Part 2 of THE ICY REALM. Hope you enjoy.

Well, we’re almost there. The big day looms. But before then, if you’ve got time amid all those chaotic last-minute preparations, here is the second and final part of my latest Christmas horror story, THE ICY REALM. If you’re only just tuning in now and aren’t sure what’s what, it’s probably best if you read Part 1 first, which you can find by simply scrolling down to my previous post (December 15).

THE ICY REALM

2

Alex said nothing on the return drive, but it was a struggle to get things straight in his head. First of all, he’d clearly imagined the business with the two marionettes. There was no other explanation. He’d thought he was locked in there for the holidays. He’d panicked and lost it … not that he was going to tell anyone that. He must already be a diminished figure in Erika’s eyes just for having got stuck in there in the first place.
     But the rest of it was harder to dismiss.
     The damaged books. The fact he’d seemingly been lured into that trap. Surely it wasn’t all just some ugly coincidence? And if not, what did it mean exactly?
     Erika threw curious sidelong glances at him, but increasingly, the weather was distracting them both. It wasn’t just getting dark now, the clouds that had regathered over the afternoon were opening again, progressively larger flakes dancing in their headlights as they wound along the narrow Lake District lanes, now narrowed even further by the snow banked to either side. The already minuscule strip of tarmac along the middle of the road was slowly covering over. Erika fiddled with the radio, to try and get a forecast, but all they heard was lots of fuzz and several broken, disembodied voices. A couple of times though, Alex heard phrases like ‘whiteout conditions …’ and ‘severe disruption …’
     ‘Damn it,’ he muttered.
     ‘Told you,’ Erika replied primly. ‘A white Christmas doesn’t always mean a happy one.’
     ‘Deaths expected …’
     ‘God above,’ he said out loud. ‘You hear that?’
     ‘In the Icy Realm …’
     ‘England has the weirdest weather,’ Erika replied. ‘One week ago, it was raining.’
     ‘Did they really say “deaths expected”?’
     She frowned. ‘Didn’t sound like it.’
     ‘Did to me.’
     ‘Probably because you’re a special case …’
     ‘What the hell!’ he exploded.
     ‘Alex, be careful!’
     He swerved to avoid the snowbank they’d been veering towards. ‘I thought it said …’
     ‘Don’t listen to that. Focus on driving. We want to get home in one piece.’
     It was certainly a relief when they swung through the open gate onto the lengthy driveway leading to the Farm, because the snow was now coming down hard: the track itself was several inches under, the trees enclosing them more like skeletal white outlines.
     The drive went initially left of the lawn, before cutting right past the front of the farmhouse and snaking round to the side. A bright new layer of snow covered everything, untrammelled by tyres or footprints, yet as they went right, their headlights ghosting across the building, Alex spotted something on the doorstep. He drove by, biting his lip. Erika was too busy putting on her gloves and scarf to have noticed.
     They pulled up in their usual place at the side of the house. Alex applied the handbrake but stayed in his seat. He told Erika that he was going to try and fix the radio.
     ‘No probs.’ She jumped out, grabbed her shopping from the rear and headed indoors.
     Once she’d gone, Alex got out, pulling his own gloves on as he stumped round to the front of the house. At the same time, the phone began bleeping in his pocket.
     It was Mike. ‘Dad … I’ve been trying to get you.’
     ‘Yeah … you know what the blackspots are like up here.’
     ‘Dad, this weather …’
     ‘Yeah, I know.’ They’d been expecting this, of course.
     ‘You’ve heard they’ve closed the M6 north of Preston?’ Mike said.
     ‘It might be clear tomorrow.’
     ‘I don’t know, Dad. It’s a big risk on Christmas Day.’
     ‘Don’t worry about it …’ Alex halted at the front door, where, as he’d seen from the car, a square red package, tied with a green ribbon, sat on the step. ‘Sod it,’ he muttered.     

     ‘I’m sorry …’
     ‘Don’t worry, mate. You stay at home. I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure we’ll be here.’
     He cut the call and picked the package up. There were two tags attached. The first one read: For Erika. Merry Xmas. The second one: Don’t wait till the big day. Open now.
     He tore it brutally apart, and a mouldy, fungus-riddled potato dropped into his palm.
     With a strangled cry, he flung it away. Lumbering back round the house, he glanced across the lawn, but so thick were the falling flakes that he couldn’t even see the trees. When he entered the kitchen, Erika was busy wrapping the new presents. They were primarily for Geoff, his younger brother’s children. He threw the book he’d bought onto the sideboard, and stood watching her, tormented. There was no road closure between here and Carlisle, so Geoff and his family could still visit. But could Alex really let that happen without issuing some kind of warning?
     But a warning of what?
     Erika glanced up with a big smile, which rapidly faltered. ‘What now?’
     ‘Mike’s not coming.’
     ‘Oh, right.’ Inevitably, she wasn’t too disappointed. ‘We thought that might happen. You know what I reckon the problem is? He thinks I’m not earning my keep.’
     You mean while you’re only a dance teacher, Alex thought sourly, and not a star of stage and screen?
     ‘Soon as that changes,’ she said, ‘he won’t think I’m leeching off you anymore, will he? Now, go and put the fire on in the lounge. Get yourself a drink. See …’ She held up a glass of Cointreau, ice cubes clinking. ‘I’ve not wasted any time.’
     Alex threaded through the warren of passages, hanging his coat and scarf over the newel post at the foot of the staircase, then walking into the lounge and turning on the real-flame gas fire, which roared to hearty life. His phone rang again.
     ‘You too, Geoff?’ he wondered dully.
     But it wasn’t Geoff.
     ‘Alex … it’s Fiona Havergood.’
     ‘Hello, Fee.’ He was only partly relieved. ‘Thanks for calling me back. To be honest, I’d forgotten I’d left you a message.’
     ‘You were ringing about Jimmy Groober.’
     ‘Yeah, I …’
     ‘Jimmy’s dead.’
     Even with the fire on, Alex went cold. ‘W…what?’
     ‘Fell off his roof late last night. Bit weird. He was nude at the time.’ Considering that Fee had been a good friend of Jimmy’s, she sounded oddly matter-of-fact about it. ‘A neighbour saw him and came out. Apparently, they called up to him, asked what was wrong. He said something about if he’d stayed indoors, it would smell him out. It had sniffed its way after him through every room. That’s what he said, anyway.’
     ‘What would smell him out?’
     ‘There’ll be a name for it, but I’m an old woman now, Alex. I can’t remember. Anyway, it sounds as though he’d just had a shower … trying to get rid of his scent, or something. But of course, it was freezing … so, well, the cold overwhelmed him, and he fell.’
      Alex could scarcely believe it. ‘Fee, Jimmy called me yesterday evening.’
     ‘Trying to warn you, I imagine.’
     ‘Warn me?’ He felt so sick with shock that he was struggling to make sense of any of this.
      ‘Jimmy liked you, Alex … he must have, if warning you was one of the last things he did.’
     Again, it was all dispassionate and matter-of-fact. So much so that Alex genuinely wondered if this was truly the same Fiona Havergood who’d been such a friend of his and Jimmy Groober’s over the years. He couldn’t equate such casual indifference with that fiercely intelligent but rather lovely septuagenarian, whose genteel appearance concealed a vast knowledge of folk and fairy tales gleaned from the five children’s books she’d written on the subject and which made her a shoe-in each winter to direct the panto, a demanding task she’d performed with great diligence and good humour.
     ‘Fiona, what … what do you mean warning me?’
     ‘Oh, Alex! Don’t tell me you’re not aware something’s going on? I mean, surely you’ve heard from him by now?’
     ‘Heard from who?’
     ‘Nils Karlsson.’
     ‘K-Karls …’ Alex found himself stuttering. ‘I thought his name was Carling.’
     ‘Well, you didn’t pay much attention to him, did you. You only had eyes for Erika.’
     ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
     ‘I can tell by your voice that something’s not right.’
     ‘Fee, what’re you saying?’ he demanded. ‘That this lad Nils Karlsson’s got some kind of issue with us? All these years later?’
     ‘Nils Karlsson is also dead.’ Again, she spoke unemotionally, as though imparting a simple, unsensational fact. ‘He didn’t commit suicide, though. Not like his father, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
     ‘It isn’t …’
     ‘Died from exposure, apparently. His dad was from Iceland, but he lost everything during their financial crash. After that, his mother, who was English, brought Nils here. She didn’t last long though. Poor health, broken heart and that. Anyway, Nils was left on his own, a stranger in a strange land … bit of an oddball too. You must remember how weird his appearance was. I got the feeling he’d struggle to fit in anywhere …’
     As Alex listened to all this with growing confusion, he drifted to the door and glanced out, just to ensure that Erika wasn’t in earshot. As it happened, she was coming along the passage towards him, only to turn into the dining room, from out of which he heard the pop songs on her Christmas playlist. From the tray she was carrying, which was loaded with festive napkins and such, she was setting out the table for tomorrow. She winked at him and took another sip from her glass of Cointreau.
     Fiona meanwhile was still talking about Nils Karlsson. ‘When he came to the Players, I think he thought he’d found his place. Amateur theatre … always looking for new members, everyone welcome, that sort of thing. But we’ve had a few like that over the years, haven’t we? You know, square pegs who’ll only ever find round holes …’
     ‘Fiona!’ Alex interrupted. ‘Where’s all this going?’
     ‘I’m saying that after his big disappointment with Rumplestiltskin, he went back to Iceland. But I don’t think he knew anyone there. A decade had passed, after all. Seems like he tried to refurbish his old family home, which was out in the wilds. Wasn’t used to the harsh weather, ended up getting caught in a snowstorm …’
     ‘What has this got to do with Jimmy Groober? Or me?’
     ‘And me, Alex,’ she said tersely. ‘Don’t forget me. In case you were wondering, I’m talking to you from the Oakhill Unit at the Infirmary.
     ‘You … what?’ As far as Alex knew, the Oakhill Unit was a psychiatric ward.
     ‘Had a bit of a fright the night before last. Nothing to worry about.’
     But suddenly she sounded tense, her tone brittle.
      ‘Are you …’ he was stuttering again, ‘are you okay?’
     ‘Well, I’m able to talk to you at least. That’s more than poor Jimmy, isn’t it? But Alex, your situation can’t be far removed from mine. By my estimation you’ll be number thirteen. Though … maybe not.’ She lapsed into brief thought. ‘Perhaps Erika will be number thirteen. You’ll be twelve. I certainly imagine that you two will be the final two … the ones they’ll have reserved harshest judgement for.’
     ‘Judgement? What the hell are you saying, Fiona? That before he died, Nils Karlsson set something in motion for us? Some kind of revenge?’
     A tinkling laugh responded. ‘Of course, that’s what I’m saying. But not before he died.’
     ‘Fiona, what the actual fu….?’
     ‘You see, in your two cases, I think it was the sheer immorality of it.’
     ‘Look, Fiona …’ He wrestled himself under control. ‘I’ve got real problems up here, so you need to start making sense …’
     ‘You gave Erika that part of Rumplestiltskin because you fancied her, didn’t you.’
     ‘She was the best at the audition.’
     ‘Yes, but you still fancied her.’
     ‘This is so nuts …’
     ‘Surely, you’re not denying it, Alex?’ She sounded amused again. ‘You’ve spent your entire career among professionals. You know better than anyone that Erika was never that good. That’s why you’ve never got her onto the big stage, isn’t it? You can’t really spin straw into gold, can you?’ That weird, tinkling laugh again. ‘See what I did there? But it worked to get her into your bed, didn’t it. I mean, I know it ended up costing you your marriage, but well, I imagine having a fresh young replacement in your grasp was some kind of compensation. But it was immoral, casting Erika for such a crass reason.’
     ‘This is the biggest load of …’
     ‘Tell that to Polly Willoughby, who on December 17 was arrested for severely beating her own grandchild with a fire-poker. She told the police that she was convinced someone was hiding under her bed. Terrified out of her wits, she dragged them out and attacked. Seems she had no idea why the child, who’d been staying over, was sleeping there. And neither did the child … when it finally regained consciousness. Or Gordon Compton, who on December 15 was taken into hospital to have his stomach pumped, along with all the guests at his Christmas dinner party … because every spoon in his drawer was contaminated with salmonella, even though he insisted that he’d washed them all before preparing the meal.’
     Alex was stumped. ‘Polly Willoughby? Gordon Compton? They were on the Casting Committee.’
     ‘Course they were. It’s everyone who was involved, you see. Thirteen of us in total. And these … entities, they only come on the thirteen days leading up to Christmas. Each one on a different date. And each one brings a special gift to the person in question.’
     ‘A gift? You mean like a potato?’
     ‘Oh no.’ She tittered again. ‘The potato’s only a sign of their displeasure. Mind you, if you accept it, that means the challenge is on …’
     ‘Accept it?’
     ‘You’ve obviously already done that, Alex. Opened the package I mean. No, the real gift, well …’ She became thoughtful. ‘Well … it’s not always a gift. The Yule Lads are typical of these mysterious Christmas visitors you hear about in so many cultures. They may bestow a gift, if you deserve it … but more likely they’ll administer a punishment. Mine’s still going on, I suppose … I spent the whole of December 21 running from one room to the next, seeing a different hideous face at each window.’ 

     She tried to laugh again, but it was forced. ‘I suppose I’m right where I need to be now. I’ve always been nervous at night. Ever since Kenny died. So, it was a severe one in my case, but I was the show’s director, after all … heaven knows what’s going to happen to you and Erika.’
     ‘Fiona,’ he said tightly, ‘you’re the fairy tale expert … tell me.’
     ‘Oh, my dear, there are no experts. That’s likely why Nils Karlsson had to die. You can’t make deals with these people simply by reading books and working rituals, even over so many years … oh yes, doctor?’ Suddenly, she was talking to someone else. ‘Oh, yes. Just a friend … well, if you insist …’
     The line went dead.
     Alex stared at his phone, the firelight flickering in its empty screen.
     Fee Havergood was one of the most stable characters he knew: organised, straightlaced, ridiculously well-educated. In no way a flake. If anyone else had said those things to him, it would have sounded like utter gibberish. Frenziedly, he bashed in another number.
     ‘You’re not dead, Jimbo,’ he said under his breath. ‘You’re just not.’
     No one answered. And now something else was shot-firing inside his head. Something Fiona had said. It had been a throw-away reference, something she’d mentioned almost casually, and yet it was relevant, he was sure, because he’d seen it somewhere before …
     Yule Lads.
     He stiffened.
     Yes … the Yule Lads. Dear God, that book in which Nils Karlsson’s mugshot was inserted.
     Alex galloped through to the kitchen, where the book was still lying on the sideboard, the photograph hanging out of it. He flipped to that page.

Yule Lads

     As he scanned down past the crude image of carved stonework, he was only able to absorb bits and pieces of the text, but each fragment was nerve-jangling in its import.

     Among the most feared beings in the Icy Realm … wild spirits of the frozen mountains and snow-filled forests …

     December 15: Þvörusleikir (Spoon-Licker), stealer of health …

     December 21: Gluggagægir (Window-Peeper), stealer of privacy …

     December 22: Gáttaþefur (Doorway-Sniffer), stealer of scent …

     December 23: Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh …

     December 24: Kertasníkir (Candle-Taker), stealer of light …

     No magic can repel them, no hero defeat them. They fear nothing save their own voracious parents, who are always close by, the ogre, Leppalúði, and the hag, Grýla …

      Alex ran back through the house. This was insane, of course. It had to be. Norse mythology, folklore, fairy tales?
     ‘What next?’ he muttered. ‘That dwarf off the Singing fucking Ringing Tree?’
     But just because these entities didn’t exist, that didn’t mean there weren’t lunatics out there who believed they did.
     ‘Erika!’ He lurched into the dining room. ‘We’ve got to …’
     The table was laid with expensive crockery and glassware, but the room was empty. The music now came from the lounge, which meant that Erika had taken her iPod in there. When he entered after her, she was dancing barefoot, in her ski pants and vest, her supple, firelit form twirling and pirouetting with sensual grace.
     ‘Erika!’
     She stopped, pink-cheeked, smiling mischievously.
     ‘We’ve got to go,’ he said.
     Her mouth curved downward. ‘Go where?’
     ‘We need to leave the …’ His gaze flirted to the conservatory, where he’d just spied a flicker of movement. This time it wasn’t snowflakes tumbling past the pane.
     He rushed in there. The deluge outside was reminiscent of a Hollywood movie, except that this was real snow, not an inexhaustible supply of goose down. Even so, for a half-second, he glimpsed a tall figure in a heavy coat, with a hood pulled up, walking away across the lawn.
     ‘Bastard!’ Alex dashed back through the downstairs to the kitchen, and then outside.
     Here, he halted. He hadn’t got his coat, gloves or scarf. But there was no time for that. An intangible foe was something to be feared, but when you had them in your sights, you didn’t let them go easily. He scrambled to the first corner of the house, where a three-foot length of rotted iron pipe, a leftover from the restoration work on the guttering last summer, was propped against the wall. He snatched it up. He wasn’t going to hit anyone, he told himself, as he ploughed into the flakes. That wasn’t his aim. But whoever this person was, he’d come all the way from Bannerwood. He’d been stalking them, and that meant he was trouble.
     But even before Alex reached the trees, a mere distance of thirty yards, he knew he’d made a mistake. He was caked in snow. It even slithered down the back of his sweater. He blundered on defiantly. A wall of vegetation reared ahead, the wood’s outer bulwark, composed entirely of privets, so they were meshed together and laden with white.
     He fought his way through. ‘Who are you, you scumbag? What do you want?’
     In the wider spaces beyond the privets, the flakes drove into him like arrows. Already his fingers were numb, his toes tingling inside his socks and trainers. And now the wind was picking up too, adding a sword’s edge. He was still determined that he wasn’t going back. He’d known plenty rough characters in his past, so he’d certainly show this toerag, this unknown enemy, this faceless intruder who’d already killed Jimmy Groober.
     Alex stopped hard, face burning with cold, lungs heaving.
     Killed Jimmy Groober?
     Had he really done that?
     This same person?
     ‘Shit.’ Slowly, common sense worked its way back through thoughts rendered chaotic by anger and fear. With another savage gust, snowflakes whipped into him.
     ‘Okay … I’m out of here. We’re out of here.’
     He blundered round and plunged back the way he’d come … only to rebound from a huge, solid object. Alex tottered away, winded. But when he wiped the flakes from his eyes, he saw that it wasn’t a tree trunk, as he’d thought. It was a figure. Covered in snow, but standing stock-still in the grey/white murk, the face under its pulled-up hood completely wrapped with ragged old scarfs. Alex might have been more horrified had he not now been so pained and exhausted by the chill. The grotesque shape remained motionless, towering over him. If it had been a tallish figure in the shopping mall, it was all that and more now.

     Alex offered the length of pipe as he retreated, showing that, whatever was afoot here, he’d be no soft touch. But when the figure made no move towards him, he turned and ran – and thudded headlong into a second interloper, near enough identical to the first, equally solid. He staggered back, winded again, now caught between the pair of them.

     You two will be the final two … the ones they’ll have reserved harshest judgement for.
     ‘That what you’re planning?’ Alex shouted. ‘Well, go on … bring it on!’
     Neither figure moved, but as Alex was closest to the second, he saw that it was holding something in its gloved left hand. It hung down, but was clearly visible as a large, steel hook.
     Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh …
     ‘Oh yes?’ Alex laughed dementedly. ‘That’s for me, is it? You think it’ll be that easy!’
     He ended on a shriek as he lurched forward, swinging the pipe two-handed into the figure’s torso.

     There was no give in it. The pipe rebounded and the figure didn’t even flinch. Alex swung again, this time making huge impact on the side of its head. Again, no response. He might have been hitting granite. Briefly, disbelievingly, he wondered if he was … though this second time, the scarfs came partly loose, exposing the top left-hand corner of the figure’s face, which even in the dimness, was quite clearly made from some smooth, pale, porcelain-like substance, with a small black hole where the eye should be.
     Alex raised the pipe again but saw that it had bent double. He flung it at the figure, and turned to run, veering around the first ghastly shape, which didn’t lunge out to grasp him, as he thought it might, plunging into yet more snow-clad evergreens. He burrowed through these, and beyond them, caught the full force of the intensifying blizzard, flakes gushing over him like water. He struggled to breathe as he turned in helpless circles, flailing.
     What was this? Where in God’s name was he?
     The Icy Realm …
     He didn’t even know what those words meant. But he wasn’t in the Lake District anymore. He wasn’t even in England. He knew it from the way the snowfall swamped him, from the wind that blew ever more ferociously as if it travelled down through vast, glacier-gouged canyons, across pack-ice and desolate, frostbitten tundra.
     And then, without warning, a glaring light engulfed him.
     Alex shielded his eyes as a pair of dazzling headlamps slid to a screeching halt.
     A door banged open, and he heard Erika shouting.
     ‘Alex, for God’s sake! What’re you playing at?’
     Halfdead, he tottered towards her, working his way hand over hand along the Jaguar’s body to the passenger door, flopping in through it like a stuffed, sodden dummy. ‘What … what’re you doing here?’ he stammered as she got in as well.
     ‘Are you kidding?’ She’d packed herself into her puffer jacket but was still shivering. She put the car in gear, and it scrunched forward along the drive. ‘You said we have to get away, so we’re getting away. I don’t know why … can’t see where we’d want to drive tonight. I’ve never seen a snowstorm like this.’
     Alex, almost zoning out in the astounding warmth, shook his head weakly. ‘I … I don’t think there’s anything natural about it.’
     ‘What do you mean?’
     ‘Just keep driving.’
     ‘I can’t see a damn thing.’

      ‘Just get us away … anywhere away from here.’
     He glanced back over his shoulder. In the cherry-red glow of the taillights, the driveway was a white tunnel filled with flakes. But there was no sign of anyone following. Erika braked as they approached the gates.
     ‘Don’t slow down!’ he barked.
     ‘God’s sake, Alex … I can’t pull straight out. Where are we going, anyway?’
     ‘Left.’
     She hit the gas as they turned left, the Jag fishtailing.
     ‘What did you mean it’s not natural?’ she said.
     ‘Nothing. Turn of phrase.’ They wallowed on, at no great speed, the road ahead shifting in and out of visibility. ‘Need to go faster than this. Need to go much faster.’
     ‘You try it,’ she retorted. ‘That scraping sound’s the car’s belly dragging along the top of the snow. We’re going as fast as I dare. Besides, I don’t think I should be anywhere near the wheel of a car at present.’
     ‘What’re you talking about?’
     ‘Alex, in case you’d forgotten, I’ve had more than a couple of glasses of Cointreau.’
     He regarded her long and hard. He ought to have realised from her jerky driving, of course, not to mention her slurring voice.
     ‘How far are we going?’ she asked.
     ‘Just get us a bit further away,’ he said. ‘Get us to the M6 junction and I’ll take over.’
     ‘The M6!’ She looked startled. ‘Why are we going there? We’re not going home, are we?’
     He shrugged. ‘Only thing we can do.’
      ‘Hang on!’ Finally, she got angry, pressing the accelerator harder, the Jag bouncing and jolting, the car’s rear end striking the snowbanks both left and right. ‘I’ve not brought any of our stuff …’
     ‘None of that matters.’
     ‘Alex, are you high?’
     ‘Erika …’
     ‘Look, I’m not going all the way home.’ She glared at him as she drove.
     Erika was a compliant partner when it suited her. That was most of the time. But not always. ‘Everything we’ve got’s at the Farm. What’re we going to celebrate Christmas with?’
     ‘Whoa … whoa, ERIKA!’
     She hadn’t seen the sharp curve, or the snow-covered gate directly in front. It was made of steel, but only held by a single loop of chain, so at thirty plus, they crashed clean through it. Erika hit the brakes, screaming, but of course that did nothing. The next thing, they were careering down the steep hillside into Swindale like an out-of-control toboggan, the car turning sideways, every window plastered white.
     By the time they hit something, they’d picked up terrifying speed. The Jag’s engine stove in like an accordion, and both passengers were thrown violently forward. The combination of seatbelt and airbag saved Alex any serious injury, but Erika, drunk, hadn’t bothered with her belt, and as the car struck at an angle, her airbag didn’t prevent her slamming head-first through the side window, into the corner of a drystone wall tangled with barbed wire.
     Even then, it was several minutes before Alex, dazed by the body-blow his belt had dealt him, kicked open his buckled door and fell into what felt like a foot of crisp snow. He crawled painfully away from the steaming, written-off wreck on his hands and knees.
     ‘Alex …’ came a weak, whimpering voice. ‘Alex … help me …’
     What seemed like minutes passed before he could sway to his feet and turn groggily round. He’d only travelled twenty yards or so, but despite the light still shafting from the twisted hulk of his car, it was only barely visible.
      ‘Alex ...’ came Erika’s voice again. To his surprise, her silhouette stumbled into view. ‘Alex, I can’t see. Her tone turned shrill. ‘For God’s sake, I can’t see … I’ve hurt my eyes …’
     She lurched blindly towards him, reaching out on all sides. Dark viscous streaks marked both her cheeks. Alex’s own blood juddered in his veins.
     Kertasníkir, stealer of light …
     He backed away. ‘Erika, you’ve got to stay here, okay? Just stay here while I get help.’
     ‘Alex, my eyes …’ He’d never heard a voice so wretched, so tortured, so anguished.
     ‘Find yourself a tree. Rest against it. I’ll be back as quick as I can.’
     He waded downslope. Ironically, the snowfall now seemed to be easing off. He halted again, looking up and around. The flakes were definitely thinning, the wind slackening.
     ‘Alex, for God’s sake!’ Erika wailed. ‘My eyes … don’t leave me.’
     He continued down. ‘I can’t take you with me.’
     ‘Alex, please …’
     Overhead, what remained of the clouds broke apart, revealing a blaze of winter stars. A silvery light spread across the snowy landscape, and he saw that the ground in front of him was levelling out. He also saw the glinting flat surface of the ice-covered beck. He tottered to a halt on the edge of it. The ice looked sturdy, but he didn’t try to cross, instead heading right, following its course. Which proved the correct decision, because a short distance later, further to his right but on higher ground, he spied the dull, ruddy glow of what looked like a cottage window. He stopped, racked with aches and pains as his adrenaline ebbed, but looking hopefully upward. Who was it lived there?
     The Elwells, of course. Who else?
     Even as he peered up, he saw another light appear, as if the cottage door had opened. They were used to the quiet in this part of the world, so they’d have heard the crash. With luck, they’d also see the lights of the car. He was about to hail them, when …
     ‘Alex … for God’s sake!’
     He twirled, infuriated to see that Erika had tried to follow him. Though of course, she didn’t know which way he’d gone, and now was stepping out onto the beck.
     ‘Erika!’ he croaked.
     She was forty yards away, though; she couldn’t hear him. And in any case, she was already out there, shuffling forward. ‘Alex …?’
    He watched helpless, as, almost in slow motion, she lost her footing and fell heavily onto her front, hitting the frozen surface full-length. And vanishing clean through it, a great slab of ice tilting up next to her, then falling flat again, reinserting itself neatly into the human-shaped hole.

 

     A second later, only powdery snow moved, blowing in wisps over the white-topped river.
     Alex was so battered and bruised that he couldn’t even totter forward to try and help, not that he’d have been in time. In addition, he was so nauseated by fear and shock that he had little bandwidth left with which even to feel upset. Instead, he swayed there, dazed, before slumping backward into the snow. 

     All he could do was sit and stare over the ice.
     ‘Bastards,’ he breathed again. So thinking, his eyes tracked up the hillside to the road.
     It was no surprise to see two figures up there, framed motionless against the moon.
     ‘Okay, you got her!’ he shouted. ‘All that’s left is me, yeah? So, come on down. Finish what you started. Or are you too scared?’
     To his surprise, neither figure moved. And then the phone pinged in his pocket. Briefly incredulous, wondering if this might be them, he fished it out. And saw a text from Des Hepworth.

Hello, mate … I was going to hang fire with the Heidi Prince write-up, but I promised I’d send you something. I’ve not pasted the whole thing in because … well look, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s one critic’s viewpoint, but I won’t pretend she hasn’t ripped you apart. She’s worried that you’ve been going off the boil for a while, but she thinks this one really doesn’t cut it. Says it’s shallow, superficial. Says there’s no meat on it …

     ‘No meat?’ Alex was speechless at first. Then he laughed out loud. ‘No meat! For real?’
      He gazed up to the ridgeline again. His duo of tormentors remained in place. Black, anthracite outlines. Motionless.
     ‘Is that it?’ he shouted. ‘Surely to God not?’
     But hey, maybe it was. The other deaths had been accidents, hadn’t they? Jimmy … Erika. Not that he hadn’t been punished. He glanced at the text again. ‘My worst fear?’
     Not that it seemed a big deal at present. It would later, of course.
     Behind him, he heard people scrambling down the hillside from the cottage. The Elwells. Hopefully bringing one of those thick plaid blankets they had in their croft. Maybe a thermos of hot coffee too. When he tried to get to his feet, pain rippled through him. He stayed seated, glancing back up to the road again, from where the two figures had clearly retreated because they were no longer in sight.
     ‘Yeah, you’d better run,’ he jeered. ‘Meat-Hook! Scariest thing about you is your name.’ He tried to look round again, but the whiplash hurt too much. ‘I’m down here!’ he called. ‘Jack … Hetty! It’s Alex McQuade. I’m down here.’
     From the grunts they made as they descended the slope it was an effort for them too. And it should be, at their age. No wonder they spent every Christmas down south …
     With their kids and grandkids …
     A new, different kind of chill crept down Alex’s spine.
     When he finally did look round, they were almost upon him. Lurching forward across the snow with unnatural speed.
     The Yule Lads fear nothing … save their own voracious parents.
     Alex had just enough strength left to scream.
     He hadn’t considered how many kinds of meat there actually were.

I hope that was okay for you good people. If you’ve enjoyed this eerie tale, perhaps you’ll be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years: THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE and IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER. Or, if you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for SPARROWHAWK, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England. In the meantime, have a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.