A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 1

 

Day 1: Welcome to Tinsel Bluff

Holly Winters had three rules for surviving December:

1. Don’t check the bank account before coffee.
2. Don’t cry in front of customers.
3. And never under any circumstances let the Christmas lights remind you of better years.

Tinsel Bluff’s air smelled like snow and cinnamon, but at Winters’ Trees & Treats, the scent was more of pine sap, burnt sugar cookies, and mild dread. The “SAVE THE FARM!” banner stretched across the barn had begun to sag in the middle, giving the impression that even the slogan was tired of trying. Its message seemed to be more about somehow getting through the holidays than motivating others.

Holly stood behind the counter of the small farm stand, blowing warmth into her hands as she watched her son, Max, chase a half-deflated Santa across the lot. The thing flopped through the snow like a wounded seal, and Max whooped after it in his puffy jacket, unbothered by the cold or the reality that the family business was hanging by one very frayed extension cord. Holly couldn't help but notice Max stalking the pathetic lot ornament as if it were his prey. Her son had often been bestowed labels such as "high energy" and "wild" and "a true menace." Sometimes Holly loved her son because of his behavior. Sometimes, in spite of it.

“Careful!” Holly called. “That Santa cost forty-nine ninety-nine!”

“Technically,” Max shouted back, “it’s been on the ground longer than five seconds. That makes it free!”

Eight years old and already finding loopholes like an injury lawyer. Among those labels people placed on her son, Holly would definitely add "smart." 

The fundraiser table beside her offered evidence of both hope and humiliation: a few mason jars of cocoa mix, crocheted snowmen missing eyes, and a sign that read Suggested Donation: Whatever Your Heart Can Spare. People’s hearts, it turned out, were only sparing about twelve dollars and a business card with only a Bible verse printed on it.

The weather wasn’t helping. A harsh, gray wind pushed across the ridge, carrying the smell of impending snow and, faintly, the bells from the downtown parade rehearsal. Holly wrapped her coat tighter, eyeing the empty lot where the local carolers were supposed to set up a musical attraction to lure customers They’d cancelled—again. Evidently, a thirty percent chance of flurries was all it took to spook the acapella quartet Deck the Halls and Oates. Probably for the best because who really wants to watch an acapella group sing Christmas songs to the tune of Hall & Oates’ biggest hits? Sure, “Santa’s Eyes” was an earworm parody of “Private Eyes,” but their rendition of “I Can’t Go For That,” titled "I Don’t Like This Gift,” was too cynical for Holly’s tastes.

Still, she couldn’t blame them for cancelling. The season had a way of chewing up enthusiasm and spitting out exhaustion.

Holly tried, though. Every morning she woke up early, baked gingerbread men that looked vaguely terrified at the mere thought of existence, and told herself things were turning around. And maybe they would, if the bank agreed to extend her loan. Or if her real estate mogul and human fruitcake of an ex-husband, Greg North, didn’t buy the land out from under her first.

The bell above the shop door jingled halfheartedly as a customer entered. Mrs. Pringle, local gossip and walking tinsel explosion, swept into the store like an early blast of a coming nor'easter. 

“Oh, Holly, dear,” she said, clutching her pearls and her latte with equal fervor. “I just saw the mayor putting up the Krampusnacht posters again. Can you imagine? Such a dark tradition for such a lighthearted town!”

Holly smiled the kind of smile that only comes from deep seasonal fatigue. “Maybe it’ll scare people into buying a tree.”

Mrs. Pringle chuckled, then leaned closer. “You know what they say—Krampus comes for the naughty ones. You’d better keep an eye on young Max! So much energy, that one."

Outside, Max was trying to lasso the inflatable Santa to the back of a sled. Holly exhaled. “Trust me,” she said. “If Krampus is real, he’s already got us on speed dial.”

Mrs. Pringle left with a peppermint brownie sample (no purchase) and a story to tell. The wind picked up, shaking the string lights until they flickered like nervous fireflies. Holly followed her out and soaked in the not-so-festive aura. She closed her eyes, letting the cold sting her cheeks awake.

Somewhere in the woods beyond the lot, a sound echoed—a low, hollow clatter, like antlers brushing against metal. She turned, saw nothing but snow. Probably a deer. Probably.

She went back inside to relight the stove, whispering to herself, “Just two more weeks. We can make it two more weeks.”

Outside, the last of the daylight slipped behind the ridge, and a shadow—too tall to be human, too still to be animal—lingered just long enough to notice the sagging Save the Farm sign.

Then it vanished into the dark.

 

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