A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 6

 

Day 6: The Stranger at the Tree Lot

Tinsel Bluff was humming like a snow globe full of bees.

The annual Tinsel Jubilee was only two days away, and the town had gone full Christmas-manic: ribbons on every lamppost, wreaths on every door, and an unexplained surplus of people in elf hats who appeared to serve no official purpose other than wearing said elf hats.

Holly Winters had spent the morning icing cookies for the bake sale and the afternoon untangling strings of lights that seemed to have developed sentience and a grudge. By late day, she was running on caffeine, stubbornness, and the faint hope that the bank’s voicemail counted as “financial progress.”

The lot was busy for a Wednesday. Families wandered between the rows of evergreens, debating the virtues of the Douglas over the Frasier. Holly helped a couple load a tree into their truck after convincing them that eight feet wasn’t too tal, brushed the snow from her sleeves, and tried to ignore the dull, insistent ache behind her eyes.

From across the lot, she could hear Deck the Halls & Oates rehearsing down by the gazebo. Holly decided they were working on a new parody of “Rich Girl” titled “Grinch Girl” and allowed herself a chuckle. They were somehow both sharp and flat. A rare gift.

Holly muttered, “If they hit one more key change, the icicles will shatter.”

Inside the shed that served as her office-slash-cookie-stand, Mrs. Pringle was “helping” by sorting flyers and spreading rumors. “Have you seen him yet?” she asked, eyes alight like she’d swallowed Rudolph’s nose.

“Seen who?”

“The new man in town. Tall, strange, kind of European-looking. Wears a long coat, talks like a motivational poster, oozes machismo and… I don’t know, dominance?”

Holly blinked. “Sounds like he has unlocked something inside you.”

“Oh, he was at The Jolly Bean yesterday,” Mrs. Pringle said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that everyone in a two-mile radius could probably still hear. “Ordered a coffee under the name Nick Kramp. Claims he’s a ‘seasonal consultant.’”

Holly snorted. “What’s that, exactly? Tree salesman? Santa’s temp?”

Mrs. Pringle shrugged. “Whatever he is, he’s been asking a lot of questions about naughty children. Which, frankly, is a red flag.”

Holly laughed, but there was something about the name that made her pause. Kramp. Weird coincidence. Still, she shook it off—just another eccentric stranger passing through town.

By late afternoon, the clouds were bruised purple and gold, and the lot had emptied to a few last-minute customers. Holly was halfway through hauling a tree to a young couple’s car when someone stepped out from behind the rows of spruce.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of tall that made you instinctively look for a step ladder before making eye contact. His long black coat caught the snow like a cape.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice deep, precise, and oddly formal. “Are you the proprietor of this festive retail establishment?”

Holly blinked. “This what?”

“The tree lot,” he clarified, with a polite nod. “Winters’ Trees and Treats. Excellent signage, by the way. Simple. Honest. Kitschy.”

“Thanks?” she said. “And you are…?”

He straightened, as if preparing to introduce himself at a job interview. “Nick Kramp. Seasonal consultant.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “So, you’re Nick Kramp. Talk of the town. Well, Nick Kramp, we’re fresh out of consultants, but if you’re here for a tree, I can help you.”

He hesitated, scanning the rows of evergreens like a man considering which weapon to take into battle. “Yes. I require one. Preferably tall, symmetrical, morally upright.”

Holly smirked. “They’re trees, not nuns.”

He blinked, processing the humor like it was a second language. “Ah. You’re witty.”

“I’m tired,” she said.

“Those are often related.”

There was something disarming about him. Odd, sure, but polite. Intense, in a way she couldn’t quite place. Like someone who took everything seriously, including how his eggs should be prepared. His eyes were dark but curious, like he was cataloging everything: her face, the smell of pine, the faint jingle from the radio in the shed.

“Is this your full-time occupation?” he asked.

Holly raised an eyebrow. “Selling trees?”

“Yes.”

“Among other things. Baking. Parenting. Desperately trying to not drown in debt. You know—Christmas spirit.”

He nodded gravely, as if she’d just described a sacred calling. “Admirable. The world needs more earnest mortals.”

She laughed. “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

Before he could reply, Max appeared, dragging a small sled and wearing goggles. “Mom! Look! I modified the sleigh’s aerodynamics with wax paper!”

Nick crouched slightly, intrigued. “A craftsman. Excellent. Resourceful.”

Max beamed. “You think so?”

“I do. You remind me of myself at your age,” Nick said.

Holly crossed her arms. “You were once eight?”

“Once,” he said, straight-faced. “It was a productive year. One of my best.”

Max grinned. “You’re cool.”

“Correct,” Nick replied. “Likewise.”

Holly watched, half amused, half confused. There was something weirdly magnetic about him. Not in a romantic way (okay, maybe a little), but in the sense that he seemed powered by a completely different operating system.

She handed him a receipt. “Tree number twenty-three. I’ll have it wrapped and ready in a minute.”

He took the paper delicately, like he was holding a relic. “Thank you, Miss Winters. You run an impressive operation. Efficient. Humane. It’s rare to see such dedication in seasonal labor.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a corporate suit.”

“Only when I’m awake.”

He gave a faint, formal smile, then turned toward the trees, softly humming a deep, rhythmic sound that seemed older than carols.

As he disappeared into the rows, Mrs. Pringle appeared from nowhere, whispering, “That’s him! I told you! The one who smells like moral authority!”

Holly rolled her eyes. “He’s buying a tree, not starting a cult.”

But even as she said it, she couldn’t help glancing toward the dark silhouette moving gracefully among the evergreens.

There was something about him—something that felt like the beginning of trouble, or maybe the start of something stranger.

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!