Episode 20: Discovery

Salem Torque strode along a lantern-lit path that eventually lead to Castle Claus where a crew of seven elves worked tirelessly, moving swiftly from room to room and removing all traces of the castle’s former occupants. Photographs and paintings were pulled from walls and discarded as cards, letters, and memorabilia were haphazardly placed into wooden crates, sealed, and transitioned into a nearby storage facility that had been built years ago for this specific occasion..

The entire second floor underwent a speedy but thorough redesign that included new bedroom furniture, wallpaper, and carpeting. Throughout their labors, the elves spoke and sang with excitement. Though in mourning over the loss of their leaders, the promise of new management was enticing. Salem walked slowly from room to room, inspecting the work and nodding in approval while offering minor suggestions.

“I assume you’re going to strip the banisters and apply new varnish.”

Uber Unger, chief interior designer, nodded.

“A lighter stain this time around. Also double-check that the tiling and grout in the main dining room contains no traces of blood. That simply wouldn’t do.”

“On it, chief,” Uber replied.

“So much to do, gentlemen. So much to do,” Salem said. He withdrew and lit a cigarette then stepped outside into the cold air. In the distance Salem noticed Pineapple Daddy. The lanky magician walked toward a nearby fire pit and tossed a bundle onto the flames. It was, Salem noted, Pineapple’s weathered yellow suit.

“Out with the old,” Salem whispered, enjoying the nicotine sensation.

—

Russell Barker felt uneasy. He’d felt this way since the arrival of the sextet of strangers, each dressed in black, had checked in to suite 6. They’d paid him for the room. Overpaid, actually. Curiously, they’d arrived with neither vehicle nor luggage. Barker, who was not the curious type, was perplexed. Something didn’t add up. He’d done his best to find answers by utilizing the numerous peepholes in suites 5 and 7. But little had revealed itself. The six strangers didn’t interact much with each other, and most of what they said didn’t make a lot of sense. To Russell’s disappointment, the women in the troupe hadn’t showered or changed clothes since their arrival.

On the evening of January 5 and from the quiet of the motel’s office, Russell’s eyes gazed upon Santiago Perez as he crossed the parking lot. The blacktop was concealed beneath a layer of new-fallen snow and ice, but Santiago strode confidently. He stepped across the empty street and onto a large patch of farmland owned by Denmore Austin whose family owned many properties in Austin Heights and parts beyond. Within moments, Santiago was lost to the darkness.

His curiosity piqued, Russell quickly donned boots and a winter coat, grabbed a flashlight, and hurried outside. He slipped and slid across the parking lot and followed the footprints that lead to Austin’s farm. Santiago’s tracks continued to a wooded area replete with deep roots and downed branches. Russell fell twice but did not falter in his pursuit. The wilderness broke into a clearing. To Russell’s surprise, Santiago was less than thirty paces ahead of him. He quickly switched off the flashlight and hid in the shadows. He glanced up but Santiago was gone.

The field was a massive, barren sprawl. It was, Russel reasoned, impossible for Santiago to have simply vanished. Russell gazed in all directions but found no trace of the stranger. Switching on the flashlight once more, he slowly followed each footprint, and realized that they abruptly ended in the middle of the clearing. Even to his challenged mind it didn’t make sense. He took another step forward and stumbled backward, as if he’d hit an invisible wall. The flashlight slipped from his hand and went dark.

Russell approached the exact spot where the footsteps vanished, suddenly and acutely aware of dimmed navigation lights outlining a large cylindrical object in his path, suspended just a few feet above the ground. Mouth agape, he took several cautious steps backwards. To his frustration, the flashlight was dead. Again he eyed the translucent outline hoovering before him. He concluded, as might any red-blooded American male during a time of international war, that he was in the presence of a massive enemy aircraft and that Santiago and his colleagues were foreign spies. A sense of patriotism swelled within Russell. He would do something about this.

Within the Star Skimmer and oblivious to Russell’s budding sense of duty, Santiago worked hastily to prepare the craft for the long journey ahead. It was always best to depart in the early morning, before sunrise, to remain clandestine. He plugged in the navigation coordinates – 90.0000° N, 135.0000° W – and performed other preflight tasks. Winds were blowing from the north at ten miles per hour. All master switches were in the “on” position and avionics were off. Fuel selector and flight controls all positive. All signs pointed to an on-time departure. Santiago issued a self-satisfied smile, pleased that the Wellenmeyer’s had agreed to sign on. There were, of course, still numerous rituals to perform, including the bloodletting that, intentionally, hadn’t been mentioned to either Sullivan or Marcella. But everything was going better than expected, and by the time the knives were presented during the oath-taking ceremony, it would be too late for either candidate-elect to back down. 

This concludes the preview of NEW SANTA: CRIMSON RED. Look for the print edition, a 77,000-word novel, arriving fall 2025.