children. Meanwhile the decidedly evil-looking Krampus waited just outside the doorway for his turn at the not-so-good children cowering beneath a table. On another postcard, the demon had a wicker basket strapped to his back, and in the basket a distressed toddler thrashed. The ground beneath them gave way to a chasm of flames—presumably the way to hell.
Strecker offered Bohach a smoke and Lefty cupped the Camel tip to flame.
“You sure those pictures are legit?” Lefty wondered, waving out the single match. “I mean, how come I never heard anything about this Krampus ’til now?”
“The Christians of the late 1800s kept their kids in line with threats of Krampus coming for their souls. I suppose by and by folks got to thinking a devil coming to Christmas was unsettling for anyone’s holiday, and he fell by the wayside. If you’ve ever heard about Santa Claus leaving switches instead of toys for the bad kids, it started here. A holdover from the Krampus days.”
Lefty blew smoke at the bars. “I appreciate all this, Chief, don’t think I don’t. Christ, there’s nothin’ I like better than bein’ woke up to hear some good ole-fashioned fairytales. But I just don’t get it. First you say you’re here about my redemption then you show me pictures of Satan’s second cousin. What gives?”
Strecker smiled. “I did promise we’d talk about your salvation, Bohach, and we’re almost there. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers. “Just stay with me a bit longer, okay?”
Lefty spread his hands and said around the cigarette, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Strecker nodded. “As it happens, we got our own version of Krampus right here in Carbon Hill. Only we call him the Christmas Bane.” He must have seen Lefty’s eyebrows raise because he said, “That’s right. You’re probably thinking, ‘Crazy old cop, now I know you’ve gone round the bend,’ but it’s true. Near as I can tell, he showed up in the late 1950’s, ’bout the time the coal mine petered out. A widow woman was first to see him. Spied the old boy from her bedroom window one Christmas Eve, traipsing past her house going on midnight. He had, she said, eyes big as saucers and a headfull o’ teeth like fence pickets. Goat-hoof feet clomping through the snow, and a long, ratty tail whooshing behind him. Come morning, everyone learned some old geezer on Route 21 bought the farm. Then the widow spilled the beans on what she saw. Everyone thought her tree was a few apples short of a bushel, let me tell ya. Until the next Christmas, that is.”
The chief went on to say how more people spotted the Christmas Bane over the years, and on each yuletide season since some hapless soul would be found dead in his bed, asphyxiated by a gas leak or electrocuted from a freak mishap with the tree lights. Folks didn’t know what he was or where he came from, but they got into the habit of putting out plates of food on their front stoops as sort of an offering. ‘Eat this food and not my soul,’ must have been the message they hoped to convey. According to Strecker, it must have worked, too. But the folks who had a black spot on their soul and didn’t believe in the Christmas Bane or left no offering...those were the folks who were likely to be singled out.
Lefty laughed a little. The police chief did spin an interesting yarn, and his Satanic scrap-book was a great visual aid. “And you figure this local bogey will set his sights on me tonight?”
Strecker didn’t bat an eye. “I figure it’s a good bet, and I suggest keeping an open mind on this. Could save your skin.”
“All right,” Lefty said. “If Krampus and your Christmas Bane are one and the same, where’s he been between the time these cards were printed and the fifties?”
“Good question, and don’t think I haven’t studied on it some. The way I see it, every legend or myth must grow out of some germ of truth. You just gotta know where to separate the wheat from the chaff. Don’t you ever get the feeling there’s a presence at Christmas time? People talk about the Christmas spirit, but maybe it’s more than a mood. Maybe it’s like in that Dickens story, where there’s a ghost of Christmas. And maybe there’s a bad spirit, as well as the good. You can’t have one without the other.”
Lefty shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Sure. And they stopped printing the cards and things with Krampus on them. If people didn’t think about him, seems to me that would drain his power down a mite? So he slinks off somewhere to hide. And where does he go?”
“To Carbon Hill,” Lefty ventured a guess.
“Exactly!” Strecker grinned again. “Maybe you’re not so stupid after all. This place is known as the town that was built on coal. The mine tunnels go way into the hills. Perfect place for the likes of Krampus to hole up and wait for folks to start believing again. And maybe before the coal ran dry, the miners tunneled a bit too deep.”
“And just maybe they woke up your Christmas Bane?”
“Give the boy a gold star, yes! It coulda happened that way. Why not?” Then Strecker unsnapped his breast pocket and brought out a cellophane-wrapped cheese Danish. “Figured I’d do my Christianly duty, tell you the score and bring you this. Something to offer to the Christmas Bane tonight. You unwrap this and stick it outside your cell before you hit the sack and you should be fine.”
Lefty shook his head. “You’re serious. You really believe this crap?”
“Look, Bohach, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Yeah, there have been a lot of people who’ve seen this jake at one time or another. Upright citizens I have no reason to doubt. But it’s up to you to weigh what I told you and decide for yourself.”
Lefty shook his head. “Sounds like a buncha townies scarin’ one another. What do they call it...mass hysteria?”
Strecker’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Could be, but are you willing to take that chance?” He shoved the Danish through, but since Lefty didn’t reach for it, it fell to the cell floor. “Do what you like. Leastways I’ll be able to sleep now that I done my good deed.”
With exaggerated purpose, Lefty picked up the pastry, walked to the wastebasket, and dropped it in.
“Suit yourself,” Strecker said. He checked his watch. “Ten-thirty-five. Guess that gives you just shy of an hour and a half to repent or leave out some food. But I don’t reckon you’ll do, either. Headin’ out now. The sergeant’ll look in on you from time to time. Been nice knowin’ you, Bohach.”
He gave Lefty a final cigarette and one match to light it—one last smoke for the condemned man.
The fire door slammed shut and the overhead lights winked out.
* * * *
In the darkness of his cell, Lefty listened to the wind howl outside. The furnace vents weren’t kicking out heat like they should, so he pulled the second blanket up to his chin. And he mulled over all that Strecker had told him about Carbon Hill’s seasonal bogeyman.
Crazy stuff, sure, but he couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t hurt to leave out a little food and honor the local tradition. It wouldn’t mean he bought into it or anything like that. It would be more like knocking on wood or sidestepping a ladder. When in Hicksville, why not do as the hicks?
In spite of his previous brave front, Lefty felt around in the darkness, then took the Danish out of the wastebasket. He also fumbled around for the greasy paper plate he’d eaten his dinner off of. He popped open the cellophane of the pastry, laid it on the paper plate, and arranged everything beyond
