Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel Read Free Page A

they weren’t rushing it. Or me. They were fleeing from something that was coming in this direction.
    “Twinkle! Get up!” I shouted.
    “I’m . . .
trying!”
    While the elf fought his way out from beneath the squealing children who were scrambling over his prone form, I rose to my feet, stood on the throne, and peered over the heads of the chaotic crowd, trying to see what had incited the mob to this hysteria.
    Whatever I had expected to see (a raging fire? armed robbers? a pack of wild hunting poodles?), I was unprepared for the alarming spectacle that met my gaze. “Good God!”
    My friend Satsy (aka Saturated Fats, a cabaret performer), known at Fenster’s as Drag Queen Santa, was racing toward this spot as if his life depended on it, arms outspread, screaming in terror, his Santa costume torn, singed, and smoking sinisterly. Although Satsy’s ultra-long, glittery purple eyelashes were still in place, his usually glamorous eye makeup was smeared and running, making him look like some sort of goth monster—especially with his white Santa beard sticking out sideways from his head and flapping madly as he ran. Given that Satsy was a large man—tall and heavyset—his overall appearance was terrifying, at the moment, as was his screaming sprint straight in this direction.
    No
wonder
kids at the back of the crowd had gone berserk and started the stampede. If I were six years old, I’d be fleeing in terror now, too.
    I supposed the adults could also be forgiven their reaction, considering the stress already inflicted on them by the season of joy. The sudden screeching arrival of Lunatic Monster Santa had probably just been the tipping point for them.
    I jumped up and down on the throne as I shouted, “Satsy! Satsy!”
    Much of the shrieking crowd had vacated the area by the time my friend reached this spot. I saw that he was soaked with sweat, which probably explained why his makeup was running and his Santa beard had come unglued. He was panting so heavily he couldn’t speak—but also, thank goodness, couldn’t keep screaming. As I stood on the throne, staring at him in dumbfounded alarm, he sank to his knees before me, his head bowed as he wheezed and gulped in air.
    “What’s going on here?” Miles demanded, pushing his way past the last of the stampeding throng. “And why is Santa worshipping that elf?”
    I glanced at Miles and realized he meant me.
    Twinkle pulled himself together and started crawling toward me and Satsy, his glasses crazily askew, his pointed elf ears and stocking cap lying trampled on the floor behind him. “That was the second scariest experience of my life,” he said in a shaky voice. “My entire life!”
    I hopped off the throne and knelt beside Satsy, helping him turn around and slump into a sitting position with his back supported by the chair. I patted his smoking red costume, making sure no part of it was on fire. There were singed bits and scorch marks, but Satsy didn’t seem to be burned. Meanwhile, Miles shrilly demanded explanations, which none of us were in any condition to provide. And Twinkle, babbling nervously in the aftermath of mortal terror, was recounting the
scariest
experience of his life, which seemed to involve a fantasy role-playing game and an angry alpaca farmer—but I wasn’t really paying attention.
    Satsy was still sweating and hyperventilating, Miles still demanding explanations, and Twinkle still babbling when Candycane joined us. She saw Satsy and gave a startled shriek, then realized he wasn’t a grotesque monster, but just a very disheveled Drag Queen Santa.
    “What the
fuck?”
said the dainty elf.
    “
That
is a warning offense,” Miles snapped, pointing an accusing finger at her. Profanity was strictly forbidden on the floor. “This is going on your record, Candycane.”
    Candycane looked worried, since this was her second warning. Official warnings could go on your record at Fenster’s for a myriad of petty offenses, and store policy