Page 80 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Honey,” she said, patting my arm with a surprisingly firm grip, “I have lived in this town my entire life. I’ve seen summers that were too hot and winters that were too cold. I’ve seen businesses fail and families flourish. And I have never, not once, seen this town so… grey. So joyless. If you’re telling me that an ancient winter spirit is tied to my favorite Christmas shop and that the only way to save him—and us—is to throw the biggest, most heartfelt party this town has ever seen… then you’d better believe I’m getting my best church-lady organizing shoes on.”
A laugh, wet and shaky, escaped me. A real, genuine laugh. I looked at Jenna, who was already pulling out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Okay,” Jenna said, her expression all business. “The ornament drive is already a go. We expand it. Every business in town becomes a collection point. We need more than just ornaments. We need memories. Stories. People need to bring something that represents a happy Christmas memory and hang it on the tree in the square.”
“The tree!” I said, the idea sparking with sudden, desperate inspiration. “The tree in the square. That’s where we do it. On Christmas Eve.”
“Christmas Eve,” Jenna confirmed. “Perfect.” She looked up from her phone, her eyes serious. “What do you need, Noelle? From us. Right now.”
“I need…” I hesitated, my gaze drifting towards the stockroom, where a flicker of shadow was the only sign of him. “I need you to help me to bring people together, to remind this town what it feels like to hope.”
“You’ve got it,” Mrs. Haversham said, her voice ringing with a conviction that steadied my own. “The church social is tomorrow. We’ll announce it then. We’ll make it the theme of the season. A Community Carol of Memories.”
The phrase was perfect. So perfect I knew it hadn’t come from either of them. A faint, warm tendril of thought curled in my mind.The anchor must gather the offering.
He was listening. He was still here.
CHAPTER 27
The next two days were a blur of activity that bordered on the insane. The town, which had been listless and grey, had already started to recover a little of its spirit, and it was galvanized even further by the story Jenna and Mrs. Haversham spread—not of dark magic and fading Krampuses, but of a community coming together to save its own spirit. The story of a small, brave shopkeeper who wouldn’t give up, and the mysterious, quiet consultant who had helped her stand her ground against a greedy developer.
My shop became the unofficial headquarters of the “Community Carol of Memories.” The stockroom, the pristine temple of order Bastian had created in a different lifetime, was now a chaotic collection center. Boxes overflowed with ornaments of every shape and size. But these weren’t just ornaments. Each one came with a story, written on a small card and tucked into a little envelope.
There was a chipped ceramic angel from a widower who said it was the last one his wife had hung on their tree. There was a fragile glass bird from a nurse, representing the first Christmas she worked after her daughter was born. There was a single,mismatched mitten, carefully turned into an ornament by a little girl, “for my brother who is in heaven.” Each one was a tiny, tangible piece of joy, a memory given form. A sacrifice of light. I could feel the energy they radiated, a low, warm hum that seemed to soak into the very wood of the shop.
And through it all, Bastian was there. A silent, watching presence.
He stayed in the shadows, in the apartment or the deepest part of the stockroom. He never fully materialized. He was a ghost in his own afterlife, a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision, the scent of smoke and frost when I entered a room, the faint touch of a thought in my mind.That is an inefficient way to stack boxes. You are going to create a structural collapse.orThe cat has once again knocked over the display of felt mice. Perhaps you should consider a less clumsy feline.
He was still him. Grumpy, critical, and impossibly dear. But he was fading.
At night, when the shop was empty and the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the old grandfather clock, he would let me see him more fully. He would sit on the couch, not solid, but shimmering, like a reflection on disturbed water. I would curl up next to him, and though I couldn’t feel the warmth of his body or the softness of his fur, I could feel the essence of him, a cool, steady presence against my side. I would tell him about the day, about the stories attached to the ornaments, about the small, defiant acts of hope I witnessed.
He would listen, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his translucent lips. Sometimes, a hint of the old fire would return to his eyes. “They are fighting,” he’d murmur. “Your people. They are remembering.”
“They’re stubborn,” I’d reply, my throat tight. “Just like me.”
“Thank the winter for that,” he’d whisper back, and the thought would be so full of affection it felt like a real touch.
Christmas Eve arrived, cold and crystal-clear. The sky was a deep, endless blue, and the air was sharp with the promise of snow. The town square was transformed. The sad, empty tree in the center was now a riot of color and light, almost groaning under the weight of the thousands of donated ornaments. It wasn’t a professionally decorated tree. It was a chaotic, mismatched, deeply personal masterpiece. The chipped ceramic angel hung next to the fragile glass bird. The single mitten dangled near a painted pinecone from a kindergartener. The tree wasn’t just decorated; it was alive. It hummed with the collective memory of a thousand happy Christmases.
A stage had been erected, and a choir was singing, their voices clear and bright in the cold air. The whole town was there, bundled in coats and hats and scarves, their faces turned up to the tree, their breath pluming in the frosty air. They held paper cups of hot cider and steaming mugs of cocoa, but their real warmth came from each other. It wasn’t what I’d originally planned, but it was so much more.
I stood at the base of the tree, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. My gaze kept drifting back to my shop. The lights were on, a beacon of warm, golden light against the encroaching twilight. The sign on the door read “Closed for Community Carol. Please Join Us!” Inside, the circle of salt was still on the floor, a faded, almost invisible remnant. Waiting.
Bastian?I sent the thought out, a tentative probe into the quiet space in my mind.
Here, little light.
The response was weaker than it had been this morning. A thin, reedy thread of thought.
Are you ready?
As I will ever be.
I took a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. Jenna squeezed my arm. “We’re with you,” she said, her voice firm.
Mrs. Haversham gave me a watery smile. “The whole town is with you.”
