Page 3 of Kraved By Krampus

Chapter three

Noelle

The darkness wraps around me like a cloak, but the fireplace provides enough light to see. My hands tremble as I grip the manuscript tighter, my dark little secret ready to become nothing but ash.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the pages. “But you were never meant to exist.”

One by one, I drop the sheets into the flames. The fire devours them eagerly, orange tongues licking up the edges of my careful handwriting. The ink sparkles one last time before disappearing forever.

My chest tightens with each page I destroy. It feels wrong, like I’m burning pieces of myself, but I force myself to continue.Better to kill this story now than let it destroy everything I’ve built.

The fire crackles and spits, flames turning an unnatural shade of purple as they consume my words about Krampus and his dark winter magic. I tell myself it’s just a trick of the light, the result of too many sleepless nights and too much stress.

As the last page catches fire, a deep groan echoes through the cabin. The wooden beams overhead creak and shift, a sound like bones breaking. The floorboards beneath my feet seem to vibrate with disapproval.

“Stop it,” I say to the empty room. “It’s just an old house settling.”

Another creak, louder this time, and the window shutters slam closed. The temperature drops so fast I can see my breath. The remaining flames in the fireplace flutter and dance, casting strange shadows on the walls.

The cabin seems to contract around me, wood groaning in protest at what I’ve done. Even the previously cozy reading nook feels hostile now, its cushions rigid and uninviting.

“It’s done,” I announce to the room, trying to sound firm despite feeling crazy for doing so. “I’m going back to writing what I should have been writing all along.”

The cabin responds with a series of sharp cracks, like gunshots in the silence. A door slams somewhere upstairs, though I know I closed them all earlier.

The ashes swirl in the fireplace, defying gravity as they spiral upward instead of settling. My heart pounds against my ribs as the purple flames twist into impossible shapes. This can’t be happening.

A dark form materializes within the fire itself, growing larger and larger until it towers over me. The temperature plummets further, frost crystallizing on the windows. I stumble backward, my hip hitting the arm of the couch.

Red eyes gleam in the darkness, and obsidian horns catch the firelight. The figure steps out of the flames, bringing shadows with him that curl around his massive frame like living smoke. He’s exactly as I wrote him—but that’s impossible because I just burned those pages.

“You.” The word escapes my lips in a shaky whisper.

“Did you think destroying the pages would make me disappear?” His voice is deep, resonant, exactly like the voice that’s been in my head these past weeks. “You called me forth with every word you wrote.”

I shake my head, backing up and putting the couch between us. “You’re not real. You can’t be.”

“I’m as real as the blood in your veins, little mate.” He moves closer, and despite his intimidating size, his steps are silent on the wooden floor. “Your words awakened what was already there, waiting.”

“Mate?” The word comes out strangled. “What are you talking about?”

“The ancient magic of Yuletide chose you for me.” His clawed hand reaches out, not quite touching my face. “Why do you think these stories poured out of you? Why do you think you couldn’t stop writing about me?”

The air between us crackles with electricity. Every hair on my body stands on end, and my skin tingles where his shadow-cloak brushes against me.

“We’re bound, Clara. Have been since the moment you first put pen to paper.”

“Clara?” Ice floods my veins. No one knows that name—not my readers, not my publisher. I’ve buried it deep beneath layers of Noelle Goodheart, Queen of Christmas Cheer.

“Stay back.” I grab the fireplace poker, brandishing it between us. “This isn’t happening. You’ll destroy everything I’ve built.”

His expression shifts, shadows dancing across his face. “You fear your own truth more than me.”

“My truth? I write wholesome holiday romances. I inspire people. I give them hope.” The poker trembles in my grip. “Not... whatever dark fantasy this is.”

“Dark fantasy?” A low growl rumbles through his chest. “Is that what you think this is?”

“My career would be over. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to build this image? To be someone people can trust?” The words spill out, frantic. “I can’t be associated with… with demons and darkness and—”

---