Page 18 of Never Kiss a Krampus
He left a few minutes later, taking one of my handmade ornaments for Lucy. “On the house,” I’d insisted, when he’d pulled out his wallet. “It’ll bring you luck.”
“I’ll take all the luck I can get,” he’d said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“This Grinchly,” Bastian said thoughtfully. “He is your antagonist.”
“He’s everyone’s antagonist,” I corrected, moving listlessly to straighten a display of gift tags that didn’t need straightening.“He’s a developer. He buys up historic properties in towns that are struggling, and then either tears them down for some soulless condo complex or lets them rot until he can get them for pennies on the dollar.”
“He seeks to profit from despair.”
“Exactly. And he’s very, very good at it.”
“Then he is already on my list,” Bastian said, and there was a finality in his tone that sent a shiver down my spine, despite the warm sweater and the steamy coffee mug.
“Your list? The naughty list?”
“I keep many lists, little human. All of them are concerned with balance.” He moved to stand by the window again, looking out at Main Street. “This street is suffering. The life is being squeezed out of it, shop by shop. The spirit is dwindling.”
“It’s the economy,” I said, hating how defensive I sounded. “People don’t have disposable income for Christmas ornaments.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something else at work here.”
“Something like what?”
Before he could answer, another customer entered, and then another. By ten o’clock, I’d had more customers than I’d seen all week. Some came for the usual holiday shopping. Others came specifically to see the “incredible costume” that everyone was talking about on the local Facebook group.
A group of teenagers arrived around eleven, phones already out, asking if they could do a TikTok in the shop. They positioned themselves around Bastian, who stood silent and imposingwhile they filmed themselves pretending to be scared and then breaking into laughter.
“This is gold,” one of them said. “Where did you get the costume? It looks so real.”
“Family heirloom,” he said, his face perfectly serious.
They loved that.
Throughout it all, he observed. Every time I looked up that burning amber gaze was fastened on me and every time my stomach would do a little flip-flop of what was definitely not terror. I found myself straightening displays I’d already straightened, re-arranging ornaments that were already arranged, all under the weight of that steady, unnerving stare.
He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. The soft jingle of his chains followed him like a constant, ominous footnote to every interaction, a reminder of the truth behind the facade. He watched me help a frazzled father find the perfect gift for his difficult-to-shop-for wife. He watched me patiently answer a tourist’s questions about local history. He watched me wrap a fragile glass ornament in enough tissue paper to cushion a small meteor.
Around noon, Mrs. Haversham returned, this time with a small group of her retired friends. They descended on the shop like a flock of elegantly dressed birds, their jewelry sparkling in the afternoon light. They all wanted to examine Mrs. Haversham’s ornaments, which I’d carefully arranged on a small table with a sign that read “Vintage Treasures—Mrs. Haversham’s Collection.”
“This one,” Mrs. Haversham told them, pointing to a delicate glass bell with a painted winter scene. “My mother used to ringthis on Christmas morning to wake us up. She said the sound carried magic from the night before.”
“My mother had one similar,” another woman said. “Mine got broken years ago. I’ve never seen another one.”
They bought six ornaments between them, paying full price without a moment’s hesitation.
Mrs. Taylor came in to drop off more nutcrackers, saw Bastian, and immediately declared him “perfect inspiration for next year’s collection.” She spent twenty minutes sketching him from different angles while he stood motionless as a statue.
“The horns are the tricky bit,” she muttered, eraser shavings covering her notepad. “But if I can capture the curve… yes, that might work.”
“You are an artist,” he observed.
“I’m a retiree with too much time and a garage full of wood.” But she was smiling. “Though I appreciate the compliment. You’ve got good bone structure for carving. Very dramatic.”
When she left, Bastian turned to me. “She creates beauty from flawed materials.”
“That’s one way to describe her work.”
“It is the only way. Perfection is cold. Sterile. Life exists in the flaws.” He picked up one of her nutcrackers again—a different one this time, with a chip in its paint and eyes that didn’t quite line up. “This has character.”
