Page 42 of Blood and Bells

“I’m sorry?” I blink myself back to attention. “I missed the start of that.”

“Marcy’s been telling us about her laundry adventures,” Holly says. “It’s thrilling.”

“I’m just saying, a visit to a reindeer farm is more exciting than what I had planned for this evening.”

“Brakes!”

I clutch the side of the car as Marcy rolls through an intersection without coming to a complete stop. She didn’t even look in both directions. Holly shoots me a long-suffering look but then undermines it completely with a smile.

“He’s afraid of cars,” she stage-whispers to Marcy. “You should drive slower.”

“I maintain a healthy suspicion about cars,” I counter.

Marcy steers this absurd death vehicle down a dirt road, and just like that, we find ourselves at the reindeer farm at the edge of Willow Creek. North Star Reindeer is a perfectly charming place, complete with a cheerful cottage at the end of a winding dirt road, lit with dozens of lanterns that cut through the darkness. A hand-painted sign hangs crookedly from a spruce bough. Warm barn light spills like butter. It even has some perfectly placed pine trees decorated with some scattered red ribbons to add festive cheer.

“Look at this,” Holly says as she exits the car. She’s bent down and pointing to the torn-up dirt driveway. “You can see the path the reindeer took. It goes all the way around to the back.”

Marcy turns on the light on her phone and angles it at the ground. The moon casts long shadows as we follow the skid-scuffed hoofprints and trail of shredded red ribbon. Behind the house, the fence hangs wide open, and the door to the small hut beside the enclosure bangs in the wind. We hurry inside, and I’m relieved Holly won’t freeze, but disappointed there’s no socially acceptable reason to stand scandalously close.

The interior is a mess. There’s obviously been a struggle. A table lies overturned, and the chairs are scattered. And in the middle of it all stands a face I haven’t seen in...let’s call it ‘a while’ for everyone’s comfort. Long enough that it should have stayed that way.

The person in the middle of the ruin is older, with a deep, gray beard that runs down to his chest. A huge, painful-looking welt is rising on his perfectly bald head. As we enter, he’s groaning and using a chair to pull himself off the floor. He grabs his head as he slumps down into the chairs. Holly and Marcy rush to his side.

“Jackson,” Marcy breathes. “Are you okay? I was worried something bad had happened when we saw the reindeer stampeding.”

“My head,” the man says miserably.

I lean against the doorframe, trying to hang back, wondering how I should handle this. This…person isn’t named Jackson. He’s not a humble reindeer farmer, and he certainly isn’t all sweet and innocent. I know exactly who he is, and if I had been aware he was living here, this would been the first place I came looking for answers when all this madness started.

All the pieces fall into place. I knew this was too familiar. Too calculated. Far too vicious for a mere prank. Something truly evil is at work here—and it’s not just Willow Creek that’s in trouble.

Now I know who’s behind this.

Who’s been pulling the strings.

I know exactly what I’m dealing with, and I am not pleased about it.

While Marcy and Holly fuss over him, I turn my collar up and get to work tidying the place up. I re-right the table and pull up a few chairs up. ‘Jackson,’ meanwhile, is preening under the attention, telling them what happened.

“I was getting ready to feed them when I heard a noise. Next thing I knew, someone clonked me on the head. That’s all I remember. You say my reindeer were in town?”

They both nod their heads, looking worried. Holly is genuinely concerned, and this farce has to come to an end.

“All right, Jackson—let’s skip the performance.”

Marcy gasps at my rudeness, and Holly gives me a nasty glare, but my eyes are pinned on this so-called Jackson. He lifts his head, and his eyes widen when he sees me. For a moment, I think he’s going to try to bluff his way out of this.

Instead, he sighs and waves his hand.

A tinselly draft lifts, bells chime like a drawer of teaspoons, and with a pulse of magic, the room rights itself. Items levitate back onto shelves, and a broom whisks its way across the floor. Marcy and Holly watch, and I’ll begrudgingly concede that the tinkling bells are a nice touch. Even the welt on ‘Jackson’s’ head vanishes, and in seconds, everything is put back together, pristine and perfect. Four mugs of steaming hot cocoa have appeared on the table, and he gestures towards them.

“Didn’t know you were involved, Draven. Why don’t we all take a seat and not do anything crazy?”

“Does everyone else in Willow Creek have magical powers except us?” Holly asks.

“You know each other?” Marcy asks.

“He and I go back a few years,” I say as I pull a chair up to the table. “Hello, ‘Jackson.’ Or, should I say…Jingle?”