Page 30 of Jingle Spells

“That poor hat would sing itself into a coma.”

As the bus turned the corner, Esmerelda began explaining how Oak Haven’s witches had helped Mark Twain to write “A Visit from St. Nicholas” using a magical quill pen that automatically generated rhyming couplets.

A tourist raised her hand. “But I thought ‘’Twas the Night Before Christmas’ was written by Clement Clarke Moore?”

“Well yes.” Esmerelda’s toothless smile was unwavering. “That was a pseudonym of Samuel Clemens, which was itself the pseudonym of Mark Twain.”

“She has that completely wrong and somehow also backasswards,” Jasper whispered to Delilah.

“And it doesn’t bother anyone but us.”

“You notice that too.” He clenched his jaw even tighter.

“It reminds me of this letter my mother was reading last night,” Delilah murmured. “She came across it when looking up an old recipe for Zahir. It was a letter from the bad old days. This witch was worrying about how people were rewriting Oak Haven’s history. And that they wanted it that way. Like, the truth didn’t really matter if the lie was easier to live with.”

“Such as the truth about the execution of innocent girls in Salem?” The words slipped out before Jasper could stop them, and when he saw the hurt look in Delilah’s eyes, he would have given his whole soul just to take them back. “I’m so sorry, that was so out of line.”

“No, you’re right. That’s precisely what Agnes was talking about. My ancestors told themselves a pretty story for so long, we started to forget it was a story.”

“But you didn’t, though,” Jasper said carefully. “Not completely. That’s the thing about stories. They always leave traces behind. The truth is still available if someone cares to go digging for it.”

“Digging for the truth . . .” she said thoughtfully. As the bus rounded another corner, Delilah’s shoulder touched his. Neither moved away. “Do you think that’s what this is about, with the magicians?”

Jasper gazed out at a display where animatronic elves were performing synchronized swimming routines in what appeared to be a small swimming pool of eggnog. “Dear lady,” he said with a chuckle, “I have no clue what any of this is about.”

The bus wheezed to a stop in front of a Victorian mansion that looked like the love child of Liberace and Buddy the Elf. Every inch of the building was draped in lights, garlands, and tinsel. Mechanical angels pirouetted on the widow’s walk while an entire herd of light-up reindeer pranced across the roof, led by what appeared to be a cyberpunk Rudolph whose LED nose strobed in time to that old song about the Dominick the Italian Christmas Donkey.

“A crime against architecture,” Jasper said acidly. “Arguably, against human vision.”

“Singular? Just a crime?” Delilah raised an eyebrow. “You’re too kind.”

Nevertheless, they steeled themselves and exited the bus. Standing on the sidewalk, the “Grandma” song was even more searing, and Jasper winced as the earworm made itself a nest deep inside his brain. Shooting a withering glance at the festival of kitsch that loomed before them, he thought, This can’t get any worse.

Then Esmerelda the tour guide announced they were all going to enjoy a tour of Oak Haven’s famous Christmas House.

Oh, he thought. Never mind.

“Have you ever been in there?” he asked Delilah. “And is it as terrible as I’m imagining”?”

“Not since I was a kid. And I’m certain it’s far more terrible than you are imagining.”

Jasper took a deep breath and steeled himself as the group approached the front porch, which was framed by twinkling icicle lights and flanked by two towering nutcracker statues. But no sooner could Jasper think, this is a bad mistake, than Delilah slipped her hand into his, giving him a supportive squeeze.

On the other hand, he thought. Maybe not so bad.

Esmerelda threw open the heavy wooden door, releasing a blast of warm air that carried the scents of cloves and pine, which might’ve been lovely, were they not blended with the overpowering funk of cigarette smoke. Jasper’s eyes darted around, seeking the source. He didn’t need to look far. An elderly—nay, antediluvian—woman sat in a rocking chair by the door, a freestanding and overflowing ashtray beside her. Next to her chair stood a life-sized nutcracker, dressed in the typical military uniform. But instead of the usual ceremonial sword, this nutcracker gripped a curved obsidian blade, covered in arcane symbols that seemed to shift and change shape even as Jasper gazed at them. The blade was less a Christmas decoration and more something that belonged in a museum of ancient artifacts. Or torture devices.

Jasper shuddered. That’s not very festive, is it?

As he gazed from the creepy sword to the creepier old lady and back, an odd wave of dizziness washed over him. Must be all that cigarette smoke, he told himself. Right?

The ancient lady peered at them through rheumy eyes and took a long drag on her cigarette. “Welcome to the North Pole,” she croaked in a phlegmy rasp. “Now fuck off.”

Esmerelda just breezed carelessly past. Whether she was totally oblivious to the woman or just unconcerned was unclear. “Right this way, everybody!” she trilled, and she guided the group deeper into the surreal Christmas explosion.

“Hey there, Myrna,” Delilah said to the woman as they walked by. “Long time no see.”

Myrna gave her the tiniest sneer of recognition and ejected a cloud of toxic smoke. “Fuck off,” was her only reply.