Chapter 7
Iwas curled up in bed that morning, fluffy sheets wrapped around me, the mug of hot cocoa warm between my hands, trying to scrub that disgusting ham out of my head. Detective Castillo had taken it back to the police station to put in evidence, and I was forever grateful for that.
I’d even tossed in a few marshmallows inside my cocoa, watching them melt into little white ghosts, remembering how Angela loved to drink the stuff.
“How the hell can I be sipping hot cocoa at a time like this?” I muttered to myself, a dry laugh escaping before I could stop it. Angela would giggle at me.
She always said I was the kind of guy who liked to sit in bed all day, covers draped over me, avoiding sunlight as much as I could. I took comfort in the darkness, in the stillness, in the quiet…
But now everything was different. I needed to play a sick man’s game to get my wife back.
The worst part was that there wasn’t much I could do at the moment.
I had to wait for him to drop off the “gifts” so that we’d complete whatever cycle he had begun in the first place.
I just hoped Angela was okay, and that if the Xmas Day Butcher really did cut off her foot, I hoped he tended to her wound.
God, it was so horrible to think of my Angela without a foot. She did nothing to deserve that. This was a true monster in the making.
My thoughts refused to stay still; they drifted to my employer: George St. Nicklaus.
I thought about him and Clara and how horrible it had been when she went missing—never to be found again.
I was beginning to think there might’ve been a connection between her disappearance and Angela’s.
What if the Xmas Day Butcher had abducted them both?
Something about George didn’t sit right with me. Supposedly, some townsfolk believed that he had “snapped” and killed Clara by accident. He then hid the body, and that was that.
But what if he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to? Maybe he’d been forced to keep quiet. Maybe he had been forced to pretend that he didn’t know what had happened with Clara, or maybe…just maybe…George really did kill his only daughter in a rage. He was always controlling her—this was a fact.
As I stared at the marshmallows dissolving in my cocoa, I convinced myself that going to George’s place might’ve provided me with some answers. It beat staying at home, doing nothing, and feeling sorry for myself. Angela wouldn’t be found in our bedroom.
I set aside the cocoa, got up from my bed, and dressed myself in some much-needed winter attire.
I grabbed some random ornaments, including some miniature Diet Dr. Spencer cans, from a half-opened box near the Christmas tree and stuffed them inside a cloth bag.
I needed an excuse to visit Grumpy Claus.
As I walked outside towards the town square, I noticed that the snow had crusted into thick ridges along the road. That’s what all the road blockage must’ve been about. I crossed into the plaza and quietly stared at the streetlamp that had the severed foot inside the hanging Christmas stocking.
The town’s shopping plaza had turned into a ghost town after that incident—no one dared to go outside.
No children were jumping and running in the playground, no adults were shopping in the stores, and the blinds to most shops were shut.
Everyone had been spooked, and word spread like wildfire, even amongst the snow.
My frenzied, anxious thoughts seemed to accelerate the time I spent walking to the St. Nicklaus residence. As it came into view, I noticed smoke rising from his chimney, swirling clouds of gray puffing out into the white sky. He was home; he always was.
I never imagined myself living in a white, snow-covered land in the middle of nowhere like George, but as the years went by, I was starting to understand it.
The serenity you had in seclusion was nice, but even I had to admit that living alone, with no real neighbors, was beginning to make me go nutty.
Another reason to leave Whisper’s Creek as soon as possible was that I wanted to feel normal—be normal, in a place surrounded by normal folks with families, kids, regular jobs…no cursed towns, deranged serial killers, or severed limbs in sight.
I hopped up the creaky porch steps and knocked on his rickety front door.
When George opened up, his face looked more weathered than ever—his eyes were bloodshot, and his forehead was creased with lines that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him.
It was like something had been keeping him up at night, perhaps thoughts of the Xmas Day Butcher coming to find him next, or something far more sinister.
“Oh, hey, Lenny,” he said, surprised to see me. “I didn’t expect a visitor. What are you doing here?”
“I figured you could use a hand putting up the Christmas tree,” I said, lifting the small bundle of ornaments I’d brought. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to have some company.”
He squinted at me while giving me his signature grumpy look. “Boy, you know I like to be alone—especially during the holidays. I haven’t put up the Christmas tree because there’s no point…Clara’s gone.”
I gulped, trying to find a minimal spark in his eyes, a shred of kindness I could lean into in order to get inside his home.
“I understand how you feel. It’s just…” I started to choke up.
“…ever since Angela’s been gone, I’ve felt so hopeless, George.
I’m alone…so alone. I just wanted to share some company with someone I know, even if you’re my boss,” I said quietly.
He studied me carefully, almost rolling his eyes. I expected that from him. “You should’ve called first.” He hesitated, then stepped aside. “Clara would’ve liked to put up the damn tree,” he muttered.
I nodded gratefully and entered his home.
It was in serious neglect. A dusty bookshelf sat in the corner; several newspapers about Clara’s mysterious disappearance were pinned to a brown board beside it.
The black leather couches were peeling, and the color was fading.
A few empty eggnog cartons were strewn about on the floor along with some beer bottles.
A giant Christmas rug with a Santa Claus figure stretched from the front door to the entrance of the kitchen, stained and dirty with black footprints.
The room was dark and dim, with only a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, providing a minimal, yellowish hue as lighting. Ever since Clara vanished, George just didn’t care anymore—about life or anything else, so it seemed.
George begrudgingly pulled the medium-sized Christmas tree out of a small storage closet he had near the living room. “Don’t remember this shit being this damn heavy, dammit!” he threw it on the floor, broken pine needles floating in the air.
I rushed over to help him before he got angrier.
I wasn’t sure if that was possible for someone I named “Grumpy Claus,” but I thought about those rumors of him “snapping.” Could he have murdered Clara?
Was that even possible? Could there be a connection between Clara and Angela?
That was yet to be seen, but I intended to find out.
Because it was clear that the Xmas Day Butcher knew me, somehow, and they may have been closer to me than I thought. That was the most terrifying notion I’ve had in my mind ever since Angela’s disappearance.
We set up the tree in the corner of the living room, near the wooden stand with the TV and the shuttered window where George refused to have natural light shining through. He was a man of darkness and no light—through and through. Just like a bratty teenager who always wanted their door closed.
The tree leaned a little to the right, but neither of us bothered fixing it.
I knew George wouldn’t care, and I didn’t bother to ask him about it.
We hung various ornaments on it—red glass bulbs, tiny snowmen, some candy canes, and some miniature Diet Dr. Spencer cans. Those were my absolute favorites.
George didn’t say much as we decorated the tree. He just kept looking at it with hollow eyes that were filled with sorrow, like he couldn’t stop thinking about Clara.
But was it out of sadness…? Or guilt?
When I went to grab another handful of decorations from underneath his wooden center table, I felt something else—cold and metallic. When I looked under, it was a small metal lockbox, unlocked. I thought that was odd.
I looked at him and pointed to it. “Hey, George, what’s this?”
He jerked his head towards me, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, that’s nothing. Just some random shit. You can take a look—see if there’s anything worth putting on this tree.”
I pulled it out and flipped the latch open.
I crouched down and examined the contents inside.
I found several pieces of jewelry—trinkets, bracelets, rings, and necklaces that shimmered faintly in the dim lighting.
But something made my stomach drop, something that made me question why George had it in his possession.
There was a pair of reindeer earrings inside, the same type of pair that Angela had worn.
That was the first thing that the Xmas Day Butcher had ever sent me in that devious little gift box—bloodied. Maybe I was going insane, but then again—maybe I wasn’t. I didn’t know the identity of the Xmas Day Butcher, but I knew it must’ve been someone close to me.
Suspicion slipped through the tone of my voice. “George, where did you get these?” I raised them high and in between my fingers so he could see.
He looked at me and stiffened while hanging a glass ball at the top of the tree. “At a shop in town, I’m holding them for her.” He cleared his throat. “For when Clara finally comes home.”
My heart hammered in my ears. George knew something—he had to. I had to ask anyhow; he had lived in this town for a very long time, and I had no answers for Angela. I didn’t know where she was, and I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
I tossed the reindeer earrings back in the lockbox and stood up.
“Do you know anything about the original Xmas Day Butcher? Do you know why he killed my foster parents and my brother? I know that his name was Colton Kilhouser and that he’s been dead for years, but…
I just don’t know anything more than that. There has to be more, right?”
He hung a candy cane hesitantly in the middle of the tree; while staring into it, his mind raced with thoughts, his mouth slightly twitching as he thought about what to say. He sighed heavily and waddled near me to sit down in his favorite armchair.
He tiredly rubbed his eyes. “You shouldn’t look into it too deeply, son.
It was a tragedy what happened to Peter, Maria, and Lincoln.
Such a tragedy,” he said softly while staring off into nothing.
“There’s secrets in this damn town—secrets that can’t come out.
I made the mistake of asking around once.
I wanted to know why your family was murdered.
I wanted to know Colton Kilhouser’s motive.
I wanted some goddamn answers for my former neighbors.
” He shook his head. “There’s powerful people in Whisper’s Creek.
They covered it all up. They covered up Colton Kilhouser’s origin, the Frost family murders, Clara’s disappearance…
and they might be covering up Angela’s as well. ”
That shook me to my core. I didn’t know that George had asked around all those years ago. I never knew he’d be the type of guy to hold these kinds of answers. I figured he must’ve grown a bit soft after Clara vanished.
I ran a hand through my hair, so many thoughts racing and rushing through my head. It sounded like George thought that some sort of conspiracy was taking place in Whisper’s Creek. “Who are these powerful people?” I asked carefully.
He rubbed his temples. “I think it has something to do with that whacko institute.” He snapped his fingers at me. “That Gibraltar place. The doctor there…what was his name?”
“I believe it’s Doctor Thomas T. Tuttle,” I answered.
His eyes suddenly met mine. “Yes, him. He holds more power than you might think. He’s buddy-buddy with Mayor Carl Hamonte. Rumor is, Doctor Tuttle secretly funded all of his political campaigns.”
Holy shit.
I crossed my arms. “Is that so?”
He leaned forward in his chair, his voice low, trembling.
“Look, Lenny…I barely remembered that Peter and Maria had adopted two boys. I used to drop off Christmas hams for them every year, and we’d have some nice conversations.
Sometimes, I’d come in and have some hot cocoa—maybe a cup of coffee—and I’d catch a glimpse of you sitting on top of the stairway, holding that little doll.
Before I could say anything about you, you’d disappear.
They never mentioned you guys; I don’t know why. Maybe to protect you?”
The words sucker-punched me, knocking the wind out of my gut. I remembered that doll. It had been the only thing that got me through my time at the orphanage—Mercy’s Light. Ironic name for a place that was a complete shithole.
There was a woman there named Mildred. She made us sit facing the wall if we so much as coughed. Lincoln and I used to count the seconds under our breath, just to remember what our voices sounded like. All that the lady wanted was quiet; if we made noise, it meant death.
I appreciated my foster parents, Peter and Maria Frost, because they took us out of the orphanage, but they had treated us like secrets that could never be spoken.
I was sure they were only interested in collecting a check.
They weren’t especially attentive either; all we had was each other—Lincoln and me.
I stared back at George, wanting more answers.
“Give it to me straight, George. Angela’s missing, and I don’t know how to find her.
What’s really going on in this town? Who’s pulling the strings?
How do my former foster parents factor into this?
What game can this copycat Xmas Day Butcher be playing? ”
He stayed quiet for a few moments, staring at the ground. I patiently waited for his answer.
“I don’t know anything about your foster parents, but Doctor Thomas T.
Tuttle and Mayor Carl Hamonte…Lenny, those are the names you need to remember.
The doctor controls the institute. The other controls Whisper’s Creek.
The two of them together…they might control everything. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
He slowly got up from his chair and looked longingly at the Christmas tree. “Clara’s gone…Angela’s gone… a return of a Xmas Day Butcher. Curse this damn town. This will not end well.”