Lights in the Distance

...

I made it back to the hotel, where I was not surprised to see that the cars hadn't been dug out at all. No matter, I thought. I would do it myself. I still had my gloves.

I began to remove the snow by hand, but, even after 20 minutes of excavation, no vehicle was emerging. All it was, I realized with horror, was a giant pile of powder. It too, had been assimilated into this alternate dimension, along with the gifts I had stored in it.

I didn't bother to check the state of the brothers' car. It was easy to assume that it was gone as well, if the state of its owners was any indication.

I considered my options. I could try to trek back to the main road on foot, but it was about 25 degrees, even in the sun, by my estimation, and, even after reaching the main road, it might be hours before I saw another car. There was a very real chance that I would end up succumbing to the cold in the meantime.

There was also the possibility that the dimensional pocket that I had found myself in wouldn't let me leave anyway - that I would find myself walking and walking only to end up back in town, or in an endless expanse of forest. Maybe I was beyond rescue already, and so this was all a moot point anyway. Or, even more disturbingly, maybe the outside world was gone, and only Noel remained.

I'd cross that bridge when I came to it, I decided.

Another option sprung to mind: horses! Agnes mentioned that they would be using horses to clear the streets of snow! I looked around. Clearly the streets hadn't been touched. Maybe the horses were still in their stable? I ran inside and asked Agnes, now eating lunch with her husband and son, where I could find it. She told me the farm was located a little outside of town.

I started walking there as fast as my feet would carry me.

...

Arriving at the farm, I noticed immediately that something was wrong. It was too quiet - even if the animals had been kept in their pens on account of the snow, I should still have been able to hear them, even if muffled and at a distance.

I knocked on the door of the main house. No answer. I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I let myself in. I could handle the farmer, if that's what it came to.

Inside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. But something outside, in the backyard, caught my eye. I moved closer to one of the windows, and through it viewed what I can only describe as absolute carnage. Masses of dead animals littered the area between the farmhouse and the barn, their blood and entrails staining the white snow red. I couldn't recognize any of the individual species - such was the state of their dismemberment. I ran outside.

No ordinary animal, or animals, could have done this. The only creatures that came to mind that possibly could were the dinosaurs I had encountered on that now-sunken island.

Then I spotted him - the body of the farmer. And he was still breathing.

I ran over to him. Something had taken a massive bite out of his shoulder. There was nothing I could do for him. I had no medical expertise.

"What did this?" I asked him, hoping, selfishly, that in his final moments he could possibly still help me.

"The horses", he struggled to say. By the sound of it, his throat was inundated with blood "But they're not horses anymore. And they're still in there."

I looked over at the barn. A trail of blood led to its front doors, which stood wide open, but its interior was shrouded in shadow, hiding whatever lay waiting within. I became acutely, and uncomfortably, aware that, given the distance, whatever the horses had become could be on me in a matter of seconds.

I looked back down at the wounded farmer, hoping he could offer me some more information in his final moments. But they had already passed. He was dead.

What was there left to do? I looked behind me, back in the direction of the town, the looming mountain behind it. From that distance, the mansion that called it home was not visible, though I knew it was still there. I had earlier reasoned that the man who called it home was in some way the cause of all of this.

I decided I would have to confront him. There were simply no other options.

But first I needed more information. I left the farm without taking any further action, hoping, and praying, that whatever resided in the barn was content to stay there, at least for now.

...

I went back to the Bed and Breakfast and talked to Agnes, along with her husband and son. I went back into town, and questioned anyone I could. I even saw the two brothers again, though I dared not approach them. The female was now obviously pregnant. By the size of her protruding belly, I guessed she was probably in the third trimester. My stomach still churns at the thought.

But, overall, my endeavors were largely fruitless. All I had learned was that Barnaby Wilson was seldom seen in person these days, and that he liked to throw lavish parties with guests from out of town. There was talk that one such party would be happening that very night, but that morsel of information was more like a rumor that no one seemed to know the exact origin of, or who they had first heard it from.

At this point, dusk was not long coming, and I still needed a weapon. I went to the police station.

...

Fortunately, the town only had a single law enforcement officer: the sheriff. And since crime in Noel was nonexistent, as the residents had proudly told me earlier, it reasoned he didn't have much practice in either shooting or fighting.

By contrast, I had much of both.

I entered the front door, and found Noel's sole police officer shining his badge behind the front desk. To his left was the gate to the cells, which had been left open, indicating that there was nobody currently locked up in any of them. That suited me fine.

"Merry Christmas, sir," I said to him in a cheerful tone.

"Merry Christmas," he replied, and finally looked up from his book. He squinted at me, obviously trying to remember my name.

"Oh, I'm new in town. Just got in last night."

"Oh...uh...what can I help you with?" It was as if he was in a play, and had forgotten his lines.

"Well, I'm going to need your gun, and every bullet you have for it on hand. Plus, your nightstick, and whatever else you might have lying around."

I didn't want to hurt him, As far as I knew, he was just as much a victim as everybody else here. So my goal was this: get him to draw his weapon, whereupon I would quickly disarm him, and turn the gun on its owner,

Over the next 30 seconds, that's exactly what happened. The result: the sheriff, bound to a chair with a makeshift gag stuck in my mouth in the cell at the end of the hall, which I had locked. And now I had a revolver, with 20 additional shells stuffed into my pants' pockets, and a nightstick, which I had placed in the breast pocket of my coat.

Someone would find the man, I reasoned. Eventually,

Now armed, I began to make my way up to the mountain, just as the sun was beginning to set.

It was getting colder.

...

There was a gate at the foot of the hill, with a heavy lock upon it. I shot it off.

...

I didn't encounter a single other soul on my hike, nor did I see any animals or birds. I didn't see any other tracks, either, until the path I was on merged with another that originated somewhere else further down the mountain. This road had obviously been the one used by the party guests I had heard about, as there were now many imprints in the snow before me.

But I didn't see any that were obviously made by any wheel or horse. No, these tracks were made by... other things. Whether vehicle or animal, I do not know. None of them had been made by anything I had ever encountered, and no two were alike.

One set were square, as if made by a giant robot. Another was nothing but a deep cut, a mini canyon between walls of white. I imagined something like a miniature ship had produced them. A ship that didn't need water, apparently.

A third pair resembled the tracks of a bear, albeit with 10 toes on each foot. The adjacent prints were nothing but three zig-zagging lines. The last imprint I could make out was a perfect circle six feet in circumference, each marking about 5 feet apart from the next, as if a giant had taken to playing with a pogo stick.

I could finally see the manor through the trees. I needed to get closer.

...

Now I was in front of the mansion. Whatever had made the tracks, they weren't parked outside. Maybe they were inside, I thought. Maybe this mansion was bigger on the inside than the outside. Much, much bigger.

But there was certainly a party going on, as every window was lit, and an excited murmuring could be heard emanating from within. I couldn't pick up any of it, however, and I still don't know if it's because the sound was too muffled, or if the language or languages spoken were simply alien to my ears.

Shadows moved behind the drawn curtains. Some were too big to be made by even a large human adult. Others were too small to be children. At one point, a huge shadow moved across multiple windows at once, as if it were being cast by a huge caterpillar.

Now I could make something out. It was hard to hear, but I realized it was "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," by Brenda Lee. Released in 1958, fifty-eight years later than it was supposed to be in this strange place.

Rockin' around the Christmas tree

At the Christmas party hop

Mistletoe hung where you can see

Every couple tries to stop

The song changed. Now a male voice emanated from inside.

There'll be parties for hosting

Marshmallows for toasting

And caroling out in the snow

There'll be scary ghost stories

And tales of the glories

Of Christmases long, long ago

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" by Andy Williams. This was a bit more recent - 1963. Then the song changed again.

The mood is right

The spirit's up

We're here tonight

And that's enough

Simply having a wonderful Christmastime

Simply having a wonderful Christmastime

I knew the voice - it was Paul McCartney. But I didn't recognize the song at all. Then it hit me: this was a song from the future. For whatever reason, this final irregularity - this final insane contradiction - is what broke my resolve.

I stared up at the mansion, but for how long, I couldn't be certain. I took out the revolver, loaded with six bullets. But I quickly put it away. It was now undeniable: I was in over my head. Whoever, or whatever, was in there, it was more than I could handle on my own.

The party's on

The feeling's here

That only comes

This time of year

I had been beaten.

I turned around, and looked back over the town. The red, green, and white lights were back, and I now realized that their coloring should have been impossible considering the state of their technology. Another mystery. Another terrible wonder.

The word is out

About the town

To lift a glass

Oh, and don't look down

...

I walked back down the mountain, to the town. All the while, I considered what my next action would be.

I could try to start a fire, to create an inferno that would wipe out the whole of Noel, but who's to say it wouldn't be suddenly deprived of oxygen, snuffing it out? Or, I could simply go on a killing spree, and try to save as many of the villagers through the mercy of death that was as I possibly could. But how long before the doors of the mansion would fling open, and whatever is in there descended upon me to save its playthings?

The final choice was the simplest: suicide. I would use the revolver on myself, and die in this lonely place. Never see my wife, children, or team ever again. They wouldn't ever even know what had happened to me.

What would they think? Would they assume that I had gotten into a deadly car crash? Been the victim of a simple carjacking and homicide? What an ironically pedestrian way for me to meet my demise that would be!

Or would they imagine something greater? Maybe one of my old, still-living rivals had finally bested me by striking when I least expected it? Or maybe it was a new foe, the vengeful sibling or friend of some villain I had once bested?

Whatever they theorized, I doubted any would ever guess this.

How could you?

...

Back in town, the streets were deserted, the residents of Noel no doubt eager to get some sleep before their namesake holiday. I stopped again before the great tree in the town square, where my hopeful delusions about Noel had been shattered only a few hours before.

I would decide my fate here.

The sound of bells interrupted my dark brooding. I turned to find that an ornate, red sleigh had materialized behind me. Along with 12 reindeer before it.

I inspected the sled, trying to discern whether or not this was some sort of trap. The bench, where Santa himself would presumably sit, was too small for even a thin man to rest comfortably. And in the rear, where there should have been a sack overflowing with presents, there was instead a single wrapped box. I took it out, and opened it. Inside was a scrap of paper, with one word handwritten upon it: "Leave."

I looked back towards the mountain, where I could see a pinpoint of light emanating from its side: the mansion. Whatever was in there, it simply wanted me gone. It must have realized it was not going to be able to assimilate me, now having been in Noel for about twenty-four hours. And maybe it didn't like how close I had come to its seat of power.

I sat down on the bench inside the sled, whereupon the reindeer suddenly took off into the sky. For a few seconds, I could again look down upon the town, along with the sea of trees that surrounded it.

Then I blacked out.

...

I awoke, still sitting up. We were back on solid ground. To my left was a truck, the bright beams of its headlights almost blinding me. I summarized, by the shocked look of the driver, that the sled had landed here right in front of him, no doubt almost causing him to crash.

One of the reindeer grunted: a clear signal to get out. I did, and the reindeer immediately began to turn round and head back into the sky. As they did, I caught a glimpse into the eyes of the head buck, the truck's lights illuminating its pupils enough for me to see them clearly. Instead of being horizontal, as they are for all deer, horses, and sheep, they were round. Like a human's.

I watched as the reindeer and the sleigh climbed higher and higher into the sky, until....they abruptly winked out of existence. A word popped into my head: firmament. Yes, that sounded right.

I walked over to the passenger side of the truck. I had half-expected the driver to refuse to let me in, but he was apparently feeling generous, as he leaned over and unlocked the door for me. It was Christmas Day, I suppose.

"You don't want to know," I said to him, before he could even ask me anything.

He believed me, thank God.

...

We arrived back at the mansion shortly after daybreak, where my wife (your grandmother) and five children (your parents) ran to meet me outside. They asked me where I had been. I shot a knowing look to your grandma, before telling them that I had been snowed in back in the city. They believed me, because they did not yet know what they do now: how strange and terrible this world, along with a few others, really are.

I gave the truck driver a handsome tip, and we all waved him goodbye as he drove off. Back inside, we opened presents (minus the few that had been swallowed whole by Noel), played with some of the newly unwrapped toys, and had breakfast.

...

In the early afternoon, when the children were all taking naps, exhausted from the excitement of the holiday, I told your grandma over hot chocolate what had really happened to me. She said nothing the whole time, and, when I was finished, only had one question.

"So, when do we start?" was all she asked.

She knew me too well.

...

The next day, I called the Company. I was able to get through to the Boss, and I told him the same story I had told your grandmother. When I was done, the line grew silent.

"Can you come in for an Audit?" he asked

I knew that was coming.

An Audit is a grueling, week-long process in which magic and medicinal means are both employed to get the absolute truth out of someone.

Actually, I misspoke: it's to get the truth out of someone's soul. That way, even the unconscious deceptions crafted by one's own mind can be detected and discarded.

Usually, an operative will only ever be subjected to one Audit in their entire lives, when they first join the Company. This is standard procedure, to weed out any spies or psychopaths. So, yes, I'm sorry to tell you: all of you will likely have to go through one yourselves, if you choose to follow in the footsteps of your parents and grandparents.

But I wasn't offended. If I were the Boss, I would be skeptical too. What were the odds that an operative would just happen to stumble into a situation like this? And it may not have even been deliberate on my part. The life of an operative is, to put it lightly, stressful. It was not unreasonable to think I had had some kind of mental break, and made up the entire story of my time in Noel while in the midst of it.

Or maybe I had gotten into a car accident, and the whole thing had been a kind of dream or hallucination? The possibilities were endless, really.

I agreed to come in.

...

A week later, and the Audit was complete. I was fifteen pounds lighter, and had more gray hair, but there was no longer any doubt: I was telling the absolute truth, as my own soul knew it to be. I was not being deceitful, or mistaken.

With all that cleared up, the hunt for Noel could begin.

...

The main team, along with two sub-teams, were summoned to Headquarters. Once all were assembled, I again retold my story, which was followed was a short Q & A session.

Then, we set out.

...

We combed the woods for months. We used every spell and piece of technology at our disposal, even at one point using a helicopter to survey the area from the air. We tracked down the truck driver who had rescued me. We interviewed local residents, amateur historians, and consulted the Native American tribes that had lived nearby since pre-Colombian times.

But we never found Noel, or any record that such a town had ever existed at all, at least in the State.

...

Back at one of the Company's offices, someone crunched the numbers and found that the area in question had a higher-than-average rate of missing persons than in similar parts of the country.

And the consultations with the Native American tribes did dig up one interesting piece of information: the range of land where Noel should have been had a name that translated roughly into English as "Don't Go There."

I had also surrendered the sheriff's revolver for analysis. Examination showed that its general design was of the late 1800's, but that was all that could be gleaned from it. I'm sure it's sitting in a warehouse somewhere now.

A year later, and this was all we had. With no more leads to pursue, the file was closed, as we used to say.

...

The last loose end was the matter of the brothers who had become husband and wife. We actually discovered their identities very early on, as their family had reported them missing on Christmas Day. Once my Audit was complete, the Company felt confident enough to leverage its influence with the FBI and Local Authorities to work with them to cover up their deaths.

Together, they planted and staged a fake car crash, complete with the burned skeletons of two unclaimed male corpses. What else could we do? It would have been crueler for the family to continue their search, when we knew it would forever be fruitless.