D-Funk Style

They stopped on the doorstep but the door said “Marley,” not Scrooge, so they argued about it for a good thirty minutes until the bells tolled midnight.

“Shit!” Past shouted, shoving incorporeally through the door. He muttered “shit shit shit shit shit” until he was out of earshot.

Present and Future waited for the longest hour of their deaths. It was a quiet Christmas Eve, cold and damp, and even the most wretched of London’s denizens had found somewhere else to be.

“We’re gonna get it right this time,” said Present, trying to sound declarative instead of pleading.

“Yeah,” agreed Future. “Past is probably in there just stuffing his heart full of regret, nostalgia, and empathy.”

“We’re gonna get it right,” Present said again.

They waited.

-

Past stumbled out at 12:55, visibly distressed.

“Well?” Future asked eagerly.

“How was it?” asked Present.

“Was he regretful? Remorseful?”

“Is he wallowing in nostalgia?”

“Does he long to change his ways?”

Past seemed paler than usual. “I mean, maybe?”

“Maybe’s not fucking good enough!” growled Future.

“What happened?” asked Present.

“I don’t know!” Past floated in circles on the porch, round and round like a slow, spectral whirlpool. “He said his past self was whiny. That he was glad he pulled himself by his bootstraps and stopped being such a snowflake.”

“Bootstraps?” Future shrank a foot. “A snowflake!”

“Damn it!” Present shouted. “This is going even worse than last time!”

“No, no, no,” Future muttered. “We can’t. We have to turn this around.”

“Yeah,” said Present, reaching for him. “Yeah, if he’s this sort of asshole, we can’t just appeal to empathy and regret. We have to go big.”

“We have to scare him!” Future grew to his full height again, and then some. The white glint of a skull shone from behind his black cowl.

“No, we have to terrify him!” shouted Present. “No more pussyfooting around! We’re gonna scare this bitch into reforming, and then we’re gonna get into heaven!”

“We’ll show him the fate awaiting the greedy and the wicked!” said Future.

“Yeah! And we’ll show him all the grossest ways greedy men have died!” Finally, some real ghostly shit. This was going to work. Michael’s boring shit hadn’t worked but this? They were basically already through the pearly gates.

“No! No!” Past tried to grab their arms, but he was hilariously incorporeal. “You heard Michael! No creative license!”

“Well, maybe Michael’s script worked fine when the Black Death was everywhere but it’s 1843 and modern times call for modern tactics.”

“I have ex wives down there, Past. Four of them!” Future’s form became even more tattered and ghastly as he thought of them. “I can’t go down!”

“And you’re not gonna!” Past beckoned to him. “Come on. You’re coming with me! Together or not at all!”

“He’s gonna change his ways RIGHT NOW.” The air shook with the final words, and the two of them bolted upstairs.

-

Ebenezer lay on the bed, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth agape in a rictus of horror, the grayest man Present had ever seen. One hand clutched with long, curling fingernails at his throat, the other at his heart.

Present poked him in the eyeball this time. He did not move.

“I told you so,” said Past yet again.

“We’re all going to hell,” said Future grimly.

“No, no,” said Present. “Maybe we can scare him alive? No.” She started to pace.

“Maybe we can say he was dead when we got here,” suggested Past.

“We could flee,” said Future. “Purgatory isn’t so bad. London’s a great place to haunt.”

Present’s mind raced. She opened the file she’d been handed and leafed through the contents. “Cratchit. Bob Cratchit. We go to him.”

“Is he a necromancer?” asked Past.

“Even better: he’s a decent guy who’s easy to bully. Come on!” She rushed downstairs and into the dark, foggy night.

-

To his credit, Bob Cratchit did not scream. He stared at the three of them for ten wordless seconds before whispering, “Am I dead?”

“Not yet,” said Future.

“Stop it, you’ll kill another!” said Past.

“You’re fine, everyone you love is fine,” Present said quickly. “You have been, uh. You’ve been called by the great beyond to do us wretched, forgotten souls a favor.”

“But it’s also a favor for you.”

“And your family.”

“A way to right the wrongs of the Past,” Past whispered.

“And grasp hold of the Present,” she said.

“To make a better Future,” he said, then added, “Wow, we should have been doing this as a team the whole time.”

“It’s not bad,” Past admitted.

“What?” Bob squeaked miserably.

“We need your help and we’ll get you a lot of money if you do it,” said Present. “Come on, out of bed. You’re going to work.”

-

“So let me get this straight.” Bob hadn’t taken his eyes off of the corpse for the entire time he’d been upstairs. He spoke clearly and calmly, but his gaze remained fixed on the nasty old man. “You want me to write a fraudulent will for my notoriously evil and miserly boss.”

“Right,” agreed Past.

“And then you intend to puppet the corpse of my boss around London on Christmas Day in order to give me and the other men in his employ a raise.”

“And to cut the interest rates and forgive accrued interest of anyone who took out a predatory loan from Scrooge’s accounting house,” Present reminded him.

“And you want me to imitate his voice to declare all of this in public so that everyone - including literal angels - can hear it.”

“It all sound so much more simple when you say it that way.” Future sounded relieved.

“I’ve died,” muttered Bob. “This is hell and I’m dead.”

“Oh, none of us are going to hell,” said Present firmly. “We’re all working together on this one and none of use are going to hell.”

“This cannot be what our Lord and Savior, Je—”

Past slammed his incorporeal hands down on the table with a startling bang. “Look, do you want to save your son’s life? Does that seem like a moral good worth a little fraud? Does it seem more important that the wishes of the biggest trash can of a man I’ve ever seen? Does that possibly seem like something worth shutting the fuck over?”

Present exchanged a delighted glance with Future. Maybe Past wasn’t so bad after all.

Bob looked away from the corpse at last. He looked at the paper in front of him, then around the dusty old room that had belonged to two dead men. He considered the fine bedposts, the embroidered curtains, the mahogany dresser. He looked once more at the corpse.

“We’ll need to get him dressed,” he said.

-

“Move the feet more naturally!”

“What do you mean, more naturally?” Present crouched down, studying the feet again. She lifted the left foot, then the right, and the body of Ebenezer Scrooge trod right down Leadenhall Market.

“You have to bend the knees!” whispered Bob from where he hid amidst Future’s shadows.

Present tried, she really did, but it was hard to hold the feet and the knees at the same time. She tried to push the left knee up with her head but clearly that wasn’t going to work. She tried lifting just the knees and - “Look, I’ve got it!” She glanced up at at the upper half of the corpse. “Past, you’ve got to keep his head up!”

“Well the arms are a lot to keep track of!” Present wrenched the head back, letting one of the arms fall slack at his side.

“It’s more important than the arms, if you’re not careful the damn thing will snap right off!”

“We can say he had a stroke!” said Future helpfully. “Then you only have to worry about one of the arms!”

“This cannot be the will of the angels,” murmured Bob.

They ambled through the Market through an entirely reasonable and unsuspicious amount of gawking and fainting.

-

They burst through the doors. “Merry Christmas, Timothy!” said Bob nervously, pitching his voice low and adding a bit of a quaver. “I’ve come to give you a raise!”

Timothy Mallory sat at his table, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyes fixed upon the corpse of his employer. “Mr. Scrooge?” he asked in disbelief.

Bob stood in the corner, glancing around nervously, but he was completely concealed by Future’s dark cloak. “Well of course! Who else would give you a raise? The king?”

“When did you learn my first name?” Timothy asked, bewildered.

Present kept one hand on the corpse’s waist and the other on his jaw. She tried to match the movement’s to Bob’s words, but he wasn’t sticking to the script anymore. “Don’t worry about it!” She moved the jaw with the words and tried to tuck the corners up into a smile.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” Timothy stood from his table, dropping the spoon. “You don’t look well.”

“I had a stroke!” Bob glanced down at his paper once more, remembering the script. “And it’s brought about a change of spirit! I saw an image of my own death! But I did not die, no! I live another day to right my wrongs! And one of those wrongs is your salary, old chap! Catch!”

Past moved one of the arms as if to throw something.

“The money!” Present hissed. “You have to throw the money!”

“Where the hell is it?” asked Past, dropping Scrooge’s head to pat at his pockets. Scrooge’s head slumped sharply on his shoulders.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll call you a doctor?” Timothy took a cautious step closer.

“Nonsense! It’s Christmas!” Present patted at the other pocket, finding the pouch of coins and remembering to move his jaw a full two seconds after Bob had spoken. She handed the bag to Past, who flung it at the man without attempting to move Scrooge’s arm

“Well!” said Bob. “Merry Christmas!”

“You really don’t look well,” said Timothy, reaching for the man’s arm.

Present picked the body up firmly by the waist and hauled him out the door, trying to at least kick the feet a bit as she moved. Future ushered Bob out with equal speed and slammed the door behind them.

“Wow!” said Future as the propped the body against the wall. “This is easier than I thought!”

-

They argued about it for a while, then decided to drag the corpse back to Scrooge’s. They opened a window, bribed two dozen urchins very handsomely, and waited until the crowd had gathered.

“Are you ready?” Future asked.

Bob nodded, eyes fixed on his paper. “Yes. This is… I’ve done a bang-up job, actually. I can do this.”

“We all can!” said Future. “As long as Past remembers to hold up his head.”

“Well it’s a lot easier when I’m not holding up his shoulders, too,” Past grumbled. They’d stuck the corpse onto a coat rack and since then he looked much, much more believable.

At the twelfth bell, they opened the windows. “Merry Christmas!” said Bob. His Ebenezer voice was improving.

“Look, it’s him!” said someone from below.

“I bleeding told you, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t know he even knew what Christmas was!”

“Now,” whispered Future.

Past lifted the right arms and threw a generous handful of shillings out into the crowd. Gasps and giggles rose from the crowd as they scrambled for them. That had their attention.

Present moved the jaw along with Bob’s words. “I have gathered you all here today to witness my change of heart. In the night, I was moved by the Christmas Spirit! My heart has softened and my soul has broken free. I have known shame and sorrow! The scales have fallen from my eyes, and I have repented to the Lord. It is now to the people of London that I repent!”

Present lifted a hand again and threw another handful of shillings to the astonished crowd.

Bob turned his page over. “I have spent a long career fattening my own wallet at the expense of the poor. I have lived as a parasite amongst you, sucking you dry as I took and took. I have stolen joy from the proud citizens of the city, and I have seen the error of my ways!”

The crowd murmured in appreciation.

Present tried to make the lips smile again, but the facial muscles had stiffened past the point of clear movement. She hoped the jaw wouldn’t tense up too. “Starting this day, all my employee’s wages will be tripled! Yes, all of them! And they will no longer work all night, but only eight hours each day!”

Excited cheers rose from a few employees at the front, who hugged each other in joy and called out their thanks to the corpse.

Bob smiled warmly, looking out at them, before returning to his script. “And anyone with an outstanding loan will have the interest - no you know what? All those loans will be forgiven! The entire sum!”

Present moved the jaw frantically to keep up. He was going off script again.

A raucous cry of amazement rose up, and the people below starting chanting, “Scrooge! Scrooge! Scrooge! Scrooge!”

“In fact, you know what? I lobbied for that policy in the first place! Yes, I secretly lobbied amongst the House of Lords to ensure that any bills about regulating interest on short-term loans never made their way to an actual vote, even if my clever clerk can’t prove that I did it. It was definitely me. But that was back before I had a stroke! Now I will lobby for a revision of the calculation of compound interest to be more equitable to those borrowing small amounts and to decrease debt burden in lower-class estate calculations!”

A more confused cheer rose from the crowd.

“You probably don’t need to talk policy to this lot,” said Past nervously, throwing a few more coins. He forgot the hand again, but no one seemed to mind.

Bob was on a roll now. He stepped dangerously close to the window, script long forgotten. “In fact, you know what? I ask you on this day, you common folk of London! You law-abiding citizens! When’s the last time a law was passed that directly benefitted you? The House of Lords passed 61 laws last year, most of them pertaining to inheritance and foreign trade policies that only apply to luxury goods! They, too, are parasites feeding upon us righteous, hardworking people! I say we abolish them entirely! I say we look to our brethren in France fifty years hence, and I say we—”

“Too much,” hissed Present, no longer moving the jaw. They needed Michael to believe it, after all.

Future placed skeletal hand over Bob’s mouth. Bob yelped, struggled, then seemed to come to his senses. He shook his head rapidly, exhaled, and nodded at Present.

She moved the jaw to say, “Sorry, I think I had another stroke!”

There were a few polite chuckles, as well as some discussions of guillotines, but hopefully Michael wouldn’t hold that against them if anything came of it.

“Anyway, uh, Merry Christmas! Have some more money!”

Past chucked an entire purse out the window and slammed the shutters shut. “We cannot have another Reign of Terror,” he said firmly. “They really frown upon that sort of thing upstairs.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Present. “Come on. One more stop.”

-

Mrs. Cratchit opened the door and screamed.

“No, no, calm down, my lov— I mean, Madam. It’s me, Ebenezer Scrooge, your husband’s employer!” Bob’s voice was starting to get hoarse from speaking as Scrooge.

“You look like a bloody corpse!” she gasped. “You look like a demon come to snatch us!”

“Uh, no, just here to say Merry Christmas! I see your fine husband isn’t here, which is a shame! I came to give him a raise!”

Present tried to move along with the improvised words when a tiny hand tugged at her arm. A small boy stood before her, staring. “What are you doing to Mr. Scrooge’s mouth?” he asked.

“Hey, don’t give it away!” she whispered sharply.

“That child shouldn’t be able to see or hear us,” said Future darkly. “He is unwell.”

“What do you mean unwell?” asked Bob, then switched back to his old man voice. “I mean, I was unwell! Of the soul! And now I’m unwell of the body! But my soul is better!”

The child turned to Future. “Why are you covering my daddy?”

“Ho ho ho!” said Bob desperately. “Timmy, no, it’s fine! I’m covering your - I’m - I’m here to cover your daddy in money!” He stared pointedly at Past.

“Throw the money!” Present said.

Past threw a massive bag of coins on the table, once again neglecting to even jostle the hand as he did it. God, he was bad at this.

“Are you Death?” Tim stepped close to future, reaching out a hand. “Is it time?”

Future giggled in delight. “Aww, little buddy! That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Seriously though, you need to go to a doctor because you should not be able to see us.”

Mrs. Cratchit opened the bag and gasped, dropping it with a clatter onto the table. “Why, that’s two years’ salary right there!”

“No, no, that’s the calculated value of what Bob Cratchit saved the accounting house, minus the profits from unjust interest rates. After taxes, of course. Bob’s getting a raise and a promotion! I have his new contract right here!”

“Use your arms!” Present hissed.

Past used Scrooge’s arm to reach into the coat pocket, where it promptly got stuck. Past tugged at the wrist, then the forearm. He finally pulled at the elbow, wrenching everything free with a sickening crack. He sighed and threw the contract on the table, swinging the arm wildly.

“Merry Christmas! I’m having another stroke!” said Bob. “Tell Bob about the promotion!”

“Merry Christmas?” Mrs. Cratchit sounded more troubled than ever. She stepped close to Tim, drawing him up in her arms.

“God bless us, every one!” Tim waved to the corpse, the three ghosts, and his father.

Past and Present dropped the corpse on the stoop the second they closed the door. “We did it!” said Present. “Suck a dick, Michael!”

“I cannot believe I got stuck with you,” moaned Past.

“No, but seriously,” said Future to Bob. “It’s been great working with you but you gotta take your kid to the doctor right now.”

-

Michael rubbed his angelic eyes again and sighed the longest sigh in all of history. “This was not God’s plan,” he said.

“I told you so,” Past muttered.

“Four ex-wives,” Future moaned.

Present said nothing and focused on looking as pious as fuck.

It worked. Michael looked up. “This was not God’s plan,” he said again. “However, this is also true for much of human history. There may yet be a place for you amongst us.”

“What?” asked Past.

Present felt a glimmer of hope in her ghostly heart - as well as the glimmer of feathery wings erupting from her back.

“Now is this the hotel they put you in?” Her mother squinted anew. “Or are you staying with some man?”

“I’m not - Mom. This is an Airbnb. The office is paying for it. It’s perfectly fine. Look.” Kiara switched to the back-facing camera. “I’m in the living room.”

“What’s that you’re watching?” her mother asked as Kiara walked past the TV.

Kiara pretended not to hear. “And here’s the kitchen, and look! I even have a balcony to look out at the snow.” She pressed the phone to the window, revealing two inches of sludgy grey snow.

“Well isn’t that something! Christmas snow! Just like when I was a girl.” Her mother’s expression softened. “You know, your great-grandmother lived in Tinsel! We spent the winters with her in Tinsel until she passed.”

“I know, Mama.” She’d mentioned great-grandma Hattie every time she called for the past month, even. Kiara had never met her. Another narrowly escaped tradition.

“The old bat hated Christmas, but it was still lovely. And oh, the snow! You could send some of that down to us for Christmas Eve!” Her mother sounded almost happy for a moment before asking, “How’d you decorate your tree?”

“What tree?” Kiara realized only too late that this had been a trap.

“No tree?” Her mother was immediately, dramatically offended. “So you are too good for Christmas then! Too good for the way you were raised! Well I guess we can keep all these presents and give them to Tavia’s kids. And everyone will just be so disappointed to—”

“Mama! I didn’t get to the tree place yet!” Kiara thought fast. “And I had to ask the Airbnb host if trees were allowed.”

“What do you mean allowed? It’s Christmas!”

“They don’t allow all kinds of stuff! I’m going to get one tonight. Calm down.”

“Hmm.” Her mother seemed mollified. “Well, at least you’ll have a tree. And we can FaceTime you for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. And Christmas afternoon. Here, say hi to your aunties.”

“Actually, the tree place closes in 15 minutes,” Kiara said quickly. “I’ll call you back when I’m home.” She would do no such thing. Hopefully someone would get drunk or break something and she’d be completely forgotten.

Another face appeared. Aunt Janae, of course. “Kiara, what’s wrong with your face?”

“Gotta go to the tree store, love you, bye!” She hung up and tossed the phone on the floor. She unmuted Star Trek and went back to watching Geordi try to explain love to Data.

She picked up her phone after a few minutes and checked the hours for the tree farm out on Highway 98. She’d passed daily en route to the data center she was auditing, and it seemed festive enough for her mother’s taste. Given the results of her Covid plant phase, a living tree might not be the best plan.

But it would probably be a good excuse for hanging up the phone the next few times her mother called. Besides, Star Trek could wait.

She sighed, put her shoes back on, and grabbed the keys.

-

The signs informed her that wasn’t a tree farm. It was a Christmas extravaganza.

She almost went back to her Airbnb, but she spotted a sign that said homemade spiked apple cider, free with ID. It was enough to bolster her against the onslaught of festivity. She got a red plastic cup from a jingling teenager who couldn’t be nearly old enough to drink it, let alone guard it, and walked through the nightmare.

Every single vertical surface had a wreath hanging on it. Every horizontal surface had a candle, an angel, or a knock-off Elf on a Shelf. The covered walkway opened up to a clearing dominated by a single, massive Christmas tree. The monstrosity was completely covered in glitter and strobing lights. It was hideous. She walked by it as quickly as she could, only to find her path stopped by Santa Claus.

“Ho ho ho!” said the old man. She wondered if he was the sort who thought he was hot shit for doing one amateur acting gig a year. He sort of seemed like it. “Why, don’t I know you?”

“Data center?” she asked. “I’ve been down there all week. I’ll be out of everyone’s way once the audit is done. Nothing personal.”

“The what center? No, no. Nothing like that. You’re…” He stared at her, just openly stared like some kind of weirdo.

“Right, well, I gotta get a tree.” She turned to walk toward the fence behind the giant tree.

“Hattie?”

She kept walking, though she had to fight her way to do it. Hattie would be over a hundred years old now. There’s no way he’d recognized her great-grandmother in her features.

-

The crowd thinned out once she got to the actual trees. She wandered with her fellow procrastinators until a deep, country-tinged voice asked, “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, I need the smallest tree you have.” She turned around.

Oh, no, he was hot.

He stood a few inches taller than her, though his red Santa hat probably exaggerated that difference. He looked fairly light-skinned, though it was hard to tell in the red and green lights, and he had tight black curls just long enough to tempt her fingers. He had broad shoulders barely hidden under a red coat and a nice smile, with a little bit of a gap in his teeth. It would line up nicely with hers, the recently-dumped-and-horny part of her brain suggested unhelpfully.

“We’ve got a wide range of sizes,” he said smoothly. “We’ve the miniatures, small enough to set on your dashboard, but I can do something bigger if that suits your fancy.”

“No,” she said firmly to the traitorous part of her brain, then, “Yes actually. Sorry. Yes. Big enough for my living room. My Airbnb’s living room.”

“Oh, welcome to town.” He had dimples when he smiled, actual dimples. “I’m Whittman, but everyone calls me Whit. And like I said, we have all sizes. There’s a nice two-footer left, though I’d recommend you hustle before Mrs. Hammond snatches it up. If you want to cut your own, though, the smallest we can do is four feet.”

“Cut my own?” she asked. “How?”

He laughed and unclipped an axe from his belt. “Your choice. You can try your hand at an axe or use a hand saw. Hand saw is usually easier for beginners, but axes are great stress relief.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never cut a tree. I never even had a real Christmas tree before.”

“Never?” he asked. He raised his eyebrows, but it wasn’t unkindly. “There’s nothing like it. A nice tree, a good meal, and maybe a little more of our cider, if I can persuade you to buy a bottle? Now that’ll make your whole house smell like the holidays.”

She took a gulp of her forgotten drink. “I don’t know if I can keep a four foot tree alive. I couldn’t even manage a marigold. Maybe something a little smaller than that?”

“Let’s check out that two-footer then.” He took two long strides down the path before wincing. “Damn. Maybe not.”

An old woman was peering curiously at a tree than came up to her waist. She walked slowly around it, running her fingers through the - leaves? Needles? She picked up the price tag hanging near the top, frowned at it, and bent low, inhaling deeply to evaluate the scent.

That was when the tree ate her.

-

Time seemed to slow as the trees opened their mouths - and they had mouths, of this Kiara was certain - and started to pick up their roots. They moved slower than she could run, but there was so many of them, all shapes and sizes as promised, pulling themselves free from the dirt to bring about festive carnage.

“Run!” shouted Kiara, grabbing Whit by the arm as she kicked off her heels.

He stood motionless, the only living thing in the entire farm that wasn’t moving. “No,” he said. “No, no, not my trees.”

Behind him, a teenager dressed as an elf hacked helplessly at an ambling five-footer with his handsaw. He got only a shower of needles for his efforts before he chucked the saw at the tree. “They’re too strong!” he shouted as he ran.

“You’ve got to run!” Kiara shouted, pulling on Whit again. But he was - he was whatever he was, a farmer or lumberjack or something.

Another tree stepped close, this one much taller than both of them. It smiled, somehow, with pinecones like teeth.

“No,” said Whit, dropping to his knees. “You were perfect. You can’t.”

“Whit!” Kiara shouted, but it was no use. He was resigned to his fate. With a surge of nauseous terror, she rushed forward and pushed him to the side, knocking him out of the tree’s reach. He struck the ground firmly, left side to the sky, a red axe glinting in the Christmas lights. Kiara wrenched it loose and suddenly the nausea was gone as she felt its weight and momentum. This was right. This was the way to do it. She shouted, suddenly more angry than afraid, and used that momentum to pivot and strike the tree.

It was easier than she’d expected, no harder than cutting an apple with a well-sharpened blade. The tree’s green needles turned instantly brown as it split cleanly in half, both parts falling harmlessly to the ground.

This was right. She tightened her grip on the axe and whirled around as two more pines approached. Three swings of the axe - two horizontal, one diagonal, each balanced perfectly - and again they dropped brown and lifeless to the floor.

She offered a hand to Whit, who was staring at her with mouth agape. “How?” he asked.

“No idea. Run!” she shouted.

-

The screams got louder as they approached the central square, and the trees seemed to get rowdier. Kiara dispatched them as quickly as she could, picking up a giant candy cane in her off hand to repel any bites that came too close. Whit ran of his own volition now, providing the occasional warning or direction as they moved towards the square.

“Kids! To the left!” he shouted out now, and Kiara turned sharply to see a cluster of children cowering behind the old, weird Santa. An army of dashboard Christmas trees hopped menacingly towards them, snapping at Santa’s boots.

Kiara leapt forward and swung her axe at a few, knocking them easily aside, but there were too many. She couldn’t get them all, not with a blade. She looked around desperately, then spotted the candles. “Get ready to take cover!” she shouted to the Santa, throwing the candle at a tree near the center of the horde. It caught fire with a satisfying whoosh but again, it wasn’t enough fire.

She looked at the table and spotted the cup. It wasn’t enough fire yet - but it could be.

She took a sip of someone’s drink and tried to spit it out, realizing only too late that this couldn’t possibly work, this couldn’t have a high enough alcohol content to fuel a fire at all, let alone burnt a tiny malevolent army.

Except it did.

She blew out instinctively and fire roared forth from her as if it had always been a part of her, as if she was a dragon. The trees shrieked and vaporized instantly, leaving tiny piles of smoldering ash.

Everything was still for a moment.

Then the children fled from Santa, completely unscathed by the flames, running towards the unshaded parking lot and safety. Santa, who also had somehow avoided the flames, fell to his knees in the ash.

“No time to be creepy, old guy!” she shouted. “Go! Get out of here!”

“It’s you.” His voice quivered with emotion. “You’re Hattie’s successor. You’re the chosen one of the ancient anti-druidic line. You’re the Reaper of the Holly.”

“The what?” she and Whit asked in unison.

-

“I don’t know as much as I should,” he said as they ran. “Most of the ancient texts were lost in the 1800s, as the original bloodlines betrayed the old ways and forgot their duties. The power of the Reaper came from Brittany, thousands of years ago. The anti-druids held back the forces of winter. The biting cold wind. The rumbling glaciers sliding south. The awakened bear, forsaking slumber for weakened bones. And the unsleeping trees, come to drink of human life.”

“Why do the trees want our lives?” Kiara asked.

“I don’t know, Hattie didn’t tell me that one. I was always more interested in not getting eaten.” He huffed and jingled as he ran, leading them past the barn and towards a quaint farmhouse.

“Hang on, Brittany is France, right?” Whit asked. “How come it passed to Kiara’s grandmother?”

Santa shrugged. “I guess she was more worthy than some southern white lady in 1910.”

They nodded. That, at least, certainly made sense.

“But why me?” Kiara asked. “Why now?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve kept the old ways.” He stopped running suddenly and grabbed her hands. “Young lady. Granddaughter of Hattie.”

“Great-granddaughter,” she corrected him.

He winced. “Balls. I’m getting old. Great-granddaughter of Hattie Lowell. Have you forsaken the woods, living in the warm and well-lit places of the world?”

“Yes!” she said. “I moved to New York for college and I’m going back as soon as this audit is over!”

He nodded. “Have you eschewed the crafts of the woodland green, that leaves may wither in your hand?”

“I…” She thought of her two dozen dead Covid plants. “Yes. I think I have.”

“And have you harbored in your heart a natural distrust and disdain for Christmas and Yule?”

She stared at him in astonishment. “All my life,” she whispered. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he said firmly. “I think there’s something very right with you. But there’s one way to be sure. Quickly! Before the Great One awakens!”

“What Great One?” asked Whit, running behind him. “What do you mean, a disdain for Christmas?”

Santa led her to the back of the farmhouse, where a dull metallic object protruded from an old stump. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the stump. “The original was melted down, but the bronze was used to cast a modern weapon for a modern age. It has rested here for decades since Hattie laid it down. Only you can pull it free.”

Kiara stepped cautiously forward. It was an old-fashioned chainsaw, something she couldn’t remember seeing outside of Evil Dead 2, and it was entirely cast in bronze.

“Wait a second, no.” Whit stepped between her and the monument. “That can’t be right. My dad made this monument. It’s a replica of my grandfather’s first chainsaw, the one he used at our first Christmas tree farm back in—”

Kiara stepped around him easily, taking the handle in one hand and the rip cord in the other. She pulled and the chainsaw roared to life. Power surged through her, and in a moment she could hear her great grandmother’s voice, a voice she’d never heard in life, whispering, “Make some sawdust, kid.”

“What the fuck?” asked Whit.

Santa wept quietly before her. “The chosen one. After all these years.”

Back in the square, all the Christmas lights went out. A different glow rose from the massive Christmas tree, malevolent and green. A sound like a thousand creaking doors rose from above another rush of screams.

“That way,” said Kiara, revving the chainsaw. “I have to destroy that Christmas tree.”

-

The tree smashed the sleigh, the wreaths, the tables, and with each new splinter absorbed it seemed to grow taller and brighter. It glowed like something radioactive, something foul and wicked. It crushed its kin beneath its truck, absorbing their bark and needles, growing taller and taller. It scooped another tacky sweater-bearer into its horrible maw. Blood dripped through its green boughs; perfect Christmas colors.

“You were my father’s pride and joy!” Whit cried out in despair. “And you turn on us now, at your most radiant! Why!”

The tree looked at him with something unlike eyes, something older and worse. It laughed, and it sounded like jingling bells and all the forces of hell. It reached forward and extended, its vile limbs elongated by the life force of its brethren. It lifted Whit easily, entombing him in bark up to the neck. “You are meat,” the tree said, in a voice as biting and terrible as the winter wind. “And I am eternal.”

Kiara strode forward. It was tall and ancient, but so was she. “You are kindling, you piney bitch!” she said. She’d have time to work on her one-liners. She revved the chainsaw and ran into the fray.

-

“You sure you want to come with me to the city?”

Whit smiled as he loaded up the last of his tools into his truck. “I imagine they need wreaths in the Bronx, too. And there’s been some interesting work in the field of rooftop farming in the last few years. Besides, I’m not sure I’m comfortable rebuilding this close to…” He looked at the distant woods and shuddered. “You know.”

“There’s plenty of trees in New York,” she warned him. “Central Park has a million of them or something.”

He turned to look at her, expression almost shy. “Then I’m glad I’ll have you to protect me.”

Bradley, who had been dressed as Santa three nights before, emerged from what remained of the farmhouse. “This is all I could find,” he said, offering her two books. “This one is from France. 1640, if the date is to be believed. And this one is everything Hattie told me. If I find more, I’ll send them to you.”

“I appreciate it, Brad,” she said.

“There will be more, you know,” he warned her. “Especially in the long stretches of road to the east. Now that you’ve come into your power, the oldest trees will sense you. They will seek your bones.”

She patted the bag that held her beautiful new chainsaw. “I’ll be ready.”

Her phone vibrated. She glanced at it and sighed. Her mother. She pressed mute and ignored it. It could wait til Boxing Day.

“Hey!” Whit waved at her from beside his truck, holding up a sequined Santa that had once served as a tree topper. “Can we bring this one with us?”

The man stood stiffly beside the chairs, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes. He kept his back very straight and folded his arms tightly over a nice blue sweater. He looked about Javier’s age, probably a college kid home for the holidays.

“Tailbone?” Javier asked.

The man opened his eyes. “Sorry?”

“Broken tailbone?” Javier asked again. “That’s what you’re here for, right?”

The man stared at him for two cold, silent seconds before replying, “No.”

Fine. He didn’t have to make conversation. Javier pulled out his phone and opened instagram again, clumsily scrolling with his left thumb. Maybe someone had posted something interesting in the last two minutes.

“Actually, you know what?” the man said abruptly. “Why not? Someone might as well get a good story out of this.”

Javier set his phone down on his leg and sat up a little. “Sure, yeah,” he said, completely lost.

“Do you want to know why I’m here in the emergency room on Christmas Eve?” the man asked.

Javier tried to make a “yeah, obviously” gesture, but moved his right hand in the process and winced. “Yeah. Ow. Yeah, just making conversation, but if you— ”

“I stuck a Christmas ornament in my butt.”

He must have misheard. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“I stuck a Christmas ornament in my butt,” the man said again. He stared straight ahead as he made this proclamation, staring daggers into the wall.

Javier opened his mouth to try to speak, then tried again. On the third try, he finally managed, “Why?”

“Revenge,” said the man in a low, aggrieved growl. The word hung heavy in the air for a second before he added, “And sex reasons.”

Javier leaned forward, awkwardly extending his left hand. “I’m Javier.”

The man hesitated before extending his own hand. It was a nice hand. His nails were neatly trimmed but not manicured, calloused fingertips, clearly moisturized. “Tim.”

They shook hands. Javier settled back into his chair, grimacing as he jostled the arm. “Tim, consider me intrigued. Tell me more about this butt-related revenge.”

Tim almost smiled. “It sounds even stupider when you put it that way. It didn’t work, obviously.”

Javier nodded thoughtfully. So is it like a nutcracker or something?”

Tim took an affronted step back. “Why would I put a nutcracker in my butt? And how?”

“I don’t know, man, I’m honestly drawing a blank on what else it could be. Cause there’s like those shiny balls you hang on a tree and that can’t be it. And I’m really hoping it’s not a star.”

“It’s an abstract Christmas tree,” said Tim, speaking the words as if they were a curse.

“A what now?”

“I’ll show you.” Tim pulled his phone out of his front pocket, tapped for a few minutes, and extended his arm, displaying a picture of a -

“Oh,” said Javier. “Well that makes a lot more sense.”

“Yes,” said Tim.

“That’s a butt plug,” said Javier.

“Yes, said Tim again, putting his phone away.

“Wait, wait,” said Javier. “Let me see it again?” Tim obliged, and he took a long, critical look. It was green with a smooth, tapered shape. There was even a flange at the end. It would not have been out of place at a sex toy shop. “They called this a Christmas tree?”

“Thank you!” Tim gestured beseechingly at the heavens. “That’s what I said, and my sisters-” He stopped abruptly, glaring daggers into the wall again.

“Not enough of a flange, though,” said Javier. “It needs to be wider than the widest part of the plug.”

“Yes, I realize that now,” said Tim, putting his phone away again. “But it’s a lot more reasonable than a nutcracker.”

“Sure, sure, yeah.” Javier thought about pressing his luck. On the one hand, Tim was almost certainly gay. On the other, I bet I could get that out with some poppers and enough lube if you want to try was too bold for him. Too bold for anybody, probably. “So how’s that revenge?”

Tim was silent for a long time. Too long.

“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it.” Javier lifted his right arm, wincing. “I slipped on the ice while I snuck outside to get away from my family and smoke a bowl. I think it’s the ulna. Right here.”

Tim winced sympathetically. “Did you at least get to smoke that bowl?”

“No. It would hurt a lot less if I had,” he grumbled.

Tim eyed him thoughtfully before asking, “Is your family bad?”

Javier shrugged one shoulder. “They’re family. They don’t really. I mean, you know. It’s the first Christmas I’ve been back since I came out. They’re all at mass right now, with my nieces and nephews. I hadn’t figured out how to tell them I wasn’t going with them, so at least I saved myself some trouble there.”

They sat in silence for long enough that he started to wonder if he’d gotten it wrong, if Tim was actually a freaky straight guy, when Tim finally spoke. “I came out last Christmas and they’re just pretending it didn’t happen. They keep talking about girls I dated in high school and making allusions to when I have a wife, shit like that. And if I correct them they just talk right over me. They pretend I didn’t say anything. It makes me feel crazy, like truly crazy.”

“That’s truly fucked, man.” Javier meant it. At least his stepbrother said slurs to his face instead of gaslighty mind game bullshit.

Tim nodded. “Even my sisters, who support me completely. They’re great the rest of the year, but they don’t have it in them to stick up to Mom and Dad. So it’s been three days of feeling like I’m not even really there, like they’re all talking to a cardboard cutout of me instead of the actual person. And then the whole time, they have - ” He pulled the phone out again. “Look! There’s a set of them!”

Javier leaned in and laughed out loud. There was a set of five green, silicone, abstract Christmas trees artfully arranged on a snowflake doily. “That’s so many butt plugs, man.”

“The whole time they’re ignoring the fact that I’m gay, they have five fucking butt plugs on the dining room table!” Tim pointed indignantly. “Five! Butt plugs!”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Tonight they all went out caroling with their stupid church, and I refused to go with them. So I was just sitting in the house alone, staring at the butt plug ornaments. And I thought, well, I thought.” He trailed off.

“Hey, three days of that would make me go a little crazy, too,” Javier said. “I think I get it. You were like, I can’t make them see the truth, but I can prove it to myself. You can gaslight me all you want but I can prove that these are butt plugs.”

“Yes.” Tim’s expression had changed completely. He even cuter, now that his eyes were wide and his scowl was gone. “I know that there’s something queer in this house, even if they won’t see it.”

Javier thought of his own family, laughing together as he snuck outside unnoticed. He thought of how his mother kept pulling him into the kitchen away from the men, where no one would bring it up or start a fight. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence once more, alone together.

“Did you at least wash it though?” Javier asked.

“Wash it?” Tim looked offended. “I didn’t know where that thing had been! I put a condom over it!”

That was too much for Javier, who doubled over with laughter.

After a few minutes, Tim joined in, then yelped in pain. “Don’t make me laugh!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you put a condom on the abstract Christmas tree?”

That was, of course, the moment that the X-ray technician opened the door. Ignoring their hysterics, she called out “Javier Vega?”

“Oh, hey!” He stood up too quickly, jostling his arm. He followed her in, then turned around. “Hey, uh, it was really nice to meet you, Tim.”

The tech closed the door on Tim’s reply.

-

Javier had broken his ulna pretty cleanly, which was good news for everyone. He got a cast and a couple of pills for the pain, so at least his arm felt a bit better as he sat in the waiting room for another hour. It was cold outside, after all. No reason to rush.

Tim walked through the door with a completely different posture. He spotted Javier immediately and stopped mid-stride. “Did you wait for me?”

“You know, I figured that if you were brave enough to tell a stranger the truth about what brought you into the ER, I could be brave enough to ask you to out for dinner.” He checked the time on his phone. “Or breakfast, I guess.”

“It’s Christmas. Nothing is open but Waffle House.”

Javier shrugged. “How about some hash browns?”

Tim smiled. “I’d love some hash browns.”

They walked out into the snow together. On impulse, Javier took Tim’s hand, and Tim squeezed his in return.

“So,” Javier asked. “Do you think the Waffle House puts Christmas decorations on the table?”