Christmas Curse

The train slowed, stopping next to the Winter Wonderland the Truckee and Virginia Railroad had built for the families enjoying a Christmas adventure to their Gold Hill Depot. I stepped onto the open riding platform to watch and listen to the children play. The laughter and cheer contrasted starkly with the cold, dark desert hills and valleys that bordered the tracks.

“Here’s your drink,” the young lady said, handing me a cup of coffee. On duty, one cannot indulge in the seasonal spirits of the saloons some three miles north of us.

“Ah, working I see,” a deep, gruff voice full of Eastern European descent came from beside me.

The man, maybe a decade older than me, lit a large cigar and puffed it to life. His eyes reflected a lifetime of harsh winters and harsher realities.

“Yes,” I answered, taking a sip.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a writer,” I answered, trying to focus on the present despite the chill that crept up my spine.

“Ah, I too am a storyteller,” he smiled, his eyes narrowing slightly. His accent was thick, reminiscent of the old country, where storytelling was as common as the snow.

Before I could tell him I was a newspaper reporter, he asked, “Want I should tell you a Christmas tale?”

Again, before I could answer, the old Bolshevik began. “On the steppes of my native home lived two brothers in love with a woman. They vied for her hand, but the younger of the two lost as his brother and the girl married one day.”

He puffed on his cigar, the smoke curling around us like a spectral embrace. “Angry, the younger brother sought to drown his sorrow in drink. As he was sitting in the corner of a tavern, a man came in and, after getting a drink for himself, asked if he could join the young man.”

“Be my guest,” the younger brother said.

“You seem to be in a bad way,” the man said.

“I am,” the brother sighed.

“Do tell,” the man bade him. The brother did not hold back, telling the stranger everything.

“We could remedy your anger,” the man said after the other had finished.

“How?” was the question.

“By becoming a werewolf,” the man said.

“Whoa,” I interrupted, “I thought you said this was a Christmas tale?”

“It is, as it happened during the Christmas season of my nineteenth year,” he responded, his tone even yet chilling.

“Okay, I guess,” I said, hesitatingly.

“The man talked the younger brother into joining him the next night deep in the nearby forest,” he continued. “There, the man taught him an incantation to be recited each time he wished to transform into a werewolf.”

He relit his cigar, the glow of the flame reflecting off his eyes, giving him a predatory look.

“The following night, after seeing his older brother and his happy bride, and wishing to take revenge on the happy couple, the younger brother returned to the forest, where he recited the words he had learned the night before,” the man said. “Having transformed, the young brother rushed into the village and started on a rampage, killing several people before entering his brother’s home.”

The whistle blew, signaling it was time for the families to return and board the train for the trip back to Virginia City.

“Without warning, the younger brother, now a werewolf, pounced on the older brother, ripping at his throat, leaving him covered in warm blood,” the man said.

“Good gawd,” I said. “This is more like a Halloween story, no?”

“No, I tell you, it happened at Christmastime,” he said, slightly exasperated at my interruption.

“The younger brother turned his attention to his sister-in-law, having decided to violate her before he slaughtered her,” he said, a distant look in his dark eyes. “She surprised him, attacking him with a knife, slicing off his left ear.”

I wanted to tell him I had heard enough of his Christmas tale, but he continued, “The beast howled in pain and tumbled across the floor, before sprinting out the door, into the snow and the deep forest.”

He stopped speaking. I waited, but he said nothing more.

Unable to stand it anymore, I asked, “So what happened? Did she get killed? And what happened to the younger brother? Did they catch him? How did he explain the missing ear?”

“No, she did not die, and he disappeared, never to return to his village,” he concluded.

“That’s a helluva Christmas tale,” I told him. “Not much of the Christmas spirit in it. I don’t think I’ll be writing that one down.”

“Oh, I disagree.” he smiled, “You’ll write it down and you’ll do it before Christmas Eve, I’m certain of it.”

As he turned and stepped back towards the Pullman car, I caught sight of something that made my blood turn cold in my veins—a hole on the side of his head where his left ear should have been.