (which I am told, unlike my own brown moustache, was red as blood in his early years) which stretched the length of his chest, and a long head of hair to match, with steely blue eyes that seemed to pierce one's soul, and a booming voice that cut to the bone.
He was known throughout his life for his extreme devotion to the Christian faith, though he subscribed to no particular confession, Catholic or Protestant, as he found them all lacking. He wore about his neck a crucifix of the finest silver on a chain, which he would frequently brandish as a ward against evil forces, and was wont to carry no fewer than seven Bibles, of various translations, on his person at all times, including a hand-illuminated copy in Enochian said to have been penned by John Dee himself. He was rarely seen without a brace of pistols worn over each shoulder, a sword on one hip, and several phials of holy water in a satchel worn upon the other. He would eagerly thrash any man who profaned the Holy Name in his presence, but he was no teetotaling Puritan either; he could easily best any man in a drinking contest, was a notorious womaniser, and in matters of the flesh he could utter oaths that would make the most libidinous of seamen blush. Even after ascending to the peerage, it seemed impossible to tame him; he was possessed with a perpetual wanderlust that drove him to constant adventuring (a trait I would seem to have inherited from him, though I have fortunately been spared of many of his other persuasions). He was, at various points in his life, a cavalier, a witch-finder, a free-lance exorcist, a plague doctor, a pirate, a condottiere, an ambassador, and for a period of six months the Doge of Venice, but during the years in question, he was occupied in the profession that earned him the greatest amount of notoriety; that of an elf-hunter.
Elves are real, my friends! The beings, also known among our people as faeries, are thought of in this day and age as lithe, miniature, whimsical figures, such as the winged creatures seen in the artificed photographs that have beguiled Conan Doyle, or the creatures of folk tales that mend shoes or bake bread while a hapless working-man is fast asleep, or the labourers who assist Father Christmas (who I may assure you plays a fine game of cribbage and can imbibe whiskey in quantities that would kill most men) with his annual deliveries. In previous centuries, however, they were no such laughing matters. The word "faerie", as any academic can tell you, is derived from "the Fair Folk", a euphemism spoken so as to avoid speaking their true name (which I will not publish here), because to merely speak that name aloud was to risk acquiring their attention, and to be noticed by the Fair Folk, depending on their temperament, may be worse than a capital sentence. It was thus prudent, if one must speak of them at all, to do so flatteringly, so that if you caught their attention, they would at least take little offence.
It is now believed that the elves are wholly extinct as a race; no reliable account of a living specimen has been given since the beginning of the previous century, and even by that time they were rare, having mostly been hunted down during the late Middle Ages. If Darwin's theories on the origin of species are to be accepted as fact (which I do, to the eternal consternation of my brother the archbishop) they comprised Homo alvis, a close cousin of our own race, divorced from mankind some hundreds of thousands of years ago. Physically, they resembled ourselves, but what differentiated them from us was a power of the mind; they could, with a thought, alter the world around them to their liking. They could change their own appearance, or that of others; cause crops to grow instantly or to improbable sizes; manipulate the minds of men and beasts into doing their bidding; invade the dreams of sleepers and cause them malady or ecstasy; and in many sundry other ways bend the fabric of nature to their bidding. Because of this ability, they never built settlements or laboured as our ancestors did, nor did they ever become great in number; they often lived alone or in small groups, in areas unpopulated by man, abandoned by them, or on their outskirts, and lived mercurial lives, wishing their desires into existence as they needed, toying with men as they desired, and coupling only when they chose to, as they rarely died of age or accident due to their abilities and had no need of children to labour for them or inherit what they left behind.
But I digress.
When the plague first struck London, in the summer of 1665, it was believed to be that same common malady, the Black Death, that has beleaguered Europe for centuries and had recently affected other towns in the southeast of England. Indeed, the symptoms of the disease in the early weeks and months were identical to that infamous ague; fever and the formation of pustulent sacs in the groin and extremities, followed by seizures, gangrene, suffocation, and death. Quarantines were enacted in and around the city, and a great many doctors and searchers were employed by the city to find the sick, document their passing, and collect the bodies for burial in mass graves. It was quickly noted, however, that the illness seemed to disobey many of the laws of nature that were at the time understood in regards to disease; many of those who fell ill had had no contact with other afflicted persons, nor been exposed to miasmas or filth, and indeed a good many people so stricken had been perfectly healthy one day before dying abruptly the next. As summer gave way to winter, a new condition was noted among the sick; many began to suffer from abrupt consumption, before or during the onset of the other signs of the plague, turning pale and anemic seemingly overnight.
On the 5th day of January, the sun set at ten minutes after two o'clock; a peculiarly early hour even for London, inexplicable by astronomers even today, and seemingly unobserved elsewhere in the country. It was a long, chilly, and dark night; though there was no sign of cloud, Pepys wrote in his diary that neither the Moon nor the stars could be seen in the sky, and while the temperature was said to be well below freezing, the dew refused to form frost, instead clinging to every surface, impossibly cold and penetrating to the bone. The following morning, the sun did not break the horizon until fifteen minutes after nine, and when the pale winter morning was finally illuminated, the people beheld an unfathomable horror in the Thames; about five score of men and women floating dead in the river, face-down, stripped to the buff, all of them pale as ivory, their trunks cut open and stitched together again as if by a skilled dissector. In the days that followed, the families and neighbours of those poor souls would be identified and all told a similar tale; the individual had spontaneously fallen ill during the long night, grown pale, and become absolutely mad, and in their madness attempted to attack and kill them. In a handful of cases, they were successful, strangling the life out of their loved ones, seemingly with no recognition of what they were doing, or biting and tearing at their flesh until they expired from loss of blood, though in the majority of instances their relations were successful in restraining them, or were forced to kill them outright, in self-defence. In all situations, the afflicted person eventually expired on their own terms, and each family told the same story of what occurred afterward; a man in the costume of a plague doctor came knocking at their door, entreating them to bring out their dead, upon which they delivered them into a wheel-barrow he hauled behind him, stacked with other bodies in a similar state.
This alone was cause of alarm, both to the Lord Mayor and to the Privy Council, as such savagery had never been encountered before in England, but stranger still was the events of the following days, when many of those dead spontaneously arose, most of them in a partial or extreme state of decomposition, lacking both breath and heartbeat and yet somehow ambulatory, and again attacked anyone who happened to be in their presence. No such resurrection of the dead had been recounted since the time of Christ, and the circumstances of that miracle were quite unlike the horror that had been unleashed upon London. The Church was hesitant to address the nature of the event, but the Fifth Monarchists proclaimed it a sure sign that the Millennium was imminent, and a good many of their membership began to withdraw from civilisation, isolating themselves in the country to prepare for the divine scourging they expected to occur; and though the Fifth Monarchists have passed into the annals of history, the "Fifth Church" those doomsayers cleaved to is believed to persevere in the shadows of polite society to this day. It was the unanimous agreement of the City Fathers that an expert in matters preternatural was needed - and it was thus that the Lord Mayor sent notice to the Basque Country, where Grandfather had of late been at work exterminating a coven of Druids who threatened to unleash a terrible doom upon the Spanish Crown, that his services were required with the utmost urgency.
Upon his arrival in the city several weeks later, Grandfather recounts in his papers that the situation in London had become unimaginably dire. Day and night no longer seemed to follow any consistent pattern; the sun would set at a moment's notice and rise again at midnight, or not rise again for several days; likewise, there were times when the sun failed to set and the city baked under its unceasing warmth. When night fell, the risen dead roamed the streets with seeming impunity, attacking any they encountered, and the recently deceased were seen to dig themselves out of the mass graves dug for the victims of the pestilence. It was rumoured that they even teemed through the empty halls of the Tower of London and of St. James'. Few ships ventured to the city, for the malady that befell it had become well-known, but ships departed constantly, their captains knowing full well they might arrive at some foreign shore only to be ordered to return, lest they spread the same doom into those lands. The strange plague doctor reported on the night of the 5th had not appeared again, but other strange occurrences were observed nonetheless. On his second day in the city, Grandfather recounts that he saw two dozen deer marching down Marylebone in a tight formation, as if pulling a coach, but they had no riders or harnesses, save for one at the rear of the troop that carried a dead fox upon its back. As he observed silently, the formation approached one of the mass graves and the fox was shunted off of the hart and into the pit, and the venison retired to the woods as formally as they had arrived.
In his notes from the first few days, and his discussions with the doctors of the city, he discovered that although the quarantine had proven ineffective and disease and death were rampant within the walls and without, that few of the sick and dead bore the distinctive buboes that marked the beginning of the plague. Grandfather surmised that although the Black Death had indeed been the origin of the city's misfortune, it had already passed its course; what affected it now was not of nature's doing. The dead who walked the streets had shewn themselves, under his examinations, to be utterly feral; no spark of the soul that had once slept within that flesh yet remained, only the desire to kill and to eat. They seemed to suffer no pain, and feared not the crucifix he wore around his neck, but recoiled from its touch which left a mark as though it were a branding iron. Fire was effective at returning them to their rest, as was dismemberment and, to his uneasy discovery, a silver bullet to the head or heart. This was all the proof Lord David Blackwood needed to ascertain the cause of London's ongoing terror; a faerie, or faeries, were surely afoot. The revenants themselves were not fey, nor were they the strigoi that haunt the Balkans, but there could be no other explanation for their animation than the mad desires of one of those terrific sylvan elders.
To protect the citizenry from the dead, Grandfather recruited as many of the militia as were still healthy into his service, and every able-bodied silversmith in London was commissioned to supply them. He armed them with silver bullets for their guns and silver-tipped swords, and silver crucifixes such as the one he wore, for it is well known that a crucifix of silver, blessed in the name of God, will warn against the presence of faeries by glowing brilliant blue. When night fell, they patrolled the streets to despatch any of the wandering dead they encountered, and to watch for any sign that their creator was near. The mass graves he ordered burned, and when it was observed that the sky was beginning to dim, the churches of the metropolis rang their bells in the greatest cacophony London has ever heard in peace-time, warning the townsfolk to return to their homes, shut themselves inside, and emerge not until dawn broke. The searchers of the dead were ceaselessly at their work; for even a single undiscovered body, left to rise, could cause untold devastation.
Pamphlets were circulated broadly and ministers preached from street corners, warning of the danger of the night and calling on one and all to watch for any of the signs that might indicate their neighbour was a faerie in disguise; their tendency to shift subtly in appearance when glimpsed only in the corner of one's eye, a smell of fresh flowers when none are present, their fear of the Cross and silver and the sound of church bells, a whispered laugh when one thinks oneself alone. As the months passed and winter bled into a summer as inconsistent and grim as the winter had been, dozens if not hundreds of Londoners had been arrested on suspicion of being fey, but none had shewn themselves to be the genuine article until a certain evening late in August, as Grandfather was purging a ward in Southwark well past midnight, when a messenger found him, reporting a strange discovery in Pudding Lane. A deputy had been patrolling the area, presently free of the dead, when he observed a glimmer of light emerging from the boarded-over window of a shuttered bakery. Bidding his fellows to remain silent and ready their weapons, he approached the bakery and, peeping through the crack, beheld a sight that gave him reason to think he had become mad; the oven was alight, dough was being mixed and kneaded, pies were being stuffed, bread was baking, and meat was roasting on a spit above a flame, yet no man's hand tended any of it, save for a young man who could scarcely be older than twenty, who stood leaning against a wall, motionless, watching. The deputies broke down the door of the bakery and quickly apprehended the man, who gave no struggle, but no sooner did they lay his hands on him than the wizardry around them ceased; the dough fell idle, the spit ceased to turn, the oven extinguished itself. He spoke only Dutch, and proved unable to answer their enquiries, so they delivered him to the Old Bailey, where Grandfather met him after dawn had broken. No sooner did he enter the chamber where the youth had been clapped in irons than did he notice the aura emanating from his crucifix. Grandfather had encountered faeries before, and it had shone almost brighter than the sun in their presence; this was no such emanation, but a dull glow, as if a distant memory of the setting sun.
Grandfather spoke little Dutch himself, but he found himself able to converse with the youth enough to discern that his name was Wouter Vanderhorn and he had recently arrived from the Spanish Netherlands. He refused to say much more until Grandfather threatened to remand him to the Church, to discern what truths they could persuade him to part with, at which point he gave an explanation of his behaviour at the bakery that shook Grandfather to his core. He insisted that he was not a faerie - but that his own grandfather was, and he had come to London to help him, for he was gravely ill. After certain negotiations were made and warnings issued, Wouter agreed to take Grandfather and his deputies to meet the elder Vanderhorn; and as another premature night fell, the pair made their way through the streets of London with an escort of deputies, as well as the Bishop of London and several of his deacons, who had asserted a pressing theological interest in resolving these calamities.
Wouter guided them to a crypt in a forgotten cemetery outside the walls where he said the old man had taken refuge, and escorted them down a staircase into a chamber where there lay, on a threadbare bed, a man both impossibly old and impossibly disfigured; he was shriveled and wrinkled to what must have been half his size in his youth, bereft of any hair, his eyes clouded and obviously blind or near-blind. He breathed each breath with great difficulty and issued forth a great and raspy wheeze as he did so. Moreover, he was covered head to toe almost completely in buboes, and when his plague-addled frame met the light of the party's torches, many of the men recoiled in horror lest they be infected. Grandfather's crucifix glowed brighter than before, but still not as much as he had seen in the past. Before Grandfather could speak, the Bishop demanded of the old man that he explain himself, and like his grandson he spoke only Dutch, obligating Grandfather to translate.
The elder, who called himself Johann, said he was some five hundred and seventeen years of age and had lived for most of his life in the Low Countries. His mother was a faerie who lived alone in the woods and, unlike many of her kind, desired to bear and raise children more than anything her psychical abilities could provide her. Finding no suitable mates among her own kind (as, according to the papers I have alluded to, they were almost entirely extinct in Europe by that point), she beguiled a woodsman into marrying her, and in the fullness of time he became their only issue. As a child, he lived in the woods with his mother, but he never learned to master the manipulation of the world in the way of her kind, and his abilities seemingly manifested only in his dreams. He was twelve when a hunter sent by the Church slew his parents and he found himself alone, eventually making his way into the city as an orphan, learning a trade, and raising a family who he would in time outlive. As decades and centuries passed and he grew increasingly aged, he sought others of his mother's race in the hopes that he might learn to rejuvenate himself as they did, but in nearly a hundred years of searching he found not one faerie left anywhere in Europe, nor even a half-breed like himself. It was at that point, in the height of his despair, that he chanced to learn of a certain play then being performed in London, a revival of one written half a century prior by an Englishman named Shakespeare, which spoke of the matters of faeries. (Grandfather did not document the name of this play in his memoirs, but I am certain he refers to A Midsummer Night's Dream.) Johann recalled being told stories of Oberon and Titania by his mother as a boy - perhaps this bard's recounting of their affairs, Johann surmised, meant there were still faeries living in England? He embarked on a ship to London to begin his search, hiding well out of sight of the city folk, but as fate would have it, his arrival in May of the previous year coincided with the arrival of the plague, and he had fallen ill with it, retiring into the crypt to wait for death.
Wouter explained, as the elder man drifted into sleep from exhaustion, that he had heard his grandfather calling to him in his head for several months, begging him to come to London and aid him somehow. He had some difficulty finding a vessel willing to make the passage, but had arrived earlier in the month, following instructions he heard his grandfather's voice speak to him silently, that lead him to the crypt. He surmised that while his grandfather's elvish ancestry was strong enough to prevent him dying of the plague, it did not prevent him being sick with it, nor was it strong enough to purge the ailment from his ancient form; instead, he lay helpless in the darkened tomb, in a perpetual state of fever, falling in and out of consciousness, and during those periods of slumber suffered intense nightmares, which in turn caused the abrupt disappearances of the sun and the rising of the dead. Wouter feared to seek help from the authorities, knowing full well that the Church considers the Fair Folk to be Satanic mockeries of God's creation and inherently anathema to the perseverance of a Godly people, and that they were both apt to wind up on the stake if discovered. Though the elvish blood was even more dilute in his veins than it was in his grandfather's, he said that with practice he had found the strength to work the apparatus of the bakery and deliver the products thereof to the crypt in the hopes that he could nurse him back to health and give him the strength to overcome the plague. (Indeed, there were a great many half-eaten cakes and pungent bones of beef strewn about the chamber.)
At these revelations, the Bishop and his deacons found themselves in deep discussion as to what to do next. Faeries lack a divine soul, and it is right and just to kill them upon discovery; but though these two were of elvish blood, they also had the blood of man, and thus the spark of the divine, within them. Johann was clearly ill and insane, and would be better suited for Bedlam than for the gallows; but the nature of his condition meant that imprisoning him there would do no good. What of the younger one, then? His intent was pure, if his deeds were unseemly. Perhaps it was best to confine them both in some isolated environ for a time, while the Archbishop could be considered?
It was at that point in the conversation that Grandfather crossed himself, muttered a brief prayer for the old man's soul, drew a pistol from the brace over his shoulder, and discharged a silver bullet into the poor half-breed's heart. The sound of the report in the crypt was deafening, and the flash of light almost blinding, and Wouter issued an unholy scream as in an instant the life faded from Johann's eyes. Grandfather tossed the spent pistol aside and made ready to draw a second and end the life of the younger man, but before he could do so the Bishop placed himself between the two and demanded that he stand down, for from the top of the stairs there shone a light that before was absent - the light of the noontime sun, which had vanished when the elder fell asleep moments before. The horror, it seemed, had ended.
In the following days, the sun began to rise and set as it ought to during the waning days of summer, and the dead rose no more. A handful of Londoners continued to pass from their symptoms, but by the first of September there were no new illnesses to document. There was some brief discussion among the City Fathers as to what should be done with the Earthly remains of poor Johann. Several doctors of the city expressed a great desire to dissect the corpse, as it was possible that examination of the brain might elucidate some of the differences between our races that enabled the faeries to perform such amazing feats, and that a body in such a heretofore-unseen advanced state of plague might provide clues as to how to better treat the malady in the future. Ultimately, the Bishopric decided against such desecration, and ordered the body burned among the common victims of the plague. When Wouter had his day in court, it was the opinion of the Chief Justice that he could be found guilty of any number of offences warranting death, hard labour, or transportation; but in consideration of the circumstances deigned to grant mercy to the youth, instead ordering him to pay five shillings to the baker for the misuse of and damage to his property. Wouter had scarcely a penny to his name, but Grandfather grudgingly paid the fee on his behalf, on the condition that he depart England by week's end and not return.
It was in the wee hours of the following Sunday, of course, that that infamous great fire arose in the west of London. Four days it burned, and most of the city was reduced to ruin by the time it had passed. Had the fire struck the city a year or two prior, tens of thousands would have been caught up in the holocaust; but after the deprivations of the plague year, many of the homes incinerated were no longer inhabited, and it is believed that only a handful of Londoners died in the blaze itself. In the weeks that followed, as the rubble was cleared and the prospect of rebuilding the city began to arise, the coroners of the city determined that the fire had begun on Pudding Lane, in the area of the same bakery where Wouter had been found working his magic to supply food for his grandfather. Of the bakery itself nothing remained, but the great stone oven stood still, and within it, there was found the skeletal remains of a man, scorched by temperatures unimaginable, yet not reduced to ash. In his papers, Grandfather suspected the remains were those of Wouter, and that, despite the seeming honesty of his testimony, he was not what he seemed, for in Johann's own testimony he mentioned a family, but never mentioned a grandson, let alone one as youthful as Wouter had appeared to be. Given his grandfather's ability to conjure life from non-life, it was possible, and indeed likely in his supposition, that Wouter had never existed until Johann conceived of him in a fever-dream, a grandson he never had who could aid him in his hour of need, who possessed the ancestral talents he himself lacked. With his creator dead, Wouter no longer had a purpose and chose to take his own life by lighting the fire in the oven and laying himself within it - and as he felt his body burning, he unwittingly tapped into those same powers and ignited the city around him, turning all of London into a grand funeral pyre.
London was, in time, rebuilt, from the foetid medieval shanty-town it had been, into the gleaming metropolis we behold today, and since the fire, the plague has not returned to our city, nor has evidence of the continued existence of the Fair Folk reached the banks of the Thames. You may be inclined, dear readers, to think this account a bit of humbug. It will, after all, be nearly Christmas by the time this tale makes its way to the news-agents, and Christmas is the time of year for the telling of ghost stories. If you are so inclined to believe these words to be naught but fiction, then I shall not dissuade you, and I shall say Happy Christmas to you, and a Happy New Year as well. But if you are so inclined as to believe this account of the evidence I have unearthed, then I present for you a post-script.
In his final years, Grandfather would often invite me to his study and tell me great tales of the Blackwoods who had come before me; primarily of Richard Blackwood, his son and my father, but also of his own father and grandfather and their brothers and sisters. He showed me once a family tree he had composed after countless hours of research, that cited baptismal records and tax records and censuses dating back to the Domesday Book. As I was compiling this account, I thought I espied a detail that I vaguely remembered from that family tree, and after some careful searching through the library in our family estate where his collection is housed, I found the document. Five generations before my grandfather, there is listed Henri du Blackwood, 1st Viscount of Westminster, and the first of my lineage to be awarded the title "Lord Blackwood". He is listed as the child of Etienne du Blackwood and Genever van der Horne, whose father, who according to baptismal records was born in the year 1149, was named Johann.
Happy Christmas! Happy New Year! Sleep well - and if you must speak of the Fair Folk, do so flatteringly.
-T.T.B.