Never Fear (64 page)

“
It’s a music box. Do you
recognize that song?”

Pitch shook his head.

“
It’s called ‘I’m a Little
Teapot.’ She held it out to him. “Just open it and it
plays.”

Pitch held his hands out and gazed at
the music box reverently. It was white and had two small drawers.
The inside was a deep red cloth of some kind, and when opened, the
lid had a mirror that reflected the tiny dancing figure. The woman
picked up another one.

“
Now this one plays
‘Jingle Bells’ and has a little snowman inside. Is this for your
mommy or your sister?”

Pitch shook his head, his eyes never
leaving the delicate twirling figure. Just slowly turning. So
small. So beautiful. He snapped it shut and opened it
again.

“
Do, uh, you have any
other ones?” He gestured to the boxes on the table. “Besides
these?” He looked up hopefully.

“
Oh yes, we have several
more right over here.” She turned and began walking toward a wall
display. When she turned back to Pitch, he was gone.

*

Pitch made it back to the portal
without any problems. There was a wait as several other demons
stood outside the stall. One of them was holding a large
grandfather clock and looking nervously at the door. Another was
wearing a fluffy fur coat that dragged on the floor. A large demon
in the guise of an elderly human female sat in one of the sinks,
happily relieving herself.

When it was Pitch’s turn, he cradled
the music box to his chest, took a deep breath, and stepped into
the stall. Once again the familiar feeling of being crushed into a
tiny ball, the dizziness, and he slammed to the ground in the
portal cavern. He looked down at the the music box and turned it
around. He opened it and the music began playing.
Perfect.

Pitch hurried back to his hovel,
carefully keeping the music box hidden.

*

For the next few work cycles, Pitch
kept a low profile. He showed up for his shift, worked diligently,
ate in the canteen, and returned to his hovel. The gift exchange
was fast approaching, and Pitch wasn’t sure how he felt. The music
box, he was sure, was the only one of its kind in Hell. But was it
enough?

*

The Secret Santa gift exchange had
arrived. Pitch joined the legions of demons outside the gates of
Satan’s primary palace. Pandemonium was greater than he ever could
have imagined: tall ebony walls that seemed to go on forever. It
was more of a city than a palace. There were guard towers that
overlooked the main entrance. Harpies flew high above the
battlements. The main gate was massive, and the demons could easily
walk through the main entrance twenty abreast. Pitch glanced up at
the heavy portcullis, which had been raised for this special
occasion. Several rotted bodies were stuck to the spikes at the
bottom. Nice touch.

The great hall was immense. It seemed
to go on as far as he could see, immense black columns holding up a
ceiling which he could barely see. At the end of the long hall was
the throne. He saw Vlad in the crowd, holding a gift wrapped in
human flesh. But Pitch didn’t wave to him. He was so nervous he
didn’t think he could talk without screaming. The other demons were
in a jubilant mood, laughing and chattering. Pitch seemed to be the
only one not talking.

Satan, as usual, was surrounded by his
retinue. Imps, demons, other fallen angels surrounded his throne,
vying for his attention and approval, laughing at his jokes,
looking properly solemn, and nodding their heads sagely at his
opinions. He was talking animatedly to a gorgon who rested a scaly
hand intimately on his forearm.

The gift exchange went on for hours.
Satan would call out a name and a demon would approach. Then the
one who had selected that demon’s name would come forward and
present the gift. Over and over and over. Many of the Demonkind
grew restless, and Pitch heard muttering, sensed their impatience
but knew none would dare leave early. He wished some would. Then he
could sneak out with them and forget about this whole horrible
experience. But there was no way. If Satan didn’t get his gift, he
would turn Hell upside down until he found out who had let him
down.

Pitch was too nervous to pay close
attention. He was terrified out of his mind, his heart pounding so
loudly in his chest he was surprised that the demons around him
didn't hear. He vaguely heard shrill screams at one point, followed
by a burst of fire and an explosion of laughter and applause. All
in all, though, it seemed to be a relatively mundane gift exchange.
But then the mood changed. The whispers became more excited,
urgent.

“
And who picked my name?”
his Infernal Majesty’s voice boomed through the immense chamber.
Necks swiveled, heads turned (some completely around) as all looked
to see who would step forward.

Pitch gulped and squeezed his way
forward and stepped out onto the crimson carpet that led up to the
throne. He heard some giggles, which were quickly hushed. All eyes
and eye stalks were on him. He walked toward the throne. It seemed
to take forever. He got to the base of the throne and paused before
the steps that led up. Satan leaned forward, regarding him
curiously, arching a well-manicured eyebrow. A large, officious
spider holding a clipboard and wearing eight-lensed reading glasses
whispered into his ear.

“
Ah. You are... Pitch? You
serve me in the Outer Regions?”

“
Yes, my Lord.” Pitch
knelt, bowed his head.

“
Rise, my faithful
servant, and present your Lord and Master with his gift.” Pitch
didn’t have to look around to see that the crowd was inching
forward.

He was taking his first step up the
stairs to the throne when he heard the first whisper.

“
He doesn’t have a
present.”

“
Where's his
gift?”

Pitch didn’t stop. He walked up the
steps. The silence was deafening. The only sound was the pad of his
feet on the steps. One step. Then another. The steps were higher
than he was accustomed to, and he had to use his arms to pull
himself up the last one. He could hear the muffled giggles. Pitch
didn’t stop when he got to the top step. He was resolute and would
see this through, whatever the consequences. He pulled himself up
onto Satan’s knee, reached around him, and gave him a big
hug.

The watching demons gasped as one. He
heard several weapons clatter to the floor from numb, stunned
hands. Pitch felt Satan stiffen and he kept his eyes tightly
closed. Whatever was going to happen, he didn’t want to see it. It
was too late now.

He decided he had held on long enough
and was getting ready to let go and subject himself to whatever
humiliation and punishment was heading his way when he felt a
powerful arm lay across his back. The arm radiated heat, and there
was no mistaking whose it was.

*

The demons tumbled out of the portal
in a raucous heap of arms, legs, tails, and wings. The shift
leader, Agamoth, tall, broad-shouldered, his face creased with
scars, stood up first and reached down to pull Pitch to his
feet.

“
You did good, kid!
Congratulations on your first successful Soul Collection. Welcome
aboard!”

Pitch beamed. Like all the others, he
was wearing a black vest with a red badge emblazoned with the
initials S.C.S. over his left breast.

The rest of the squad, having
disentangled themselves from each other, circled Pitch,
congratulating him, playfully shoving his head, slapping him on the
back, shaking his claw.

Behind them, a male Shade, the newest
occupant of Hell, sat on the ground, dazed from his trip through a
portal.

“
Where am I? This is all a
mistake, I can assure you,” he whimpered most unassuredly. Pitch
walked over and grabbed him by the collar of his and yanked him to
his feet.

“
Welcome to Hell! Get used
to it!” The other members of the SCS hooted and screeched their
approval.

*

It had been very tense after he had
hugged Satan, and the crowd was expecting (and hoping for) blood.
Satan had pulled back and looked down at Pitch. A single tear
glistened in one eye. A tear! And he mouthed the words, “Thank
you,” so that only Pitch could see.

After that, events had taken a turn
for the surreal. Pitch had been shuffled out of the main chamber
and into a small anteroom. The only light came from a fire blazing
in the hearth. Pitch was too afraid to touch anything, so he stood
in the center of the room. Paintings of warring angels hung from
the walls, and he tried to see if could recognize Satan in any of
them. He heard muffled screams and chanting from the main hall and
began looking for an exit when the spider sidled up beside him.
Pitch nearly jumped up out of his loincloth.

“
My master expresses his
regrets that he is not able to speak with you himself, but...” he
made an elaborate gesture with several of his legs. “...duty calls.
He has asked me to offer his gratitude for your... uh, gift, and
wishes to offer you a boon. What is it you most desire?”

Pitch stared at him. He swiveled his
torso, looked around. Was this guy talking to him? Nobody else
here.

“
Umm, what I most
desire?”

“
What you most desire.
Anything.” He tapped his clipboard impatiently.

“
Me?”

“
Yes. You.” The spider
sighed, rolling seven of his eyes.

*

When Pitch got home, he hung his SCS
vest on a root that stuck out from the wall. He smoothed it out and
rubbed a bit of blood off the badge. It was hard to believe he was
now in the Soul Collection Squad. Him! Pitch had never really
thought about what he most desired because he never dreamed he
would get it. He did live in Hell, after all. He knelt down beside
his sleeping mat and pulled a rock to one side, exposing a hollow.
He reached in and lifted out an object wrapped in rags. He replaced
the rock.

Life was good, Pitch thought, lying
back on his mat. He reverently peeled back the rags and uncovered
the music box. He wound it, opened it, and watched the ballerina
twirl. Yes indeed, life was good.

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 20

“
That was a ‘Hell’ of
story,” Dan said and started laughing a little too much at his
joke.

“
Nick, the fire’s getting
low, “Grandpa said, rubbing his arms. “I’m getting cold. Put on
another log. Just don’t breathe on it or the whole place’ll go
up.”

Nick staggered to the fireplace. He
reached down and picked up a couple of logs from the bin, nearly
falling over.

“
God, are you trashed,”
Jack observed, shaking his head.

“
Fuck off. I’m not that
drunk,” Nick said belligerently. He bent down to grab some
discarded wrapping paper and tossed it into the fire. He stumbled
back to the couch.

“
You asshole, Nick. Now
it’s getting smoky in here from the paper.” Jack waved his hands in
the air.

“
It’s not that bad. Quit
being a drama queen. You’re worse than Nancy. No wonder you can’t
get a boyfriend.” He took long pull from the bottle.

Jack stood and threw the book at Nick.
It struck the bottle, ripping it from his mouth and shattering on
the floor. Port and glass flew everywhere, spattering the floor and
furniture with deep crimson drops.

Nick put his hand to his mouth. His
fingers came away bloody. “What the fuck?”

“
You’re a fucking spoiled
brat!” Jack shouted. “Nancy might be whore, but at least she’s
going to do something with her life. You’re the biggest loser in
this whole family!”

“
At least I’m not a
fag
hiding in the
closet!”

“
God damn it, Jack! Do you
know how much that stuff cost?” slurred Dan.

Jack stared at his dad. “You’re
unbelievable.” He stormed out of the room.

“
Guess I’ll read, since
I’ve got the book,” Nick said and retrieved it from the floor.
“Huh. It’s not even wet.”

“
Are you sure you can see
the words?” Grandpa said.

“
Yes, I can see the
words,” he said, mockingly. “
The Perfect
Present.”

THE PERFECT
PRESENT

MATHEW KAUFMAN

It was a frigid morning in Detroit.
Jesus Christ... Seven months a fucking year, it was a frigid
morning in Detroit. Darren Childs woke up. The snow outside
reflected and intensified the winter sun. This was not where he
thought he would be at thirty-eight years old. Living in his
bitch-of-a-mother’s spare room.

Another day for a
pathetic, worthless fuck...
He wiped the
sleep from his eyes and yawned. His foul morning breath filled his
nostrils as he exhaled. Darren stretched his arm out, searching for
his glasses on his heavily worn side table.