Page 81 of Never Kiss a Krampus
The town didn’t know what was really happening. They thought this was a celebration, a symbolic end to a difficult season. They thought we were celebrating the town’s resilience, not trying to use its collected joy to fuel a magical transference that might or might not save the life of a fading mythological being. Their innocent faith was both a comfort and a crushing weight. I couldn’t fail.
I walked to the small podium that had been set up. A microphone waited. My hands were trembling so badly I had to grip the sides to keep them still. The crowd fell silent, their faces turned to me, a sea of hopeful, trusting eyes.
“Hello,” I began, my voice cracking slightly. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello. A few weeks ago, this town… this place we all love… was in danger. Not just of losing a few businesses, but of losing something more important. Its spirit. Its… joy.”
A murmur went through the crowd, heads nodding in agreement.
“We’ve all felt it. The greyness. The weariness. The feeling that the season was just… something to get through, not something to celebrate.” I looked up at the tree, at the mismatched, glorious chaos of it. “But we fought back. We fought back not with anger, but with memory. With kindness. With the small, bright things that make this season matter. We took our happiest moments, our most precious memories, and we hung them on this tree, for everyone to see.”
My gaze found Jenna and Mrs. Haversham in the front row. Jenna gave me an encouraging thumbs-up. Mrs. Haversham was quietly crying into a handkerchief.
“These ornaments,” I continued, my voice growing stronger with every word, “are not just decorations. They are proof. Proof that the light is stronger than the dark. That hope is a choice. That this community, our community, is not for sale. It is not something that can be drained away or extinguished. It is here.” I tapped my chest, right over my heart. “In every single one of us.”
The crowd erupted in applause, a warm, rolling wave of sound that was more than just polite clapping. It was a release, a collective exhale of relief and pride.
“Now,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the noise. “Now, we celebrate.”
The choir struck up a joyful, soaring rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” The crowd joined in, their voices creating a wall of sound so pure and full of hope it felt physical. I could feel it, a palpable energy, a warm current flowing through the square. The light.
This was it. The offering.
Now, Bastian,I thought, my heart a frantic drum.I’m bringing it to you.
I slipped away from the podium, melting back into the crowd while Jenna took my place, thanking everyone for coming and reminding them to enjoy the cider. No one noticed me leave. Their attention was on the tree, on the music, on each other.
I ran. Not a frantic, panicked sprint, but a determined, ground-eating run down the snowy street. The sounds of the celebration faded behind me, replaced by the crunch of my boots on the pavement and the ragged gasp of my breath. Each step was a prayer. Each heartbeat a desperate plea.Don’t let me be too late.
I burst through the door of my shop, the little bells jangling a frantic welcome. The shop was quiet, a warm, silent sanctuary after the boisterous energy of the square. The only light came from the Christmas tree in the window, its thousands of twinkling lights a silent, steadfast vigil.
And he was there.
He was standing in the center of the faded salt circle, not shimmering and translucent, but almost completely gone. I could see the patterns of the rug, the legs of the display counters, the base of the tree right through him. He was a ghost made of mist and memory, a fading outline of the magnificent being he had been.
He turned as I entered, and even in this state, the sight of him sent a pang through my heart. The red glow was gone from his eyes, replaced by a soft, weary amber that seemed to be losing its light from within.
“You came,” he whispered, and his voice wasn’t a rumble anymore. It was a faint, breathy echo, like the wind sighing through the trees.
“Of course I did,” I said, my own voice thick. I walked towards him, my boots feeling heavy, as if I were wading through snowdrifts. “I brought the offering.”
I could feel it now, the energy I had absorbed from the crowd. It wasn’t a tangible thing, but a warmth that spread through my chest, a gentle, golden light that pulsed in time with my heart. The collected hope of an entire town.
He held out a hand, or where a hand should have been. It was a wisp of shadow, barely visible. “The circle,” he murmured. “You must complete the circle.”
I knelt on the floor, my knees pressing into the worn wood, the salt line a cool, faint ridge beneath my fingers. This time it wasn’t a summons. It was a release.
I placed my bleeding palm—it had started bleeding again, a thin, golden line—on the salt line. The golden light in my blood flared, reacting with the circle.
“I didn’t know what I was asking for,” I began, my voice quiet but clear in the silent shop. “I was desperate and afraid, and I reached for a miracle in the dark.”
The shop lights flickered. The golden light from my palm intensified, spilling onto the floor, tracing the faded lines of the salt circle until it burned with a steady, brilliant fire. I could feel the current of energy from the town square, a warm river flowing through me, converging on this one point.
“I didn’t find a miracle,” I continued, my gaze meeting his. “I found you. A grumpy, critical, surprisingly tender being who reorganizes my stockroom and brings me hot chocolate and judges me for my inefficient garland-hanging techniques.”
A faint smile touched his translucent lips. The outline of his form seemed to solidify, just a fraction, as if my words were giving him substance.
“You told me once that the brightest light casts the darkest shadow. That you can’t have one without the other.” The golden light around me pulsed, a steady, defiant heartbeat. “You are my shadow, Bastian. You’re the darkness that let me see the light. Not just in the shop, but in myself. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.”
The light was no longer just spilling from my hand. It was pouring from me, a warm, tangible river flowing towards him, filling the circle, shimmering in the air between us. It was the joy from the square, the memory of every chipped ornament, every shared laugh, every defiant carol. It was my own stubborn, foolish, endless hope.
