Chapter 6
Ididn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Christmas stocking swinging in the wind, the severed foot stuffed inside. The foot had Christmas-colored nails—red and green. Detective Castillo had confirmed that with me.
Angela had painted hers just like that before she vanished. She’d been smiling when she did it, sitting on the couch, humming some Christmas carol under her breath.
Now that image made me want to puke my guts out. That son of a bitch had chopped off her foot, stuffed it inside a stocking, and swung it over a streetlamp for the entire town to see, like some demented Christmas prop.
It was already morning, and I barely slept a wink. The snow had calmed, but the world outside my window was still as white and dead as the day Angela went missing. Detective Castillo safely stored the severed foot for the forensics lab, but who knew if it’d make it there in time.
The silence in my house felt heavy, and ever since yesterday, it felt like the whole town was now holding its breath.
Everyone knew something was wrong now, but Castillo still wanted to keep a lid on things for as long as possible.
She didn’t want people to know that a deranged lunatic was on the loose in Whisper’s Creek.
I stepped outside to get out of my head for a bit, if that would even be possible, and that’s when I noticed the gift box.
Jesus Christ, another one.
It was calmly sitting on my porch—a neat little thing wrapped in shimmery green paper, and tied with a red ribbon. The freak must’ve been dropping them off at my house in the middle of the night. How the hell did they withstand the cold?
I felt a twitch in my neck, and the air seemed to thicken as I crouched down to pick it up. It was quite heavy as I brought it inside to set it on my coffee table.
This better not be her damn head or something.
I opened the drawer of the table and pulled out a box cutter. I flipped the blade out and carefully tore the wrapping paper along the top, where the ribbon was. I ripped it off and lifted the lid to the box.
The smell was immediately apparent; a noxious scent of sour ham and metal attacked my nostrils.
I saw the white note first, embedded in some giant round ball of…flesh?!
I grabbed the note and then read the words that were scrawled in jagged black ink: CLUE #3: “Learn who I am, or Angela becomes a Christmas ham.”
My stomach dropped to the floor.
In the gift box was a ham—gray and slimy with mold, stinking of rot. As I examined it closer, there was something stuck inside it, like some kind of twisted garnish. It was a metallic Christmas star.
I stumbled back, choking on the horrific smell. My body began trembling, and I could barely hold my composure.
That star—five-pointed, sharp, golden—it wasn’t random. It meant something. This monster definitely knew who I was—he knew this was the weapon that was used to butcher my family. I was being tormented, played with…but why? Why me?! What had I done?! Why punish Angela?!
The image of the severed foot flashed again in my mind as I fell to the floor.
I remembered the painted nails: red and green.
I could almost see a masked monster chopping off Angela’s foot as she screamed—a sharp axe plunging downward into her ankle, the bones crunching, the blood spilling out of the fresh wound like a crimson fountain.
A twisted man dressed as Santa Claus, having his way with her, to destroy me.
I tightly shut my eyes, tears flowing out of them, my gut broiling with fire. I curled into a ball, feeling hopeless and helpless. I had no idea how to help my poor, dear Angela. The idea of her being butchered—of what might be left of her when I found her—was enough to make me dizzy.
I angrily slammed my fist against the cold floor, pain erupting along my arm.
Whoever was doing this wanted me ruined forever.
They wanted me to remember them. It was happening all over again—all the suffering and the anguish that I had felt when the first Xmas Day Butcher slaughtered my family, all those years ago.
I couldn’t take it—I couldn’t handle it. I closed my eyes even tighter, secretly hoping it was a cruel nightmare that’d be over as soon as I woke up.
I jolted awake to the sound of banging on my door. I was in my lounge chair, my legs sprawled out, the taste of air on my tongue—I had fallen asleep. I quickly checked my watch—it was still December 6th.
I rubbed my dry eyes and slid over to the front door to see who was there. When I checked the peephole, Detective Castillo was standing there, with a concerned look on her face.
I swung open the door and stepped aside so she could enter. “Jesus, Lenny. You look like hell. Are you okay?”
I sighed heavily, hanging my head. “My wife’s missing, and there’s a man named the Xmas Day Butcher cutting up body parts and parading them in front of the town. What do you think?” I asked aloud. “I got another gift, by the way.”
When she saw the ham, her stony expression changed to complete horror. She reached inside her pocket and put on gloves to examine it. She lifted the note first, eyes narrowing as she read it. Then she looked back at the ham.
“Christmas ham, yellow Christmas star,” she murmured. “That’s not random.”
I knew what she was getting at, but I wanted to see what she said. “What do you mean?”
She hesitated, glancing at me with worrisome eyes.
“I didn’t want to accept it, but it might be what we’ve been fearing since this whole thing started.
Colton Kilhouser is dead, but this has to be a copycat killer.
Another Xmas Day Butcher.” I paced back and forth.
“I also didn’t want to accept it, but here we are—dealing with someone who’s just as twisted as the original, huh? ”
Castillo shook her head, confused about what was going on. “He’s been dead for years; this doesn’t make any sense. Why now?” She looked at me—square in the eyes. “Why would someone be sending this to you now? How did they even find you? I still haven’t figured it out.”
I nodded. “It has been a very long time. I was 12 when Colton killed my family, and I’m 32 now.
My hair changed after I buzzed it. It used to be wavy and a lighter shade of brown.
I have facial hair now, and after a while…
no one recognized me anymore. Somehow, this copycat found me, after so many years. ”
I sighed, taking a seat on the armrest of my lounge chair. “A lot of people moved out of this place when that happened. I wanted to do the same, but…I just never did. I lived with an old lady named Corita. I met Angela in high school, and she didn’t want to leave, so we didn’t.”
I got up and stared at the ceiling, quietly wondering how I ended up in this hellish predicament. “I just tried to forget it ever happened, and I pretended it didn’t. It worked for a while, but now…it’s come back to haunt me.”
Castillo just stared at me—stunned. “That case is a tragedy. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
“It’s alright. I’m trying to move on,” I said softly.
She shook her head, pursing her lips together. “This copycat needs to be found.” Castillo dug her hands into the ham, trying not to breathe it in too deeply.
I looked at her curiously. “Shouldn’t you take this back somewhere official? To be examined?”
She glanced at me, clucking her tongue. “I’d be doing the same thing at the station, it’s fine. Not sure if we’d be able to get any DNA evidence in time anyway. Roads are still blocked off, and the best lab is in Gravestone, the town closest to us.”
Inside was another clue—Castillo pulled it out; it was a folded newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. She placed it beside the ham and smoothed it out, grimacing at the stains of ham she was smearing on it. I read it without touching anything.
The date was December 25th.
The headline read: “A XMAS DAY BUTCHER STRIKES IN WHISPER’S CREEK—COUPLE AND CHILD FOUND DEAD.”
Peter and Maria Frost: my foster parents.
The story detailed how Colton Kilhouser had evaded police for three days before his capture.
It mentioned his transfer: “Colton Kilhouser, dubbed the ‘Xmas Day Butcher,’ will be admitted to the Gibraltar Institute under the supervision of Doctor Thomas T. Tuttle. He has been declared legally insane. Councilman Carl Hamonte endorsed the decision and signed off on the transfer.”
Hmm…Councilman Carl Hamonte is now Mayor Hamonte. That’s Angela’s boss.
I found it strange that there was nothing about me. No mention of a surviving son. “They erased me,” I whispered. “I should be grateful; I guess it was for my own protection.”
Castillo frowned. “This institute—Gibraltar. There was an incident there, around the same time Angela was reported missing.”
I looked at her, curiously. “What happened?”
“Well,” she said. “It’s something I’ve been asked not to discuss. We couldn’t get there now anyway—not in this weather. Too much ice on the roads.”
I nodded slowly, scanning the newspaper clipping again. My eyes found a grainy black-and-white photo at the bottom—a smiling family beside a Christmas tree. My foster parents, Peter and Maria Frost, and standing next to them, arm around Peter’s shoulder, was George St. Nicklaus.
I suddenly remembered how George loved Christmas hams. How bizarre that the Xmas Day Butcher had sent me a moldy ham of all things.
I wonder…is George hiding anything?