Stone for the Holidays Read online

  Stone for the Holidays

  An Alastair Stone Chronicles Holiday Special

  R. L. King

  Copyright © 2017-2018 by R. L. King

  Revised and updated December 2018

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Streetlight Graphics

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Spirit of the Season

  2. Reunions

  3. An Unexpected Gift

  4. Paws for Reflection

  Afterword

  Introduction

  Every year since I started publishing the Alastair Stone Chronicles series in 2015, I’ve written a holiday story.

  These stories were never guaranteed—they usually come to me all at once sometime in December, and I’m always worried that this will be the year I don’t get an idea, but so far that hasn’t happened.

  And here’s the thing—despite my obvious love for the mayhem, bloodshed, and downright horrible things I write about in the Stone series…well, I’ve also got a side that enjoys a bit of heartwarming holiday schmaltz. What can I say? It’s kind of embarrassing to admit it, but hey, it’s true.

  These four stories (which I will continue to add to in subsequent years, assuming more of them come to me) have a bit of bloodshed and a bit of schmaltz. Something for everyone!

  Anyway, I hope you enjoy them—just think of them as my little gift to everyone who loves the Stone stories. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to supernatural horror and magical mayhem soon enough. But for now, sit back in a comfy chair with your favorite snack or beverage and join Dr. Stone and Company for a bit of holiday cheer. I promise, all the stories have happy endings!

  Wishing you all the best for a wonderful holiday and a prosperous New Year,

  —R. L. King

  1

  Spirit of the Season

  2015 Alastair Stone Chronicles Holiday Story

  I don’t know about you, but I never really liked that smarmy little tattletale “Elf on the Shelf.” This story was my revenge.

  Alastair Stone wasn’t a holiday kind of guy.

  He wasn’t a Scrooge or anything extreme like that—he’d already carefully chosen gifts this year for the few people he gave a damn about, even if he had paid someone else to wrap them for him. He’d contributed generously to the department’s fund for buying gifts and other holiday necessities for a local family down on their luck. He even caught himself occasionally humming a Christmas carol under his breath as he navigated the cheerfully nondenominational landscape of downtown Palo Alto. No, it was mostly that—in America even more than in Britain—the holiday season included far too much of three things he preferred to stay as far away from as possible: crowds, heavy traffic, and hyperactive small children.

  It was Christmas Eve, and he was alone. He didn’t mind: it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have had company if he’d wanted it. Aubrey back home had requested time off so he could visit his nephew in Leeds, but he’d made it clear he’d have been equally happy remaining home if Stone planned to return to England. Jason and Verity had gone down to Ventura to spend the holiday with their late father’s cop buddy Stan Lopez, and had in fact invited Stone to come along. He’d thanked them but declined, and the three of them had made plans for New Year’s Eve instead.

  All of this left him alone in his townhouse, doing what he usually did on evenings when he didn’t have other plans: poring over a stack of old books he’d gotten hold of recently, trying to determine if they contained any useful references for his latest paper. In deference to the season, classical holiday music played softly in the background instead of his usual Pink Floyd and Queen. He was about to get up and call out for pizza when the phone rang.

  “Alastair?” came a familiar female voice. “It’s Edwina. I’m sorry to call on Christmas Eve. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Edwina Mortenson was the head of Stanford’s tiny Occult Studies department, which consisted of her, Stone, and one other professor. Her interactions with Stone could politely be called “professionally courteous” at best. “Er—I’m no more disturbed than usual,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if I might ask you a favor.” She sounded hesitant, which was unusual for her. Despite her usual airy-fairy earth-mother demeanor, the woman had a core of steel and definitive opinions about nearly every subject under the sun.

  When Stone didn’t reply right away, she went on: “Remember the fund we set up to buy gifts for the family in San Jose? Well, we’ve got all the gifts, everything’s ready to go, but Laura just called—she’s twisted her ankle and can’t deliver them. I’d do it myself, but I’m in Los Angeles. Would you mind terribly dropping them off tonight? You could pick them up at Laura’s place in Mountain View.”

  “Edwina—”

  “You wouldn’t have to stay,” she said quickly. “I know how much you hate small talk. Just drop them off, say ‘Happy Holidays,’ and go on your way. Please, Alastair. I can’t get hold of anyone else.”

  “Ah, so I’m your last resort, then.” Stone chuckled. It didn’t surprise him. He’d never exactly given off the “festive” vibe. Before she could reply, he closed his book. “Sure, I’ll do my bit for the cause. I’m not wearing a Santa hat, though.”

  “I wouldn’t think of asking,” Mortenson said.

  By the time he picked up the gifts and drove to the address Mortenson had given him in east San Jose, it was nearly eight o’clock. It took him a while to find the place, a tiny house on a side street off Story Road. Although the neighborhood was rundown and shabby, with old cars parked along both sides of the street, blowing drifts of trash, and several nonfunctional streetlights, the Christmas lights and holiday decorations twinkling on many of the houses gave it a festive look.

  He pulled into the driveway, popped the trunk, and got out. The little house’s yard, surrounded by a chain-link fence, was immaculate. Multicolored lights traced the roofline, and a lit display proclaiming “Merry Christmas!” hung in the window in front of a tree bedecked with baubles, tinsel, and more tiny lights.

  The department had gone all out: the trunk of the big black BMW contained three overstuffed bags filled with wrapped gifts, and a tiny pink bicycle with training wheels for the littlest family member. Stone left the bike for now, just in case Mom wanted to hide it away somewhere before its recipient caught sight of it. He hefted the remaining three bags and nudged open the gate.

  Instantly the air was full of loud, booming barking as a furry brown missile in a red collar hurtled toward Stone. He yanked the gate shut, backing off. The dog, a muscular, brindled pit bull, slammed into it, put its massive paws on the top, and continued its frenzied barking.

  Stone was deciding what to do—he could handle the dog, but he didn’t think levitating it onto the roof would be in keeping with the holiday spirit—when the house’s door opened and a figure darted out. “Frog, stop! Get over here!”

  The dog looked a bit crestfallen to lose such tempting prey, but it jumped back down and jogged over toward the figure, now revealed to be a mop-haired boy of about thirteen wearing a black Metallica T-shirt. “Sorry, Mister,” the boy called. “He don’t bite. He’s friendly. See?”

  Sure enough, by the illumination of the porch light and the Christmas bulbs, Stone saw the dog capering around the boy, drenching him in sloppy kisses.

  “C’mon in,” the boy said, taking hold of the dog’s collar. His gaze fell on the bags and his eyes lit up. “Are those for us?”

>   “That depends on whether you still believe in Santa Claus,” Stone said. He pushed the gate open and hurried inside. The dog lunged toward him, but the boy pulled him back and snapped a command that made him sit still.

  “My name’s Jake Ramirez,” the kid said. “Mom’s inside. C’mon in.”

  Stone edged past the dog toward the still-open door. As he did, he lowered his voice. “You’ve got a little sister, yes?”

  Jake glanced inside. “Yeah. Elena. She’s five.”

  “I’ve got something in my car for her, but it’s not wrapped, so—”

  “The bike?” he whispered.

  Stone nodded.

  “Jake? ¿Quien esta ahí?” another voice called. A plump, dark-haired woman in a red sweater with a snowman on it came into view from down a hallway. When she spotted Stone and the bags, she smiled and said, “Oh! ¡Hola! ¿Eres del grupo de Stanford? Estábamos esperando a una dama.”

  Stone’s Spanish pretty much ended at ordering at Mexican restaurants, but Jake was quick to translate: “Sorry, Mom understands English, but she doesn’t speak much. She wants to know if you’re from Stanford. She says she thought a lady was coming.”

  “Last-minute change,” Stone said. “I’m Alastair Stone. Laura wasn’t able to make it, so she asked me to drop these off.” He didn’t ask if she wanted to see his identification—he figured if he made a false move, Frog the Dog would probably rip his throat out before he got a spell off.

  “I’m Yolanda Ramirez,” she said. She looked at the bags. “Oh! Todos ustedes son tan generosos. Muchas gracias.”

  “Shall I put them under the tree?” Stone asked, coming in. The tantalizing aroma of Mexican cooking hung in the air, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. The Christmas tree dominated the area in front of the window, hung thickly with ornaments. Many of them looked like the children had made them—everything from nativity scenes and crosses to reindeer and Santa Clauses, along with colorful paper chains and a lopsided star on top. A meager stack of gaily-wrapped gifts was already arrayed around the bottom; Stone began adding contents of the bags as Yolanda Ramirez and her son looked on and Frog continued barking from outside.

  “Gracias. Thank you,” Yolanda said.

  Jake hurried over to help him unload the bags. “I’ll tell Mom about the bike,” he whispered. “Elena and my other sister Teresa are watchin’ TV in the back room. Maybe you can—”

  “Oooh!” came a childish voice as footsteps pounded down the hall. A little girl with long dark hair and a yellow Disney Princess T-shirt skidded to a stop and stared at the new crop of presents with wide, shining eyes. Then her gaze fell on Stone and she took a step back, suddenly shy. After a moment, another girl of about ten came up behind her.

  Stone rose from his crouch. “There you go,” he said. “All delivered and ready for opening.”

  “Thank you so much,” Yolanda said again, in English. Then she said something else in Spanish and looked at Jake, then nodded toward Stone.

  “She wants you to stay for some hot chocolate,” Jake said. He grinned. “And she wants to know if you’ve eaten, ’cause she’s made enough tamales to feed an army.”

  The tamales were tempting, but Stone shook his head. “I should be going,” he said. “I don’t want to intrude on your holiday.”

  Yolanda gave him a kindly smile. When she spoke again in Spanish, tears glimmered in her eyes.

  “She says you’re not intruding,” Jake translated. “She says you guys are helping make our holiday happen. You at least gotta stay for the hot chocolate,” he urged. “It’s really good.”

  “Well…perhaps for a few minutes,” Stone said.

  “Great,” Jake said. “C’mon, Mom. I’ll help you.”

  “Sit down,” Yolanda said in careful English. “Be comfortable. We will be right back.”

  Stone did as he was told, taking a seat on a flowered couch draped with a knitted afghan. The two girls eyed him as if not quite sure what to make of him. He smiled at them, hoping Yolanda would come back soon—he was terrible at small talk with children.

  As he watched them try to decide whether to sit down or not, his gaze traveled up to the bookshelf behind them. It was mostly full of knickknacks, a few children’s books, and CDs, but one item in particular caught his eye: an odd-looking stuffed doll. It wore a green suit, a pointed hat, and had a plastic head. It looked a bit like one of those elf dolls that seemed to be everywhere around the holidays—the ones that were supposed to report back to Santa about the kids’ behavior like some kind of pointy-eared narc—but this one had an expression of mischief that teetered on the edge of maniacal. On a whim, Stone shifted to magical sight.

  The room lit up with the auras of the two girls, along with a general feeling of peace and well-being overlaid with some of the normal worry and stress one might expect from a family in chronic financial difficulty. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, Stone barely noticed any of that.

  What he did notice, instantly, was that the elf doll’s appearance had changed.

  It was about the same size, but its cheery green suit had morphed into bloodstained rags, and its almost-unpleasant expression into something that nobody could mistake for anything but malevolent glee. Its hands now sported long fingers tipped with sharp nails. Its aura—which it shouldn’t even have had, if it was nothing but a harmless toy—glowed blood-red spotted with black, writhing tendrils.

  Worst of all, when it caught him looking at it, it grinned, showing yellow, pointed teeth.

  Stone’s face must have revealed something, because the older of the two girls finally got brave enough to speak. “You okay, Mister?” she asked. Her little sister hid behind her, eyes still huge.

  “That’s—an interesting little doll there on the shelf,” he said, pointing at it. “Have you had it long?”

  The older girl, Teresa, frowned. “Must be Mama’s. It showed up a couple days ago.”

  “It’s from Sanna,” the younger one, Elena, announced, so softly her voice was barely audible behind her sister.

  “From Santa?” Stone asked. “Do you mind if I look at it?”

  “Sanna said not to touch him,” Elena said. “He’s s’posed to tell Sanna what to bring us for Chris’mas.”

  “Oh, don’t be a silly, Elena,” Teresa said. “Let him look at it. Here, I’ll—” She took a step toward it.

  Stone, still watching with magical sight, saw its lips turn down in a scowl and its eyes glow red as she approached it. “Wait,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s fine. Wouldn’t want to cause any trouble with Santa.” To Elena, he said, “When did Santa give you this?”

  She shrugged, shy again.

  He forced himself to keep his voice gentle. “Where did you see Santa? At the store?”

  She shook her head.

  “Near your house?”

  She shook it again.

  “We play in the park sometimes,” Teresa said. “Maybe she saw him when we weren’t looking. Elena, you know you’re not s’posed to take anything from strangers.”

  “Wasn’t a stranger,” Elena said stubbornly. “It was Sanna.”

  Stone felt a chill. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away from the doll. “You know,” he said, “those tamales really do smell wonderful. Would you mind asking your mother if her offer is still open?”

  “Sure,” Teresa said, jumping up. “It will be. Mama feeds everybody.” She looked like she was glad to have an excuse to get away from the odd stranger in her living room. “Come on, Elena.”

  When they were gone, Stone got up, crossed the room, and stood in front of the bookshelf. He shifted back to magical sight, knowing he didn’t have long, and reached out to grab the doll.

  With a sound halfway between a snarl and a giggle, it lashed out and raked its clawed nails across Stone’s hand.

  He jerked back, swearing under his breath, and glared at the elf. “You won’t hurt this family,” he said quietly. A glance over his shoulder told h
im nobody had returned yet, and another at his hand revealed a shallow, bloody furrow, like a bad cat scratch.

  It giggled again. You gonna stop me? It didn’t speak aloud; the mocking, high-pitched voice was only in Stone’s mind.

  “That’s the plan,” he said. He pulled his hand back inside the sleeve of his overcoat and reached out for the doll again.

  It slid backward on the shelf, still giggling.

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked.

  Stone forced himself not to whirl around—that would look too suspicious. Instead, he turned slowly to find Teresa staring at him, frowning. “Just getting a better look at this little doll,” he said.

  “I think it’s creepy,” Teresa said. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It’s like it watches me. But Elena freaks out if anybody tries to move it.”

  “Here we are,” Yolanda said, coming back into the room bearing two plates. She handed one to Stone and the other to Teresa. Behind her, Elena and Jake each had their own plate. Yolanda said something else in Spanish to Stone, beaming.

  Jake offered him a mug of steaming hot chocolate. “She says she knew you couldn’t resist.”

  “Thank you so much,” Stone said. “Gracias. You’re all very kind.” Up close, the pair of corn husk-wrapped tamales smelled irresistible—far better than the pizza he’d been planning to order.

  “He thinks that doll thing is creepy too,” Teresa announced through a mouthful. “You should throw it away, Elena. It’s nasty.”

  “Not gonna,” Elena stated, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her thin chest. “Sanna gave me it. He won’t know what to bring us if I th’ow it away.”

  An idea struck Stone. “I’ll bet he does,” he said. “He told me, you know.”