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Never Fear - Christmas Terrors: Never Fear
Never Fear - Christmas Terrors: Never Fear
Never Fear - Christmas Terrors: Never Fear
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Never Fear - Christmas Terrors: Never Fear

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Twenty-Two Tales of Christmas Terror ranging from ancient Iceland to modern-day Iraq by New York Times Bestselling and award-winning authors, including: a new ghost story by Heather Graham, a Repairman Jack Christmas adventure by F. Paul Wilson, a spine tingling tale by master of horror Thomas F. Monteleone, and a special tale of Christmas wonder by Jon Land. 
 
In a unique experience—a story within a story—you will follow along when the MacDonald family discovers an unidentified present under their Christmas tree. Who gave it to them? Where did it come from? No one seems to know. And when they open the mysterious gift, it sets them on a course to a Christmas of terror they could never have expected.

Heather Graham, F. Paul Wilson, Lance Taubold, Aidan Russell, Thomas F. Monteleone, Lisa Harris, E. McCarthy, Richard Devin, Lee Lawless, Kristi Ahlers, Don Bruns, Ed DeAngelis, Lisa Manetti, Elle J Rossi, Deborah Grahl, Liah Penn, Crystal Perkins, Greg Linden, Connie Corcoran Wilson, Jeff DePew

LanguageEnglish
PublisherInvoke Books
Release dateJul 24, 2018
ISBN9781386066477
Never Fear - Christmas Terrors: Never Fear
Author

Heather Graham

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.

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    Book preview

    Never Fear - Christmas Terrors - Heather Graham

    NEVER FEAR -

    CHRISTMAS TERRORS

    Heather Graham,

    F. Paul Wilson

    Thomas F. Monteleone,

    E. McCarthy

    Lisa Mannetti, Don Bruns

    Connie Corcoran Wilson, Lee Lawless

    Jeff DePew, Kristi Ahlers, Debby Grahl, Aidan Russell, G. R. Linden, Liah Penn, Lisa Harris, Mathew Kaufman, Richard Devin, Lance Taubold, Ed DeAngelis, Elle J Rossi, Crystal Perkins and Jon Land

    All rights reserved.

    This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between real life events and people, and the events within this product are purely coincidental.

    Discover new and exciting works by Invoke Books at www.invokebooks.com

    Print and Digital Edition, License Notes

    This print/ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This print/ebook may not be re-sold, bartered, barrowed or loaned to others. Thank you for respecting the work of this and all

    Invoke Books authors.

    Copyright © 2015 Invoke Books, LLP Authors Cooperative

    All rights reserved.

    ISBN-10:0692576347

    ISBN-13:9780692576342

    DEDICATION

    To Heather Graham and her incomparable annual

    Writers For New Orleans Conference where the genesis of this book was developed.

    And to all of the contributing authors who were attendees at the 2015 Conference.

    Thank you.

    NOTE TO THE READER

    Due to the unique nature of this anthology with the inclusion of the story within a story, A Family Christmas Terror, it is highly recommended that the stories be read in the order presented to thoroughly enjoy this book.

    Invoke Books

    A Family Christmas Terror written by Lance Taubold, Jeff DePew and Ed DeAngelis.

    CONTENTS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE GHOST OF A CHRISTMAS PAST

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    CHRISTMAS TERRORS IN OLDE ICELAND

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    CAROL OF THE REFUGEES

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE NIGHT IS FREEZING FAST

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE GIFT THAT WON’T STOP GIVING

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE LITTLE HELPER

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    ‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE...

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE TWELVE FRAYS OF CHRISTMAS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    I’LL BE DEAD FOR CHRISTMAS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    SMALL PRICE TO PAY

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    ‘TIS THE SEASON TO BE WICKED

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    ESMERALDA’S STOCKING

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    SLEIGH ME

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    A CRIMSON CHRISTMAS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    A CABIN IN THE WOODS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    SILENT FRIGHT

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    A TIME FOR REFLECTIONS

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    BLACK FRIDAY

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    SECRET SATAN:

    A CHRISTMAS TALE

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE PERFECT PRESENT

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    SANTA JACK

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    THE BOY AND THE BACKPACK

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    CHAPTER 1

    Christmas Morning.

    Upstate New York.

    The Present.

    ON A PERFECT, WHITE Christmas morning, the MacDonald family were all in the living room. Dan and Judy watched their three college-aged children opening the last of their presents. Their eldest, Jack, was a senior, and their twins, Nick and Nancy, were midway through their freshmen year. The grandfather, Joe, sat in his favorite chair, quietly enjoying the laughter and joking.

    The perfect Christmas.

    Is everyone ready for fresh doughnuts and coffee? Judy said, already on her way to the kitchen.

    Absolutely, Nick said. I’m starving.

    You’re always starving, Nancy said, not looking up from her cell phone.

    Well, can you blame him? Dan said, rising. That’s all I’ve been smelling for the last hour. I think I’ll go help your mother, make sure she puts enough powdered sugar on them. He winked at the twins and went to join his wife.

    Hey, we missed one, Jack said. Over there in the corner. He got up from the floor, pushing his way through the mounds of festive, discarded wrapping paper.

    It’s probably for me, Nancy said.

    Right, Nick said. You got enough. You always get more than anyone.

    That’s because I’m a girl. I need more things.

    Jack walked over to Grandpa. "Here, Grandpa, you open it. It says: For the MacDonald Family. So, my dear sister, it’s not for you."

    Nancy made a moue in mock disappointment. Open it, Grandpa.

    Grandpa tore the paper off, revealing a colorful paperback book. Never Fear—Christmas Terrors. He turned it over and read the back. Huh. Who would send us something like this?

    Santa? Nick asked.

    It was probably you, Nancy said. You would probably think it’s funny. She punched her twin in the arm.

    Ow, that was hard. He rubbed his arm. Let me see it, Grandpa. Nick took the book, then riffled the pages. You know... it’s not too long, and we’ve got all day. Maybe we should read it. It’ll be like spooky stories on Halloween, but instead it’ll be Christmas.

    Like that Christmas song, Nancy interjected. Something about ‘Scary ghost stories and tales of His glories’—

    The song is called It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, Jack interrupted. I was thinking the same thing."

    I don’t know if that’s a very good— Grandpa started.

    Yeah, why not, Nancy said, ignoring Grandpa’s protestations. What’s the first story called?

    "The Ghost of a Christmas Past."

    I do like ghost stories, Nancy said, reaching for the book. Let me read the first one.

    Nick begrudgingly gave her the book just as Dan and Judy made their way back into the room with doughnuts and hot coffee.

    Jack grabbed a doughnut, saying, Mom, Dad, we got this book of Christmas horror stories and I thought it would be a great idea if we read them out loud.

    I don’t know... Judy said, setting the tray down.

    It’ll be all right, Judy. A little scare never hurt anyone. Lighten up. Dan set his tray down next to hers.

    Judy looked at him doubtfully. Well, maybe just a couple. She picked up her mug and sat on one of the couches beside Dan.

    On the couch opposite them, Nancy said, "Here goes...

    THE GHOST OF A CHRISTMAS PAST

    HEATHER GRAHAM

    THE LAMBS HAD BEEN slaughtered. Blood poured from their painted mouths—once white-washed and serene. Rings of blood surrounded their tender necks.

    The Three Wise Men had fared no better; rings of paint—or whatever substance had been used to create the illusion of blood—dripped down their necks and onto their old Judaic tunics.

    Nothing had been left in sacred peace—Mary and Joseph were chopped into mass sections of wood, all splattered in red as well. The infant’s bed of straw lay in so many bloody bits of pulp and gore that it was almost impossible to tell what it had been. Camels had also gone the way of the axe—some kind of staged blood covered the entire scene like the remnants of a hard red rain.

    Lieutenant Marin, have you ever seen anything like it? Captain Declan Craig asked, staring at the wooden carnage, a fierce frown cut into his features.

    No, Dakota Marin said, and she never had. But, then again, she’d come up from the City of Miami—where axes were more often used on living people than on wooden images. She imagined that this had been done by someone of a different belief, perhaps, furious that Christmas was being given so much play. And to be honest, she did find this bloody, pulpy destruction of wood to be more disturbing than some of the flesh and blood horror she’d witnessed in five years in Greater Miami.

    Then again, the small town of Hanging Tree, Florida, had a reputation for the weird. Historically, a mysterious offshoot of the Caribe tribe had once lived in the area—and their shamans had made this a place where war parties were planned—and where they had been wiped out by another mysterious tribe. Then, the Spaniards had arrived in Florida in the late fifteenth century and their missionaries had come across from the coast to die at the hands of unknown assailants. After the Spaniards, the English had created a settlement nearby—and brought their evil-doers here—to be hanged from the giant old oak that sat just beyond the sacred burial ground that surrounded St. Marks, the now non-denominational church that was the largest in town. Supposedly, when the wiccans, paganists, or witches had lived here, there had been another outcry and one poor woman had been dragged out in the middle of the night to be hanged—at the hanging tree, of course. She had supposedly screamed about being possessed by a devil, and—as all good legendary victims should—she left behind a curse.

    Naturally, those who had been hanged had joined with the demons in the forest. Sometimes, it was said that unlucky lads and lasses had disappeared here—other stories stated that gruesome remains had been found along forest paths—and the gravestones that had already cropped up around the church which had been originally been Catholic, with construction having been begun in the late 1600s.

    Florida had officially become an American Territory in 1822 and the Americans had come, eager for land. It really was beautiful land, north of Ocala, east of Tallahassee, near such picturesque places as Micanopy and Gainesville. The land actually rolled here; oaks and pines still grew on rich land, horses and cattle were common along with good old Florida grapefruit and oranges. The Seminole Wars had brought bloodshed and havoc, only to be followed by the Civil War—and a skirmish just before the battle of Olustee that had left all dead.

    Come the twentieth century, a group of psychics had moved in, and then, when one of their number had met with a gruesome end at the hands of something described as what might only have been a forest beast, they had declared the area far too active to be borne by such sensitives, it had been taken over by a colony of wiccans. The wiccans claimed that there was a curse on the land—and that the devil must be fed. There were those, of course, who never noticed the curse. Through it all, some hardy farmers, ranchers, and townspeople had held on. Today, it was just a typical small town with some interesting historic buildings and some ugly new ones.

    And outlying areas with horses, cows, and fruit trees. It was very popular at Halloween—and enterprising citizens had gotten together to create Haunted Hanging Nights. These days, however, the crime tended to be Bernie getting mad and belting Jez at the local dive bar, Seven Trees, when he got too carried away with his karaoke and dented the microphone, or when Mrs. Firestone called the cops, locked in her bathroom, because her husband had threatened her with a beating for changing the channel on the television. Christmas season was upon them. That usually meant a nice flow of tourists who came to see the historic buildings all decked out with their beautiful lights, the historic church—and the Nativity Scene set up on the church lawn.

    Dakota knew all this because the minute she’d received the invitation from the town’s mayor, she’d hit up Amazon for every book she could find on the area. Quirky—and close enough to Gainesville, Jacksonville, St. Augustine—and even Orlando and theme-parkville—to make it an okay move.

    She still had all her books, piled high on her desk at the station.

    Interesting enough for you, Marin? Declan asked, turning to look at her skeptically. I know after the big city, we’ve been a little mundane.

    Bizarre, certainly, she said. I’m going to take it we’re looking for teens from the local high school—or someone who is angry that a Buddhist statue, a pentacle, a Star of David, or some other religious symbol hasn’t been given equal space.

    She forced a smiled. Declan looked like he belonged in a move about a Stepford-style town; he was strikingly handsome, like a beach boy who might have cruised Miami Beach—tall, blond, tanned, and nicely muscled. He believed that, no matter how polite and respectful she tried to appear, she believed that she’d wound up working in this hick-cracker town like Mayberry and that he wasn’t even as bright as a Barney Fife, or perhaps even something as pathetic as a cartoon creature like a Deputy Dawg.

    She really wasn’t sure what she thought as yet. All she knew was that she’d come out at the wrong end of a situation with Brendan Howell in Miami; she’d been the newbie—he’d had a nice long reputation on the streets and, apparently, no other female co-worker had gotten the nerve to complain about him. All she had known was that he appeared innocent before the powers that be—and she’d be the one to get the boot. When the offer had come from Hanging Tree—at a very nice salary—it had seemed a prudent idea to accept it. She’d been hired as Declan’s second in command and it was a small force—there were only six more officers, two for each of three daily eight hour shifts.

    They were all lovely people—but she wasn’t sure she’d have wanted to be on a major Miami drug sting with them. They’d be far too polite to the Uzi-wielding pushers they were trying to take down.

    At that moment, Pastor Frank Waterford came hurrying out of the church, shaking his head, his distress apparently in his ruddy cheeks, waddling speed, and wide eyes. Frank was okay—a religious man who didn’t go fanatic on anyone and gave sermons that simply encouraged nice, polite, and kind neighborly behavior. He did, however, love Christmas—and the Christmas apparel that adorned the church as the season drew near. In Hanging Tree, the townspeople decked out the graveyard, placing Christmas wreaths and ornaments on their family tombs. Slightly weird, but kind of nice, really.

    This is awful, just awful! Pastor Frank said, folding his shaking hands before him as he reached them—and looked over the blood and guts.

    Yes, Pastor, and I’m so sorry, Declan said.

    I wish—I so wish there was something to be done! he said. The sheer destruction—but that’s not it! It’s what they’ve done. This is so wrong. Why, God and Christ and the Holy Ghost must be looking down on us in tears!

    If God cried, Dakota thought, it was over the real blood and guts humanity liked to shed. But she quickly said, Pastor, we’ll find out who did this. Probably kids, but, it could be what’s considered a hate crime as well. We will get to the bottom of it.

    He looked at her very sadly. I don’t think so, Dakota. No one in the area called Declan Captain—they certainly weren’t going to call her Lieutenant Marin. The only one who did was Declan—and always with a certain tone.

    There’s going to be a witness somewhere, she said. Someone who saw something; or, perhaps, someone walking around with a bunch of fake blood all over them.

    Pastor Frank looked at Declan and shook his head sadly. We’ll never be able to replace them. But, they knew that, didn’t they? They’ve been waiting. And now, they’ve done it.

    Shaking his head, he turned and headed back into the old Gothic church.

    They? He knows who did it? Dakota asked Declan.

    Declan kept his eyes steady on her. He thinks it was done by the devils in the woods.

    What? Dakota asked, incredulous. Frank was a minister! How could he believe such a thing?

    Everything bad in this town is blamed on the devils in the woods, Declan explained. I guess we should be happy that this time, they tore apart mannequins instead of people.

    Please don’t tell me that you believe that devils live in the woods—and that they hurried in with hatchets to tear up this Nativity scene?

    He shrugged. Let’s go see what we can find out.

    You’re not going to set this up as a crime scene? Fingerprints, footprints, some kind of clues? I see a cigarette butt over there.

    You got an evidence bag? Bag it. You won’t get footprints—rained heavy about six this morning. Fingerprints—you won’t get any of those, either.

    Because devils don’t leave fingerprints? Dakota asked sarcastically.

    He shrugged. Because county forensic crews won’t come in here with their expertise when its wooden objects that have been massacred. No—you just won’t get any. Whoever did this wore gloves.

    And you know that because...?

    There’s a tuft of material caught on that lamb’s ear, he said. Bag that, too, if you will deputy. And then, we’ll head over to the Seven Trees Bar.

    Declan pointed across the quiet country road that stretched before the church. Ironically, the ramshackle building facing the church was a bar—a shanty bar, actually voted the number one dive bar in this section of north central Florida.

    Great. If we have a witness, it’s going to be a drunk, Dakota murmured.

    Declan looked at her and cocked his head to the side. You said you wanted a witness. Besides, the bartender and waitresses don’t get plastered. And Officer Cary Conklin has the graveyard shift and likes to ticket or arrest the drunks at night so most people come with a designated driver—believe it or not—even in this hick town.

    Dakota hunkered down for the cigarette butt and then headed to the lamb to do the same with the bit of fabric. She realized that he was watching her as she did so. She flushed slightly as she rose; there was nothing licentious in the way that he watched her. Not like the way the bastard had in Miami. No, this was different. He studied her—as a mathematician might study an interesting equation.

    As they walked across the street he asked, What the hell are you doing here, Dakota?

    Working, she said.

    Yes, why are you working here?

    It pays well.

    Oh, that’s bull. Yeah, the pay is good. You would have made detective in Miami. You’re twenty-seven. Great record. Killer body, perfect nose, lips—eyes. Oh, sorry, not trying to be sexist or offensive. I just really want to know what the hell you’re doing here.

    What are you doing here? she countered.

    He paused. I’m here to catch the devils, he said.

    Oh, please, she murmured.

    I’m from here, he said simply.

    And you never wanted to go anywhere else?

    He was silent, stopping as they reached the opposite side of the street. She wondered if he’d shrug again and keep walking. But then, to her surprise, he offered her a crooked smile and said, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

    Okay. Mine is a fucking octopus of a man who everyone thinks is the Second Coming, Dakota said flatly.

    Figured something like that.

    And you?

    He paused again for a long moment, and then shrugged.

    Fifteen years ago, give or take a day or two, I was a student at the University of Florida. My girlfriend was driving down here to meet my sister, Linda—my twin, actually. Linda and Marissa were friends and that’s how Marissa and I met. Anyway, Marissa had come down—right about this time of year, they had done some Christmas shopping together—and then she’d left my folks old home and headed back to Gainesville on a bright, beautiful morning. We were both due to come back for the holiday in a week. But, Marissa left that day and...

    And? Dakota asked softly.

    It’s a drive that should have taken about an hour and a half. She never showed up.

    What—what happened to her?

    Her car was found in a pond just the other side of the woods behind the church. Marissa was never found. He hesitated then. One day, I will find out what happened to her.

    You never mentioned a sister—a twin, Dakota said.

    Because she left after Marissa disappeared. My parents were gone... Linda left. She had to forget. I couldn’t.

    He turned toward the bar. Dakota ran after him quickly. Declan!

    He stopped.

    Anything might have happened to her.

    But, it didn’t. There are devils in the woods, he said.

    She stared after him, disbelieving. Then she ran to catch up.

    The bar was truly rustic and looked like an old, decaying fishing shanty. That had not deterred the proprietors from the spirit of the season. The front door was festooned with a huge wreath and loaded with decorations. A cheap plastic Santa waved hello from one side of the entrance while cheerful plastic elves played on the other side. It was daytime, but dozens of strings of colored Christmas lights sparkled from rakish, anywhere—anywhere hanging around the windows, from the roof, and over whatever foliage ringed the place.

    Declan opened the door to the bar. And then he froze.

    What...? Dakota asked, trying to get past him.

    He was solid. The best she could do was look over his shoulder.

    There were body pieces everywhere. Blood everywhere.

    But, this time, it hadn’t been wooden mannequins that had been hacked to pieces.

    And it wasn’t stage blood.

    Flesh, blood, bone, and brain matter was splattered everywhere.

    And it was real.

    Time to call in the county, Declan said. And every damned forensic expert they have.

    BEFORE THEY HAD EVEN entered the bar, Declan was on the phone with a representative from the Alachua County Sheriff’s Department and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Despite appearances, they had to enter to assure themselves that all were dead, even though ambulances were on the way. The bartender lay behind the bar—no way to help him. His neck had been so seriously sliced that the head was nearly severed. What appeared to be a young woman—shapely legs emerged from a battered torso by one of the rough wood tables—looked upward with one eye. Her face had been so severely slashed she looked like a Halloween ragdoll. Four customers had been in the bar: two at a table, two at the bar.

    All had met similar fates. It was tricky to assess the room and avoid the pools of blood.

    Look, Declan said, and pointed, indicating an old mirror over the bar.

    She looked. Someone’s blood had been used to write a message on the glass.

    Merry Christmas, Hanging Tree. Old St. Nick is coming—for you!

    I guess people do come to hate small town life, huh? Declan murmured.

    Dakota swallowed. Even at Metro Miami-Dade, she’d never seen anything like this.

    You know these people? she asked.

    He nodded. Gus Farley, bartender. Good man—intended to retire to the Keys next year. Lou Troy and Mitch Robinson at the bar. Old-timers—just like Jerry Simms and Mel McCarthy, the guys at the tables. I didn’t know the waitress; she just came down here, kicked out of school, University of Florida, up in Gainesville. Name was Kerry Reed, I think. Poor thing. God! he exclaimed suddenly, betraying a moment’s deep emotion. What the hell.

    She saw that his fists were knotted at his side and that he was straining to fight his emotions and his rage. What the bloody hell, who the bloody hell...?

    The tinny scent of the blood was getting to her, too. She felt her stomach roil. This was the kind of sight that called upon everything in the human heart—it was a scene that hurt, and she was grateful that she had been in town only two weeks and yet to know its inhabitants well at all.

    The devils in the woods! She thought.

    No devil had done this. A human hand—a human hand they could catch!—had done this.

    And yet... how?

    How had these people all been taken down? Had none of them fought back?

    It was while she was pondering the question that Dakota thought she heard the sound of a sob. Soft, like a child’s cry.

    Someone’s in here, somewhere! she said.

    And—trying to make sure that she didn’t slide across the blood slick floor—she hurried around the bar. There was a door there, ajar now. It led, she quickly discovered, to a storeroom and office in back.

    At first she saw nothing. She moved forward right before Declan nearly plowed into her back, having followed in her wake.

    There was a desk across the room; she hurried around and looked beneath it. And there she saw the child.

    It was a little girl; she was perhaps ten, with long blond hair. She was curled into herself under the desk, shaking and crying.

    Hey! Hello, Dakota said, reaching out a hand to her. She had dealt with survivors before, but it wasn’t her forte. Most homicide detectives would tell anyone that dealing with the dead was easier than dealing with survivors. The dead needed justice. Survivors needed help and empathy.

    This survivor was a child. What did she say? It’s all right? It wasn’t all right. How did she even get the child out of there without bringing her past the scene of all the carnage?

    Declan was right behind her; he quickly hunkered down to talk to the child. Sweetheart, hi, I’m the local police chief. And this is Dakota—she’s a police officer, too. Were you here with someone—like your mom or your dad?

    She girl just trembled. Declan reached out to him. She hesitated, and then took his hand. He looked at Dakota. Your jacket? he asked.

    Yes, yes, of course, she said, quickly removing the jacket. She handed it to him. I’m going to get you out of here; this is going to be over your head for just a minute, okay?

    The little girl just stared at him. She was a beautiful child, wide blue eyes, platinum blond hair, and an angel’s face.

    Declan eased her out from under the desk, draping the jacket over her head so that she wouldn’t see. He hurried out and Dakota followed him.

    By the time they were outside, sirens were screeching. A man named McSween introduced himself; he was a lead detective with the county. He listened to Declan’s report on their strange discoveries. Forensic crews and a medical examiner had arrived; they were moving with admirable speed. McSween promised to secure the scene and collect all possible forensic evidence to get going on the investigation. Not to be offensive, McSween, a tall, slim man with a sympathetic manner told him. I don’t mean to imply—

    You wouldn’t be implying anything, McSween, Declan told him. We don’t have the facilities you have. I’ll get this girl down to our office and see if we can’t find out something from her.

    The kid is probably in shock.

    We’ll see that she gets to child services—maybe they’ll have doctors who know how to get to... to talk. To tell us something. I’ll start on the locals—seeing if I can’t get something.

    Good then; you know your town here; me, I know bodies, McSween said. And, as soon as it’s... decent, we’ll talk to the kid.

    Her parents? McSween asked.

    I don’t know, Declan said. She doesn’t belong to any of—to any of the victims in the bar. I know them all.

    Dakota turned away from the bar, glad that a host of out-of-towners had arrived to make all the proper moves. She saw that a county M.E.’s wagon was among the arrivals.

    Declan was already moving across the street. She ran after him.

    He headed to their car, emblazoned with the town logo—an image of a great oak and the words, Hanging Tree.

    As she reached the car, she found it sadly ironic that choir practice had apparently begun at the church. Someone was singing Joy to the World.

    THE SHIFTS AT THE STATION ran from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, four in the afternoon to midnight, and midnight to eight, with Declan and Dakota straddling the hours, usually from about nine to six or seven at night, later when needed, or any hour when needed.

    When they arrived at the station with the little girl who wouldn’t talk, Chancy Buell and David Lassiter were on duty; they naturally knew what had happened already and that the county detectives were on it.

    The station, too, seemed garish at the moment—though it had been warm and festive when she’d left, Dakota realized. A tree was in one corner, loaded with ornaments, and a fine star topped it off. Streams of fake holly lined the windows. And here, too, playing softly, was a Christmas carol. Here, Deck the Halls.

    Chancy Buell was nearing retirement; she was a small woman with iron gray hair, a gentle manner—and the ability to scare anyone into good behavior when pushed. Small—but mighty, Dakota had decided. She’d seen Chancy propel a few hulking football players into the holding cell, barely raising the tone of her voice.

    But, seeing the child, Chancy immediately turned into grandmother mode. What have we here? What a darling child. Honey, where’s your mommy? she asked gently.

    The little girl just shook her head.

    Have they called child services? Chancy asked Dakota. Declan had already headed to the coffee pot where he was deep in thought, pouring himself a cup.

    We got her out of there; country folks had just arrived, Dakota said. I’m sure that McSween—the county detective—had done so, but, I’ll make sure.

    Phones are out, David told her, shaking his head. Old lines and old wires. You’ll need to use your cell.

    Phones are out? Declan said sharply, turning to look at David.

    David was young; he’d just transferred over from the Gainesville department. With wild straw colored hair and a big hulking body, he really did make the perfect small town cop. He was unerringly polite at all times.

    Yep—tried to patch into you just as you came back. One of us was about to walk over, but we knew both of you were on the scene, and ... His voice trailed. Either he hadn’t wanted to add more confusion to such a scene, or, he simply hadn’t want to see the awful gore, not when he didn’t need to. County detectives were always called in on murder.

    I’ll use my cell outside, Dakota said.

    Yeah, get someone here, Declan said, heading out before she could do so.

    Where are you going? she called, hurrying after him.

    "Whoever it is—whatever it is—is out there. I’m going to find the devil."

    There is no devil in the woods! Dakota shouted.

    I’ll get our little princess some hot chocolate, how about that? she heard Chancy say. Chancy apparently hadn’t heard Declan’s insanity. Then, Chancy continued, Maybe we can talk and find out who you are and where we can find your mommy or your daddy. And you can tell me what you want for Christmas, little princess!

    Dakota continued on out and let the door close. She pulled out her cell—it was hard to get cell service inside, the building had been constructed of heavy brick during the eighteen-hundreds—she noted with aggravation that Declan was heading in much the same direction from which they had come. The town had a square—and the church and the graveyard and then forest sat across the expanse of the square while the bar was across from the church at the end of the square.

    She dialed the division of child services at county and watched Declan go. He was headed back the way they had come, but he hadn’t bothered with the car. He was walking fast—quickly eating up the half mile or so to the church.

    But he wasn’t heading to the church. He was heading to the graveyard—and the hanging tree.

    He couldn’t really believe in devils!

    Child services answered; Dakota identified herself and gave the situation. She was passed around a few times and finally spoke with a man who gave her an address in Gainesville and asked if an officer was available to bring the child to them.

    Chancy wouldn’t mind; Dakota assured the woman they bring the child. None of them was equipped to deal with the little girl who had to be traumatized out of her mind.

    She had to take charge. Someone around here had to stay sane.

    Walking back into the office, Dakota saw that now both Chancy and David were hunched down by the little girl. They’d gotten her to talk.

    What do you want for Christmas? Chancy asked.

    Toys! the little girl said.

    We’ll just find your mommy and daddy, David said.

    Her eyes filled with tears. She screamed; a terrible scream.

    Oh, dear! David said.

    Chancy picked her up and held her near and rocked her. She looked over the little girl’s head, hoping Dakota had information for her.

    They’ve asked us to bring her to them, Dakota said.

    I’ll go, David and Chancy offered simultaneously.

    We should both go, David said. If she... if she panics in the car, she could hurt the driver.

    Makes sense, Dakota told him.

    But, where the hell—sorry! Heck!—did Declan go? Chancy asked.

    Don’t worry; the town is crawling with law enforcement, Dakota said. I’m fine; you two go.

    Chancy held the little girl; Dakota tried to smile as she saw the angelic face over Chancy’s shoulder. The little girl offered her a tremulous smile back. For a moment, the Christmas lights in the office seemed to catch in her eyes and they glowed.

    Poor kid.

    With them out of the office, Dakota sat at her desk. Had Declan suspected that the killer—or killers—had headed into the forest? He shouldn’t have gone off alone. But, now, she was the only one at the station. She sat down at her desk and drummed her fingers on the hard wood and felt frozen for a moment.

    She’d never expected anything so horrible here.

    County was on it; officers with high tech and plenty of ability!

    She picked up one of the books on her desk. The Curse of Hanging Tree.

    She hadn’t bothered with the book yet; she’d been looking at real histories and tourist catalogues.

    It had been re-printed by some entrepreneur who, according to the title page, had found the diary at Hanging Tree. She started to flip through the pages. The book was supposedly the diary of a young woman who had once lived in Hanging Tree, somewhere around 1830. Dakota started to flip the pages, and then found herself reading near the end.

    Eleanor Grigsby disappeared last night; her mother is frantic. She tells a strange tale about a girl taken a decade before. That girl, I know was Mary Easton; Mary, they say, ran off with a soldier. I don’t believe Eleanor did the same. She was my friend; she told me that she was haunted by memories of Mary! But, you know this town. They say that the devil in the woods has been there since time memorial, changing shape, becoming what it chooses. Only when one cries out to the spirits of goodness and the hanging tree is burned to cinder will the devil die, for its power lies in the terror of those who died there. If they do not find Mary soon, I will burn that tree to the ground.

    Dakota turned the page. It was the end of the diary—an epilogue said that the author of the diary, Charlotte Anderson, had disappeared one night and never been seen again.

    Oh, bull! Dakota said to herself, pushing the book aside. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel a strange chill. Ridiculous. It was a beautiful Florida December—the day temperature was seventy-five; at night, it fell to the sixties.

    And Chancy’s iPod was still playing gentle tunes: Oh, Holy Night.

    She tried to log into her computer; the Internet, like the phones, seemed to be out.

    Swearing, she rose and headed out the front door. She was going to call Declan and find out just what the hell he was doing.

    But she never even drew her phone from her pocket. Down the street, closer to the business section of downtown—as it was!—she heard a tremendous commotion. Then she saw that people were running toward the police station.

    What, what?

    Come, come quick! A man called. There’s been an accident! A terrible accident!

    She started to run. Whatever had happened was down, way down.

    On the street that led to I-75. The path Chancy and David would be taking to get the little girl to Gainesville.

    People were all out of the street—leaving their business and homes behind to gape in horror.

    Dakota ran past them all until she came to the dead center of the town, the circle where they had raised a giant Christmas tree.

    And then she saw. The official police car with the Hanging Tree logo was now in the tree. And the car and the tree were burning ferociously. She heard sirens from the fire station; there was a rush of county cars from the scene they had left that morning.

    And there was... fire.

    She burst her way through with the firefighters who tried to push her back. As they fought the blaze, she felt her stomach sink, felt a pain that squeezed around her heart and tore at her lungs.

    David and Chancy. She could see, even as the firefighters pushed her back, even as others arrived, the charred bodies of David and Chancy.

    There’d been a child in the car. Now, they wouldn’t have to wonder where she had come from; they wouldn’t have to wonder what she’d seen.

    Oh, dear God! she breathed.

    Someone was next to her; someone from county. Someone saying that she had to get away; county would manage everything. She had to find her fellows from the town; she was going to have to tell them the terrible truth.

    Someone had an arm on her shoulder. Someone was trying to lead her away.

    Someone else was trying to get her to drink something.

    Whiskey.

    Whiskey wasn’t going to help.

    She shook them off; she was the town’s police lieutenant.

    Declan. Where the hell was Declan? Two people he cared about were dead, and...

    Finally, not even sure how she really got there, she was back at the station. She stood in front of it, trying to reach Declan on her cell phone. He didn’t answer.

    She remembered then that child services would be looking for someone to arrive with the little blond girl.

    Dakota! You all right?

    She turned. It was Pastor Frank. He looked horrible; he obviously knew that his day had gone from the bizarre to the tragic, that people had died, that they’d been brutalized just as the figures in the Nativity scene. And he knew about the accident.

    She nodded. I’m okay, Pastor. I’m just trying to call child services. She choked on her words. A little girl was in the car with Chancy and David and...

    There was no child in the car, Dakota, the Pastor said. No child.

    Yes, there was! That’s why they were driving the car, they were taking her to Gainesville.

    Dakota, he said gently. They’ve just—they’ve just gotten to the bodies. There were two people in the car. Just two.

    She swallowed. The world seemed to be spinning.

    She kept picturing the little girl, the beautiful little girl. Toys! She had wanted toys for Christmas, but didn’t all children want toys?

    And yet those eyes of hers...

    That smile.

    She was going crazy. Declan’s belief in devils in the woods had made her mad.

    I’m fine, Pastor Frank. I need to reach out to fellow officers. I...

    She turned and walked back into the station office. She saw the book where she had left it on her desk. She walked back over to the book and slammed it shut.

    She had to find Declan.

    She checked her service weapon; she was armed, her gun was fully loaded. At the very least, there was an insane mass murderer out there somewhere! Even if the town was swarming with seasoned officers from the county...

    She left the office unmanned. She didn’t know if the second shift would come in or not; she didn’t care. She started out to find Declan.

    Then she hesitated. David had still smoked. He also kept a good lighter—one that was filled with butane. Wincing against her own stupidity and thinking that the deaths that morning and those of her two friends was making her numb and stupid, she nevertheless got David’s lighter—and his supply of butane. Then she headed out.

    Night was falling. Apparently, the second shift hadn’t come in.

    Maybe they were dead, too. Maybe Declan was dead, maybe she was heading toward her own death...

    No. There was sanity in the world. She could still see all the county cars.

    Yes, the town was crawling with law enforcement.

    She headed across the square and started running again. She should have taken the car... no, she couldn’t have taken the car. It had exploded. With David and Chancy in it.

    With no angelic little girl.

    She reached the church but veered around it, heading for the graveyard and the hanging tree and the forest beyond.

    It wasn’t until she’d almost reached the tree that she dead stopped. There was someone there. Someone sitting on one of the marble sarcophagi toward the rear—it was that of a soldier who had died in World War I. Old and beautiful, inscribed...

    It was the child. The beautiful little girl. She sat there sobbing.

    Impossible.

    Before she could reach the child, she saw Declan. He was walking from the woods, looking weary and frustrated—and self-absorbed. Then, he apparently heard the crying. He stopped and saw the child.

    Hey, little one! What are you doing here?

    He started to walk toward her.

    Stop! Dakota shouted, and Declan did so, looking at her with surprise, as if she’d lost her mind.

    Quite possibly, she had.

    Don’t! It’s her—she’s the devil in the woods! Dakota said. Oh, they would lock her up, certainly. There was a child—one who had witnessed terrible deeds, one whose parents might have been dragged out and killed in the woods or met their fate somewhere else nearby...

    The girl cried harder.

    Dakota, what the fu—

    It’s her! Dakota said.

    And then, the child changed. She seemed to grow and alter almost imperceptibly until she was different, entirely different; she was a beautiful young woman.

    Declan, help me, oh, please, my love, help me!

    Dakota saw Declan’s face change. She saw the way that he looked at the woman.

    Marissa! he whispered. He started walking to the young woman.

    Dakota had never run faster. She streaked past the girl, running so hard and fast that she bore Declan down to the ground. No! She’s the devil in the woods! she cried.

    This was so sad, so sad and bizarre! He believed—she did not! And yet...

    It’s Marissa, Dakota—don’t you see? I didn’t help her then, I wasn’t here! I couldn’t stop what was happening. And now...

    He was a powerful man. Even now, he wouldn’t hurt her, though. He firmly set her aside, ready to go to the woman. It was as if...

    As if she had gotten into his mind!

    No! Dakota cried. But he was moving; he was approaching the young woman who was smiling, who had a strange glint in her eyes. Her mouth moved as she looked at Dakota.

    Ah, yes, coming for you next! Merry Christmas, Lieutenant Marin!

    Dakota jumped to her feet. She needed help from the county guys! But they were too far away, they were running between the bar and the accident scene and she was in a graveyard in the dark with a man who had been mesmerized by what he saw as a sin in his past.

    She felt the butane and the lighter in her pocket.

    Not enough for a giant tree that was hundreds of years old.

    And yet, she had nothing else. She ran to the tree as fast as she could go. She shot butane over a low hanging branch. Her fingers shook so badly she nearly dropped the lighter. Finally, flame shot out. She glanced back. Declan was almost to the woman; the woman was reaching out for him.

    At last, one of the branches caught flame.

    She heard a scream; she looked back. The woman/child thing was changing again. She looked like an out of sync holograph, becoming a child again, a woman, another woman...

    And Declan had stopped moving; he stood there, paralyzed, staring.

    Dakota squirted the contents of the butane with great effort, running the flame of the lighter under the branches of the tree with all her effort.

    She looked back. The thing was then moving toward Declan. She wasn’t getting it to burn hard enough or fast enough.

    She remembered the diary.

    Dear God in Heaven, help! she cried.

    And then, she thought, there were miracles. She saw Pastor Frank, first. He was running toward her with something in his hands... a torch! A burning torch. And there were others... the two missing officers from her own office, Mrs. Villiers, who ran the local coffee shop, Jerry Tremaine, a teacher at the high school...

    They were all bringing fire! And they were singing! They were singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs.

    There was a host of people next to her. And, at last, the tree was ablaze.

    Burning in the night. The heat was searing against her flesh. It was insane...

    She turned. Pastor Frank took her into his arms, blessing her. County people were suddenly flooding around, too, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

    And then, looking at her with disbelief—as if she had dropped out of the skies from a shooting star—was Declan. He was shocked at first. And then he was trembling as he looked at her and said, I told you that there were devils in the woods. And somehow, you saved me. I always thought I had to be here, to save others from the devils. But... you saved me.

    THERE WERE TIMES IN the days that followed that she wondered if she’d been crazy herself.

    The town had remained a mess. Their giant Christmas tree had gone up in the explosion with the car.

    People had been killed at the bar; people who had been beloved.

    The church was a mess...

    And yet, in the days that followed, the church was cleaned up. A new tree was obtained—as well as a new Nativity scene.

    The dead were buried and mourned.

    By order of the mayor, they waited until county had done all that could be done to investigate the murders, and then the roots of the hanging tree were dug up and burned to cinders as well.

    It was very strange.

    The pastor said a lot of prayers.

    The murders never would be solved; they would become part of the legend of the town.

    That wouldn’t matter; she and Declan wouldn’t be there.

    It was on Christmas Day that he came to her, knelt down before her, and told her that he had buried the past. He’d like a future. He’d been given a nice offer over in St. Augustine.

    Does that mean you want me to... come with you? she asked.

    And his smile gave her the answer she realized she’d wanted. So, they would go together. Now, he could leave the town. The next captain would not be so plagued.

    They stood with the town at ceremonies at the church that night. They sang Christmas carols. Happy ones.

    And they watched the display of fireworks over the square, fireworks that lighted up the woods—plagued by devils no more.

    A FAMILY CHRISTMAS TERROR

    CHAPTER 2

    THAT WAS CREEPY, NICK said. I think I need another doughnut.

    Like you wouldn’t have had one anyway, Jack added. Garbage-can gut.

    Just wait till you’re older and metabolism catches up to you. Dan patted his slight belly. But these doughnuts are damn good. Is there more coffee? He raised his cup and motioned to his wife.

    I’ll get it. Judy stood up and moved to the kitchen.

    Hey, Mom? Nancy called out. I think you should read this next story. It takes place in Iceland. Didn’t you and Dad go there a few years ago for your twentieth anniversary? And you’re always saying you’ve got Nordic blood in you.

    Judy came back into the room, coffee pot in hand. But l have dinner to get started, Judy responded.

    The turkey’s already cooking and we’ll all help with everything else. Right guys? Nancy glared at her brothers.

    Right, right, the brothers assured her.

    Okay, but just this one story. She took the book from Nancy. I did love Iceland. Beautiful country. Beautiful people. Remember, Dan?

    Uh huh, he said. But you know what the most beautiful thing I saw was?

    Me? Judy asked coquettishly.

    Yup, was his simple response.

    Ewwww! the twins chorused. Grandpa chuckled.

    Enough reminiscing, guys, Jack said. And I thought the doughnuts were sweet.

    Everyone laughed. Then Judy said, Here we go. I hope there aren’t too many bad words.

    We’ve heard them before, Mom, Jack said.

    She

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