Page 31 of Jingle Spells

The inside was more absurdly, more excessively overdecorated than out, with twinkling lights and tinsel exploding across every surface. An animatronic nutcracker army marched along the mantelpiece, while a trio of tree-shaped robots decorated with ornaments spun slowly in the center of the room, singing an off-key rendition of “Deck the Halls.”

“Should I ask what Myrna’s whole deal might be?” Jasper asked as they trailed behind the tour group.

“Fun fact,” Delilah said, “nobody knows what Myrna’s whole deal might be, not even my mother who makes it her business to know everybody. Is Myrna a witch? We don’t really know. I mean, probably, given this house? But on the other hand, who can say? She never takes part in any events in Oak Haven, doesn’t do Saturnalia, doesn’t go to town meetings. Doesn’t leave the house at all, as far as I’m aware. The mansion sits completely dark all year, and then on the first of December, boom, this happens. Suddenly the Christmas House is open to tours at all hours of the day and night. This, despite the fact that all Myrna does is stare and smoke and say rude things. And then, January 1st, it’s back to dark and spooky. As kids we used to dare each other to go up and ring the doorbell. She never answered, which is probably just as well.”

“Okay, but if she never goes out, who buys all the cigarettes?”

Delilah laughed. “The mysteries of Myrna are multiple and eternal.”

They found themselves alone in a narrow room. Possibly former servants’ quarters? No fewer than twelve Christmas trees were crowded inside, each decorated in a different “historical” style. Though Jasper strongly questioned the authenticity of the one labeled “Ancient Egyptian Solstice Tree.”

One tree, tucked into the far corner of the room, caught Jasper’s eye. Instead of ornaments, its branches held what appeared to be . . . offerings? Small carved figures, dried flowers, coins that gleamed too brightly in the twinkling lights. Miniature bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes. Folded-up pieces of paper, some with dollar bills sticking out. It looked like a shrine, not a Christmas display.

“So does Myrna worship the holidays,” Jasper wondered aloud, “or is it the other way around?”

“Well well, aren’t we philosophical,” Delilah said teasingly. But if she had any thoughts about the tree/shrine, she didn’t share them, opting to change the subject instead. “Hey, check out that one over there.” She pointed to a tree claiming to represent “Medieval Yuletide Traditions.” Its branches were laden with tiny plastic knights riding tiny plastic horses, all pursuing what appeared to be a tiny plastic Holy Grail. “I don’t suppose you’d care to comment on the historical accuracy?”

“I believe my eye twitch speaks for itself.”

The pair wandered from room to room, their revulsion giving way to a sort of giddy appreciation for the sheer commitment to chaos. One space was entirely devoted to Santa through the Ages, featuring dozens of representations: everything from a Stone Age Santa to an elegant Victorian Father Christmas figure, a Wall Street Santa representing the 1980s, and what appeared to be “Space Santa” complete with jet pack and ray gun.

Jasper caught Delilah unsuccessfully suppressing her grin at the sight of Disco Santa. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I am not,” she insisted. “I’m conducting important research into American cultural decline as expressed via holiday decorating choices.”

“Ah yes. Very serious business.”

“Extremely serious. For example, this . . .” She gestured at Disco Santa’s reflective platform shoes. “This is clearly a cry for help.”

“How dare you,” said Jasper in mock offense. “I own three pairs of those.”

Delilah laughed. “You do not.”

“I inherited them from my grandmother.”

“Wow, you gotta invite me to the next Hopkins family reunion.” She wrapped her arm around his and they walked on together. In the next room, they were surrounded by an army of animatronic choral singers, all swaying in slightly imperfect synchronization. Their painted-on smiles gleamed in the twinkling lights. Jasper couldn’t decide if the effect was charming or deeply unsettling. Possibly both.

“You know what’s funny?” Delilah’s voice was soft. “I came in here expecting to hate everything about this. But it’s actually kind of nice.”

“Nice?” His eyebrows shot up. “Are you feeling all right? Should I check you for Christmas fever?”

“Oh hush.” She gave him a reluctant, crooked sort of smile that made it impossible for Jasper to look away or move or really do anything but smile right back. “I just mean . . . it’s . . . uh. Forget it. Never mind. Let’s keep going—we’ve fallen behind the tour.”

They drifted into what appeared a room-sized winter wonderland diorama. Tiny figures ice-skated on mirrors while miniature trains wove between villages and hot air balloons drifted up to the ceiling and then back down. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, Jasper had to admit; every tiny face painted with an identical expression of joy, each figure positioned just so in their perfect little world.

Soon he found himself gazing at Delilah instead of the display. But then he noticed her frown.

“What is it?” After a moment’s hesitation, he touched her wrist gently.

She didn’t pull away. “Look at them all,” she said quietly. “All these little people, frozen in their perfect Christmas moments. Everyone so happy.”

He nodded. “I think that’s always been my complaint with this time of year. Everyone is supposed to be happy all the time. And if you aren’t? If you’re depressed or annoyed or just sick of it all? Well, you’re failing Christmas. And worse, you’re ruining it for everyone else.”

“Yup, that’s about right.” Delilah gestured at a scene where tiny carolers gathered around a tiny tree. “Look at that. Only someone failing Christmas would not want to be a part of that scene. It’s like, December rolls around and everybody’s gotta strap on the identical Christmas outfit, whether it fits them or not. Actually . . .” She turned to look Jasper right in the eyes and his insides lurched. “You know what that reminds me of? This letter my mother found, from one of the first Oak Haven witches? Agnes, her name was. She wrote, Truth isn’t a dress pattern, to be adjusted for better fit.”

“That’s well put. Of course, if you can’t adjust it . . .” Jasper’s eyes brightened as an idea took shape, “. . . you can make people doubt the original pattern entirely . . .”

She frowned again. “You’re talking about the magicians now.”