Four men burst out upon the road at the hilltop right next to Millie’s glowing manger. Black men, cloaked in dark, ragged hoodies, carrying sticks and clubs. Their heads bobbed about, looking every which way until one of them spotted the man in the Santa suit. He let out a howl, jabbed his club in the direction of the fleeing white-bearded man, and the whole pack gave chase.
“What the hell!”
The Santa man raced past Jesse, dashing toward the sleigh, huffing and puffing, his eyes wild, his jolly cheeks flush, and a fierce grimace taut across his face. He was stout, not the traditional fat Santa Jesse was used to seeing, but solid through the chest and arms.
The pack rushed down the lane in pursuit, brandishing their weapons. Jesse realized their hoodies were actually cloaks of fur, hide, and feathers, billowing and flapping out behind them as their long, loping gait quickly narrowed the gap. Jesse caught the glint of steel, noted nails protruding from the clubs and deadly blades atop the sticks. He felt his flesh prickle—their orange eyes glowed, their skin shone a blotchy, bluish black, and horns sprouted out from the sides of their heads, like devils. “What the f—”
Two more appeared, darting out from behind the Tuckers’ trailer, intent on intercepting the Santa. These two wore jeans, boots, and black jackets with hoods. Santa didn’t even slow; he put his head down and rammed his shoulder into the first man, slamming him into the second assailant, knocking both attackers off their feet.
A gunshot thundered. One of the pack had pulled a pistol, was trying to shoot the Santa man. He—it—fired again. A chunk of wood splintered off the sleigh.
“Away!” the Santa screamed. “Away!”
A head popped up in the front seat of the sleigh—looked like a boy, a boy with large, pointy ears. The boy looked past the Santa man and his eyes grew wide. He snatched up the reins and gave them a snap. The deer pranced forward and the sleigh—the sleigh actually rose off the ground.
“What . . . in . . . the . . . hell?”
The Santa man slung the red sack into the back of the sleigh and sprung aboard. Jesse was struck by just how nimble and spry the stout old guy was. The sleigh continued to rise—a good fifteen feet off the ground now. Jesse figured they just might escape when the foremost devil man leapt—launching himself a distance Jesse would’ve thought impossible—and caught hold of one of the runners. His weight pulled the sleigh down sharply, almost toppling it.
The remaining five devil men leapt after the first, four of them clambering into the back of the sleigh while the last one landed upon the back of the lead deer. The reindeer—rolling their eyes and snorting fretfully—pawed at the air and the whole circus began to spin upward.
The pistol went off three more times. Jesse was sure the Santa man was hit, but if he was, he didn’t seem to know it. He let loose a tremendous kick, catching one of the men square in the chest, knocking him into another and nearly sending both of them off the back of the sleigh. The pistol flew from the creature’s hand and landed in the snow. Another devil man grabbed the sack and tried to leap away. The white-bearded man let out a crazed howl and lunged for him, grabbed him, swinging and clawing. He landed a mighty fist into the devil man’s face; Jesse heard the bone-smiting blow all the way from his truck. The man crumpled and the Santa yanked back the sack just as the remaining creatures fell upon him.
The sleigh shot upward, spinning even faster, and Jesse could no longer see what was happening, could only hear screams and yowls as the sleigh spun up, and up, and up. He stepped out from the truck, craning his neck, tracking the diminishing silhouette. The clouds had moved in and it was snowing again. The sleigh quickly disappeared into the night sky.
Silence.
Jesse let out a long exhale. “Fuck.” He clawed out a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jean jacket. About the time he located his lighter, he caught a sound and glanced back up—someone was screaming. The screaming grew in volume and he caught sight of a black speck tumbling earthward.
THE DEVIL MAN landed on the front windshield of the Tucker boy’s Camaro, smashing into the hood and setting off the horn. The horn blared up and down the snowy lane.
Jesse took a step toward the car when something crashed down through the trees and slammed through the roof of his mobile home. He turned in time to see the back window shatter and his Christmas lights fall off—that one damnable red bulb finally going dark. Jesse looked back and forth, unsure which way to go, then continued toward the man on the car hood.
Lights came on and a few heads poked out from windows and doors.
As Jesse approached, the horn made a final sputtering bleat like a dying goat and cut off. He stared at the black devil man, only the man wasn’t really black or really a devil. He wore a crude hand-stitched cloak made from what must be bear hide, and his hair and ragged clothing were smeared in what appeared to be soot and tar. His skin reminded Jesse of the miners heading home at the end of their shifts, their faces and hands streaked and crusted in layers of coal dust. The horns were just cow horns stitched into the sides of the hood, but his eyes, his eyes flared, glowing a deep, burning orange with tiny, pulsing black pupils. They followed Jesse as he walked around the vehicle. Jesse hesitated, unsure if he should come any closer. The strange man raised a hand, reached for Jesse with long, jagged fingernails. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, and a mouthful of blood bubbled from his lips. The man’s hand fell and his eyes froze, staring, unblinking, at Jesse. Slowly, those vexing eyes lost their glow, changed from orange to brown, into normal, unremarkable brown eyes.
“Now that was weird,” a woman said.
Jesse started, realizing that Phyllis Tucker stood right next to him in her nightgown, house slippers, and husband’s hunting jacket. Phyllis was in her seventies, a small lady, and the hunting jacket all but swallowed her up.
“Huh?”
“I said, that was really weird.”
He nodded absently.
“See the way his eyes changed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That was really weird.”
“Yes, ma’am, it sure was.”
Several other people were venturing out, coming over to see what was going on.
“Think he’s dead?” she asked.
“I believe he might be.”
“He looks dead.”
“Does look that way.”
“Hey, Wade,” Phyllis cried. “Call an ambulance! Wade, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Wade called back. “Be hard not to. They’re already on their way. Fiddle-fuck, it’s cold out here. You seen my jacket?”
From three trailers over, the Powells’ two teenage daughters, Tina and Tracy, came walking up, followed by Tom and his wife, Pam. Pam was trying to light a cigarette and hold on to a beer, all while talking on her cell phone.
“Why’s he all black like that?” Tina asked, and without giving anyone a chance to answer she added, “Where’d he come from?”
“He ain’t from around here,” Phyllis said. “I can sure tell you that.”
“Looks to me like he must’ve fell off something,” Tom said. “Something really high up.”
Everyone looked up except Jesse.
“Like maybe out of a plane?” Tina asked.
“Or Santa’s sleigh,” Jesse put in.
Phyllis gave him a sour look. “Don’t believe the Good Lord approves of folks disrespecting the dead.”
Jesse pulled the unlit cigarette from his mouth and gave Phyllis a grin. “The Good Lord don’t seem to approve of most things I do, Mrs. Tucker. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Billy Tucker arrived, hitching up his jeans. “Shit! My car! Would you just look at what he done to my car!”
Jesse heard a distant siren. Too soon for an EMT. Must be a patrol car. His jaw tightened. He sure didn’t need any more trouble, not tonight. And if Chief Dillard was on duty, that could be a bad scene indeed. Jesse ducked away and headed back toward his trailer.