SUSAN SPENT THE DAY wondering if going home alone would have been so bad.

She liked Donovan, but she liked him a little less after he refused the in-flight meal.

“Vegetarian is not the same as vegan,” he’d said with an eye roll.

She liked him even less when he complained because the rental car wasn’t electric.

And a whole lot less when he called the agent a prick for laughing at the issue.

“We don’t use that kind of language down here,” she’d admonished.

Ignoring her comment, he asked, “You can drive in the snow, right?”

By then, the dislike outweighed the like. He was an acceptable way to waste time back in the city. Surrounded by other hip-tech-start-up-bots, he seemed charming and fun, but now, she wished she had an electric car, so she could run him down in the most ethically responsible way possible. Here he was in a Norman Rockwell landscape, air sweetened by the crisp of snow-soaked pines, and all he could do was bitch.

She, on the other hand, was in her element.

After she ignored his third snide comment in less than ten minutes, he got the hint, popped in headphones, and let her enjoy her Christmas music in peace.

Occasionally, he took pictures.

“To show just how rinky-dink this town is,” he said, holding up the camera for her to see.

She bit her lip and turned George Michael up a few notches.

Last Christmas, she thought, I was mercifully alone.

Twenty minutes later, they cut down a thin road and onto the family compound proper.

Donovan’s jaw dropped to his chest. The family orchard, hundreds of trees dipped in winter white, sandwiched both sides of the gravel road, giving the illusion that they were traveling through a snow maze toward the ice queen’s castle. Only, instead of a castle, it was a two-story colonial lit from foundation to eaves with Christmas lights.

“Swanky,” he whispered.

They sat in silence, each taking in the beauty as they approached the main house, which looked like Christmas threw up on it.

The lights didn’t end at the bushes bordering the mansion. They extended to the fifty or so trees that hugged the sides of the house. But the crowning glory was the giant outdoor Christmas tree. As large as the three-story Victorian she shared in San Francisco, every inch dazzled with bulbs.

Susan parked right in front of the house, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Donovan shrugged, “That’s one word. I don’t see any cars, are we the first ones here?”

She killed the ignition, “Someone will take the car around back. Wait until you see the skate pond and the horse drawn carriage and wait for it…” she rolled down the window, and the musical melodies of little Mikey Jackson greeted her with an “Up on the house top, click, click, click…”

“Down through the chimney with good Saint Nick,” she sang, then she rolled up the window and clapped excitedly.

Donovan gave her the side eye, “So your grandma lives here in this huge house alone?”

“My Mormor,” she corrected, “stays here, from November first until February first. This is the winter home.”

“Fancy, wasting a shit ton of energy to light up a house for one person. How much is this place worth anyway?”

She was saved from answering by the appearance of Mormor and two of her uncles in the doorway of the grand home. Susan stepped out of the car and slammed the door before she could hear another word from Donovan.

Mormor was thin, but not faint, silver hair shorn close to her face. Her attire, a red cashmere sweater, complemented by cream colored pressed slacks, was set off by pearl accessories. Small and tasteful.

“Susan! Of course, you show up as I put the gingerbread cookies out.” She shook the tin of cookies she held in her hand and placed them to the right of the entrance to the house. Then she came down to greet them.

Donavan got out of the car. Unsure how to approach, he extended his hand.

Mormor swatted his hand away and embraced Donovan before he could protest.

“We hug around here. Handshakes are for salesmen and politicians,” she said, pulling away so she could give him a proper once over.

Susan greeted her uncles warmly. “Donovan, this is my Uncle Greg and my Uncle Oliver.” They shook hands, and Oliver set about grabbing the bags from the trunk. Greg, however, stood appraising Donovan carefully.

“So Suzie tells me you are up for the same promotion at work.”

Donovan gave a tight smile, “Yes, I’ve been with the company a little longer, though. Seasoned.”

“Uh-huh,” Greg said, “well all that seasoning will help when she whips your tail. Nothing but winners around here, right, Susie?”

“Right, Uncle Greg!” She said.

Greg grabbed Susie and lifted her off the ground in a bear hug. “That’s my girl.”

“My Uncles help raised me after my parents died. They’re very protective.” She said.

Donovan addressed Mormor. “Why don’t you show me your castle?”

Mormor patted his arm. “I’ll give you the dollar tour,” she said, leading him up the walkway.

He stopped at the entryway and bent to retrieve the cookie tin.

“Oh no, dear, we leave the cookies out to ward off evil,” Mormor said, leading him into the house.

Susan followed, fearfully anticipating the moment Donovan would open his mouth and spew stupid, thankfully, that moment didn’t come.

The arrival of other guests took some of the focus off Donovan, and Susan relaxed a little. Not only did Donovan keep his foot out of his mouth, but he was charming and cordial. For the first time since they boarded the plane at SFO, he seemed to be having a good time.

The house was warmer with more bodies to fill it. The yellow incandescent lights gave everyone a rosy glow, and the delighted shrieks of children drunk off the promise of Christmas morn rang through the halls.

As dinner drew near, savory smells overtook the scent of pine and gingerbread. They filed into the dining room, each taking care to check the place cards.

Mormor took her place at the front of the table, and everyone else sat after, except Donovan. Donovan stood behind his chair, his face drawn and sickly, staring at the full roast pig on the table. Then silently, he exited the hall.

Susan excused herself from the table. She’d expected to find him in the bathroom, instead, she found him standing in the living room, clutching his stomach.

“Are you ok? I can see if Mormor has some Pepto.” She said as she gently grabbed his arm.

He jerked away as if she meant to stick it in the fire. “My stomach is just fine,” he said, “but my heart may never recover.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, and it must have shown on her face because he said. “That pig, it’s inhuman.”

Susan blinked. That’s all she could do, blink and stare. She knew he was vegan, and of course, he knew her family ate meat.

“I mean, looking past the slaughter of animals. Just imagine what raising those animals is doing to the environment. That, that, that pig’s face,” he stammered. “Savages.”

And with that last word, Susan found her voice.

“Savages? My Mormor adopted half the people in that room after they lost their parents, including me, and you just walked out on dinner with a bunch of people you hardly know. Fuck your environment. How about manners? I mean, you city people…”

He cut her off, “City people? Because I’m human and care about the environment, I lack manners? Next thing you know, you’ll be calling me libtard or snowflake.”

“I can think of some things to call you. I could call you —“

From behind them, someone cleared their throat. Mormor was standing in the doorway.

“Is everything ok?” she asked.

Susan smiled nervously. “It’s ok Mormor, Donovan just finds the pig to be disturbing.”

“Ah,” she said, noncommittal. “We could always move your seat down to the other end of the table, away with the children. Rosie won’t mind switching seats.”

Susan prayed a silent prayer, this would be enough, that Donovan, seeing how embarrassing this whole thing was, would take the compromise but when he opened his mouth, she already knew it wasn’t to say yes.

“You know Mormor, I don’t think I can go back in there. Do you even know where those animals came from, what they’ve been fed? How they were treated before they were butchered?”

Mormor’s polite demeanor frosted over. When she spoke, her voice was as cold and solid as the ice pond out back. “I know exactly where they came from. Those are my animals, and I may be too old to hoist them up, but that pig on the table, I bled him out myself.”

Donovan’s mouth hung open like a drawer off its rollers.

Susan’s grin was as wide as the slaughtered pig’s.

Mormor wasn’t done, she marched over and poked Donovan in the chest.

“You had the luxury of a vegetarian diet growing up, but we ate what was put on our plate, or we starved.” Mormor leaned in and got as close to Donovan’s face as she could. “And quite frankly, I love the taste of fresh meat.”

Donovan moved his hand from his belly to his chest and stroked it gently, while Mormor walked away.

“Susan, come,” she commanded, “your food is getting cold.”

Susan followed and didn’t bother to look back.

A few minutes later, Donovan entered the dining room. Rosie was indeed now seated in his seat, and the head of the pig had been covered with a large napkin. He went to her seat and sat. A tray of lasagna and a salad sat on the table directly in front of him.

“That’s vegan lasagna made from vegan whole grain noodles and Miyoko vegan cheese. The tomato sauce is from tomatoes we grew ourselves.” Mormor said proudly. Her smile was back, as perfect as her coif.

“Donovan is a vegan. Really passionate about animals and the environment.” She said to the rest of the table. A few smiled, most nodded politely. Someone toward the front of the table snickered.

Donovan spooned some of it on to his plate, “Thank you for thinking of me, Mormor.”

He took a tentative bite, and his face melted into ecstasy.

“This is delicious. What kind of cheese did you say you used?” He said, talking around a mouthful of food.

“Miyoko brand. We ordered it off the internet. I ordered a back massager too, but I won’t bring that out at the table.”

Everyone laughed, and conversation resumed normally.

Donovan kept his eyes forward, and the smell of the meat didn’t keep him from having two full plates of the lasagna.

An hour later, the table was cleared, and everyone retired to the family room. An assortment of desserts was laid out along with spiked eggnog for the adults, and hot cocoa for the kids.

People milled about making conversation. Uncle Greg took Uncle Norris to task for betting against the local football team in the playoffs, while the kids walked around the tree eyeing the presents.

When Jessica’s youngest, Heath, tried to pull at the tape on a present with his name on it, Mormor stuck a hand out and stopped him.

“Uh uh, Christmas morning. You don’t want the Gryla to send the Straggele after you.”

Uncle Edward broke from his conversation. “Mormor, how many children in your village were victims of the Straggele?”

“Only two. Twin boys. Little Erik and Elias. But you don’t want to hear about that now.”

“Come on Mormor, tell us.” The kids goaded while the adults shared knowing grins.

Donovan and Susan hadn’t said more than a few words to each other since dinner. He sidled up to her, perhaps hoping to thaw the mood, and asked, “What’s the Straggele?”

“Mormor,” Susan called out, “tell the story. My guest has never heard of the Straggele.”

“That explains why he is so naughty,” Mormor said, laughing.

Donovan took a seat near Mormor and asked, “Is it a folk tale from your home country?”

“Oh, it’s no folk tale. The Straggele and the Gryla are as real as you and me. I’ll tell the story, but after that, the kids go to bed.”

A few of the kids protested.

Aunt Nora whispered to Susan, “Like they’ll be able to sleep.”

Susan giggled.

The room settled into silence.

Mormor began, “Before I came to America, I lived in a small village of less than a hundred people. Most of the people in the village were kind and hardworking, but the Johansson brothers were a menace. They would sneak around and steal the klenat from the kitchens and rile up the goats.”

“What’s a klenat?” One of the boys asked.

Donovan spoke up, “It’s like a donut, right?”

Mormor nodded. “Only better. Well, the boys would cause all sorts of trouble. See, they also believed it to be a folk tale. But they took things too far and found out how real the Straggele were.”

Mormor surveyed the faces in the room. Confident that she’d reeled them in, she continued.

“There was an old woman in the village, she was a häxa, a witch!” She hissed for emphasis. “She lived at the edge of the forest with her sons. Big burly boys with thick brows and beards that covered most of their faces.

“Beards like this!” Greg laughed and stroked his beard.

“Not quite as prissy,” Mormor said, and everyone laughed again. “Don’t interrupt Gregory, or the Straggele may come for you.”

“Yes ma’m,” he said.

“Hooked nose, stringy hair the color of early winter fog, and a foot she kept wrapped in black rags. She hobbled around the village, and everyone claimed she had a goose’s foot, the sign of the Gryla, the flesh-eating witch who commanded the Straggele. So everyone was nice to her, everyone except the boys.

When she was alone in the marketplace, they would taunt her and call her names. She paid them no mind, and this infuriated Erik and Elias, they thrived on the negative attention.

So the week before Christmas, they hatched a plan. They would wait until Christmas Eve, and when the woman and her sons were fast asleep, they would release her goats.

That night, the entire village was plagued by awful dreams. When people woke the next morning, they complained of feeling heavy in the mind. Each said they dreamt of shrieking in the woods. I also had the dream. Like hell itself opened, and the souls of the damned were calling to us. But the worst was yet to come because the Johansson boys were missing.”

It was at this point in the story that Donovan started looking around. Looking for anyone who might stop the conclusion of this awful story, but no one spoke up, so he said nothing.

“The mother ran through the village screaming for her boys, hysterical with grief. When the constable was able to calm her, she told the worst story of all. She said the screams belonged to her sons, she was sure of it, but she was unable to move. She lay there all night, eyes wide with terror, lips bound shut, unable to save them from whatever menaced them in the night.

She begged the men to search the woods for her boys. And they did search. They didn’t have to look far. They found Erik’s left arm tangled in a Bilberry bush.”

Donovan was staring at Susan. She could feel his eyes on the side of her face, but she stared forward, unwilling to entertain his disgust.

“They found most of the boy’s body parts around the forest, a foot here, a thigh there, but not the heads.

The Gryla had sent the Straggele after the boys. They lifted the boys off the ground with their thick claws, flew them into the air, and ripped them apart, scattering the pieces for all the village to see.”

“What did they do with the heads? How come they never found them?” Rosie asked.

“The Gryla boils the heads of her victims to make a soup that keeps her young,” Mormor said matter-of-factly.

Rosie gasped.

“Everyone suspected the hag, so they ran to her house, but it was empty. She and her boys had left in the night.”

Donovan had had enough.

“There is something really wrong with you people,” he spat, “You sit and listen to this old woman tell these children this brutal story and say nothing. These kids are probably going to be scarred for life.” He turned to Susan, “I hope you can get a ride back to the airport. I’m leaving.”

Everyone looked stunned except Mormor, who raised her hands in a what are you gonna do gesture.

Susan ran after Donovan. He went to the guest room, retrieved his bags, and went back downstairs.

“Donovan, you can’t leave. You don’t even know how to drive in the snow.” She pleaded, but it was a half-ass attempt. She’d had enough of him.

“The hell I can’t. I’ll figure it out, I’ll drive slow. I should have listened to Julie. She told me to stay in the city.” Donovan said as he shoved his feet into his boots.

“Julie, is that right? You guys have been real cozy lately.” Susan retorted.

“Cozier than you can imagine.” He said and stormed out of the house. This time, Susan didn’t follow. He’d made it halfway down the steps when he stopped, walked back up the steps, grabbed the cookie tin, and shoved it into his messenger bag.

The car pulled to the curb. Gary handed him the keys and said, “I’ve gassed her up for you, good meeting you.”

Donovan held his hand out for Gary to shake. The old man took it, and Donovan said, “Greg is it?”

“Gary,” Her uncle corrected.

“Gary,” Donovan released his hand, got in the car, and rolled down the window, “go fuck yourself.” Then he sped off. The car fishtailed and threatened to spin into the orchards, but at the last minute, it righted. Donovan must have got the hint because he slowed down considerably as he made his way to the main road. Greg watched him go, whistling Happy Trails under his breath.

***

Donovan turned on the heater and radio. Christmas music blasted from the speakers. He clicked the knob off, shutting Eartha Kit down mid-‘baby.’

“Fuck Christmas,” he said to no one in particular. “Fuck Susan and fuck this town. The whole fucking town smells of cow twat.”

He plugged his phone in and waited a few minutes, half expecting Susan to call and beg him to come back. If she wanted him, she could get her ass on a flight and come back to civilization.

He asked Siri for directions to the hotel, and she obliged. “At least I still have you,” he said. Twenty-seven minutes and he would be at the Travelodge, probably as crappy on the inside as it was on the outside, but as long as it had a warm bed and a hot tub, he would be happy. Far away from the Swiss Family Crazies.

He’d driven in silence for about fifteen minutes when there was a soft plink, followed by another plink on the windshield. “Shit,” he said, turning on the wipers.

The wind whistled and pressed against the car. The snow and the wind seemed to be in a deadlocked competition to see who could build up quicker.

He slowed even further, until he was doing half the limit. A truck passed, horn blaring. The speed caused the compact car to rock in its wake. The snow, now coming down in plunks instead of plinks, covered the windshield, leaving the spot where the wipers worked furiously clear. It was like the yellow dots that lined the road were captured in a vignette.

Another car passed close by, and he swerved. A small instinctive gesture, but it was enough to send the fates out of balance. The back wheels skidded to the left, he turned right, and the car spun in large looping circles across the median. Everything moved so slow that it left the illusion of control. If he could maybe…but there was no maybe, just the double thump as the car left the road and slid down the steep embankment.

Trees and branches battered the hood and doors of the Subaru as he careened down the hill, his head bobbing up and down like he was rocking out to music only he could hear.

When the car finally stopped, it was with a whimper, not a roar, wedged between trees thick as a giant’s calves.

There wasn’t enough of an impact to make him check for injuries, and the car was still running. He put it in reverse and pushed the pedal. Nothing. He gave it the full stomp, still nothing.

He checked his cell. No bars. Of course, no bars. Why the fuck would he have bars?

He stared at the phone, its cheerful beach-scape screensaver stared back. You could be here, it said, sipping on something fruity and booze filled. You could be watching the bikini clad waitresses flirting for tips. They could be flirting with you for tips.

“Fuck all.”

He crawled to the backseat and pushed against the door. It protested but gave way with a creak and a thud. Stepping out into the frozen air, he instantly regretted every decision he’d made since leaving the Bay Area.

The wind slapped at his cheeks and pried at his jacket, planting cold in the weak spots.

A sound, not a howl, but not-not a howl, on his left, deepened the regret considerably. He pressed against the car and peered into the black void. Was that a wolf? Is that what wolves sound like? Don’t they travel in packs? Could they hear his heart thumping a drum solo in his chest. He looked around, but the nothingness that greeted him was absolute in its blinding blackness.

He turned on his phone’s flashlight and swept it around the trees. The light gave him false courage but nothing in the way of visibility. Gotta get moving.

He walked up the embankment, stopping every few steps to check for a signal. Halfway up the hill, he got one bar. He tried 911, but the call dropped immediately.

He inhaled deep and the cold burned his windpipe.

Another growl, deep and guttural. And was that breathing? He listened. The ragged, thick, wet sound of something big breathing heavy. This time, he didn’t bother to look. He took the hill like General Montgomery storming the beaches of Normandy. His boots sank deeper with each step, but he never slowed. He could hear the beast on his tail. The sound of its subhuman breathing as it followed his scent.

He could see the lights on the side of the highway up ahead. He was gonna make it. Hopefully, that thing would shy away from the highway.

He’d nearly crested the hill when he felt a searing pain slice through his left calf. He stumbled. Losing the grip on his phone, he watched as it sailed in a perfect arc and landed in the snow.

Donovan righted himself and took a step forward. The pain shot up his leg. He wailed, adding to the symphony of the night. The creature returned the call, and he pressed a hand over his own lips.

He reached down and gingerly touched what should have been a meaty calf, but all he felt was wet, exposed bone and shredded flesh. The separated calf muscle lay flapping against his ankle, making anything more than dragging the leg impossible.

The animal was closer now, circling on his left. He turned and caught the glint of yellow eyes peering at him in the darkness.

He tried again for the road. Another swipe as he hobbled forward. Cold air pierced the split flesh of his serrated back. He fell forward, cracked his skull on a rock, and flopped over. The sudden jerk made his teeth rattle like dentures in his mouth, and he felt copper heat run down his throat. He bit through his tongue. Though his eyes were wide open, he couldn’t see.

Something tugged at his good foot. In a blind terror, he thanked a God he never believed in that it was the right foot, and not the mangled mess that was his left.

A memory, absurd but fitting, planted itself in his mind.

His mother, hovering over him, as he pushed the oatmeal around in his bowl. “Don’t play with your food Donny.”

Another swipe sliced through his groin. He screamed and his bowels released, giving him a few seconds of unwanted warmth. In his head, it sounded like someone else screaming. It was high and feminine, the scream of a little girl.

He was dying, his warm blood, the mana of life itself, leaving his body as cold as the snow beneath him.

He was the food, and they were playing with him. Hobbled, castrated, and blind, they batted him about in the snow. One, two, four? He had no idea how many.

He expended the last of his energy attempting to kick out, but his foot was stuck in the firm grasp of a rough paw. Not wolves, he thought, not natural.

Then his torso and body peeled from the ground and lifted into the air. The bad leg listed in the wind, and the blood from his body ran down into his face as he was dragged upside down through the trees, branches slapping his cheeks, then he was above the trees.

The snow was colder up here, and it rested in his bones, mercifully freezing out the last of the pain.

Something took hold of his other leg, then his arms and his head. Looking up, he saw his executioner in the moonlight.

Twisted horns swirled around its head like a blasphemous crown. Deep crevices in the face, raw like the skin of a baboon’s ass, puss-filled and blistered. Cracked and bloodied lips parted to reveal teeth as long as fingers set in black gums. It opened its mouth, and Donovan waited for the creature to sink those fangs into his face. Instead, the creature laughed. A primordial sound born in the bowels of hell.

The monster leaned in. His breath, hot and rancid, like long dead animal carcass burning in the summer sun. It said, “Make a wish, Donovan.” He had only a second to ponder this as his head and limbs were ripped from his body.

***

Showered and changed into her Christmas pajamas, Susan headed downstairs for a nightcap. As she crossed the entryway, she spotted Mormor seated by the fireside listening to Christmas music.

She poked her head in the room, “Still up?”

“Boiling down the skull for soup. I put the rest of the nog in a container in the fridge. The liquor always sinks to the bottom, making the last bit stronger.” She said.

“Say no more.” Susan headed into the kitchen and poured them both the last of the eggnog.

She joined Mormor, who was removing her boots, and from the look of things, was struggling with it.

“Let me help you Mormor,” she said, tugging the old woman’s right boot off.

The foot, released, unfurled, and flattened. Pink, webbed with three thick black claws that she flexed in the firelight.

“That promotion is yours now. You finally came through for me this year.” She said, lifting the mug of nog.

Susan lifted her own, “And you’ll be younger in the morning.”

“To Christmas traditions,” Mormor said.

The snow had died down, leaving the view out of the large picture window a perfect winter wonderland.

They clinked mugs and drank in silence while Andy Williams sang the praises of good cheer.

“It really is the most wonderful time of the year,” Susan said.

Mormor patted her hand. “Indeed, my dear, indeed.”

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