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Changing Lives Press

www.changinglivespress.com

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, displayed, performed, scanned, uploaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted or otherwise used in any way, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, photo editing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publisher, Changing Lives Press, in each instance.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-1-73225-840-2
eISBN: 978-1-73225-844-0

I greatly appreciate the editorial assistance of Angelle Pilkington, Toby Osborne, Bill Bailey, and Donna Passmore who never ceases to amaze me.

Cover Art by Tobin Pilotte

Printed & bound in the United States of America.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Donna, Starr, Jackie, Skye, Grant, Diane, Mom & Dad, Grimp, Ellory, Junie, Ines, Ondine, and grandkids to come. Thanks for listening to the story about S2 and Red Stockings every Christmas until we got it right. Your belief in me has helped create wonder and magic.

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

I know from experience that kids 8–10 years old begin doubting the existence of Santa Claus. When I was that age, I calculated that he would have to visit millions of households per hour worldwide to deliver his bag of treasure, which is highly unlikely. My parents assured me that Santa magic trumps logic, appeasing my curiosity until I learned a great secret. You see, Santa resides in both fantasy and reality—alive for kid believers but also for grown-ups with golden hearts. Yes, S1—real Santa—exists, and the old boy still works odd hours. I know this since I’m an S2. Puzzled? For the first time ever, inspired by real events from my past, the Santa game is explained in one adventurous story that will gratify kids 9–90. With millions of players globally, each an important cog, it’s all about giving and creating wonder. If you open your heart and mind to it, Santa Magic will reach out and tap you on the shoulder when you least expect it. Long live the S-Game!

—Ace Passmore, S2

“As empires rise and fall,

St. Nick survives them all.”

—MR. ROY MABREY, S2 ROYALE

“Good sparks good …”

—WAHOO JAMES, S2

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

“Hunk of junk!” I snapped while brushing snow from the seat of my clunker bike and shaking frozen gunk from the frame. But what could I expect from an old rust bucket anyway?

“See ya, Bub, stay outta trouble!” my zany friend Sean called out as he climbed into his mom’s flashy SUV. I usually waited until everyone had exited the carpool line to claim my lame two-wheel ride, but it was too cold today. Nodding good-bye to Sean, I yelled, “Only if you do!” As the vehicle pulled away, I couldn’t help noticing the stack of presents visible through the back window. Only two weeks until Christmas—Sean was hitting the jackpot again, lucky guy.

I pushed my squeaky wheels past the line of cars and out of sight to the rear parking lot, laughing to myself on the way. Maybe Santa would bring me a brand-new bike for Christmas. Then Tooth Fairy would deliver a cell phone for my twelfth birthday on New Year’s Eve. And to top it off, Easter Bunny would materialize a new flat-screen TV in my basket. Yeah, right.

I’d just started pedaling when I heard my kid brother Chad holler, “Hey, wait up, Bub!” Chad’s green eyes sparkled under his beanie as he trudged through the fresh snow.

As I waited, a pimpled punk named Jake flipped snow in my face and smirked … bummer. Back then it was the story of my life. If only I’d been a superhero, but no such luck.

“What’s up, bro?” I asked Chad, just a fourth grader who usually took the bus home.

“Missed the bus, darn it!” he said, grinning like a clown. I shook my head and smiled. Chad had been nagging Mom forever to let him walk home with me, but she figured he was too young. The kid didn’t even have a clunker bike to call his own.

“Dare to ride the handlebars?” I asked.

“Nah. Those rusty bars won’t hold a mouse,” Chad shot back.

“What? You doubt my metal marvel?” I playfully kicked his boot, then began pedaling to match his slow pace.

The snow under my tires crunched like dry cereal as we started for home. Old Man Winter was in a grumpy mood that year and had punished our town with heavy snow. Despite dressing warmly, my fingers and toes were frozen pipes. The streets were practically empty, most everyone indoors and warm by the fire. Not even four o’clock, but already the sun was sliding behind a patch of brooding storm clouds on the horizon.

We made our way down Main Street, past Yellow Flower Loop, and up Carson Street toward the train tracks, my bike squeaking and creaking every inch of the way. The only thing louder than the groaning frame was the raucous barking of Bugsy, the mongrel who guarded Rex’s Auto Salvage. He wasn’t that big, but his feistiness made up for size.

Chad slowed to a crawl as we neared the growling dog.

“Worried about that old mutt?” I asked, trying to stay cool. Usually I rode past here faster than greased lightning. Bugsy was renowned for his filthy fur, halo of flies, and dose of attitude.

“Can’t we go another way?” Chad pleaded, now trembling as he adjusted his backpack.

“Might be too late for that,” I answered. We could see Bugsy trailing along his side of the fence, barking fiercely and jumping up on hind legs. His sharp teeth dripping with saliva, he curled his lip with a menacing growl, then backed up ready to clear the fence in one leap.

I could hear my heart beating in my ears … decision time. “Make a run for it, Chad,” I ordered. “I’ll distract Bugsy!” Chad was halfway down the block before I could finish my sentence. Thanks a lot, brother. As if ready to attack, Bugsy let out a warning yelp, then leaped the fence like an Olympian—a stinky, dirty one.

“Come and get me, fur face!” I yelled. Pedaling hard, I made a sharp left, spraying Bugsy with dirty slush. Wrong move.

The beast rose to the challenge—our road race was on! Pounding paws slipped and slid behind me. Would I make it home or end up chilled roadkill?

“Faster!” I urged. Pedal, pedal, pedal … bike, don’t fail me now. Then, as if on cue, I heard a ping—a spoke popped out on my back tire—followed by a terrible rattle. Really? My bike was ready to quit so soon? I wanted to toss it over the fence and let it rust in the salvage yard. But Bugsy was almost nipping at my heels, his sewer breath enough to gag a maggot.

I thought about circling around to give Chad a bigger lead, but with a rattling bike, I had to change course to slow Bugsy down. Luckily, the road ran alongside woods with a twisty stream cutting through it. All of the older kids biked below in the summer and launched over the water using an ancient wooden ramp. If I could make it across, I’d leave Bugsy panting on this side with my house only a shortcut away on the other side.

Yes!

Without a second thought, I swerved off-road and down a slippery hill toward the tree line. It was slicker than expected, and snow was getting stuck between my remaining spokes. I heard another ping as a second spoke bit the dust. What else could go wrong?

I pedaled faster and stole a look over my shoulder. Bugsy with his short legs was struggling with deep snow, until we were beneath tree branches sheltering us like white umbrellas. Less than a bicycle-length apart now, I was sucking air and blowing fog while Bugsy wheezed like a bad accordion. Suddenly, there it was—the river.

And the ramp too, looking ricketier than ever, but no turning back now. As the barking machine edged closer, I plowed forward with my bike screeching in protest. I felt my first tire go up the incline, then the back tire, and I was airborne … cold as a witch’s nose.

The blanket of snow on the opposite riverbank cushioned my landing, the impact costing more spokes. As the chassis emitted another groan, I glanced back to see Bugsy skidding to a halt, staring in disbelief. He’d never seen a flying bike before. “Later, dirtball!” I shouted.

Jubilant, I chuckled as the snorting dog trotted up the riverbank. What a sore loser.

Pulling my hat down lower over my crew cut and iceberg ears, I turned toward home. Just as I began to pedal again, a distant snarl riveted me. Upstream, my new worst enemy was speeding across a fallen tree that spanned the water—a makeshift bridge. What?!

Was Bugsy a junkyard dog or a mastermind mutt? And he was grinning, not a good sign.

We were off again! I put the pedal to the metal, but within a minute he had nearly caught up, his four paws working better on uneven ground than my two half-flat tires. One vicious nip grazed my jean pocket and spurred me on. As I reached the edge of the woods, an imposing tree came into view. My oak tree. My front yard.

Home.

With a last desperate push, I propelled my old bike into the yard, jumped off, crunched over the icy grass, and scrambled up the homemade ladder nailed to the big oak. At the top, I eased onto my favorite branch and panted, trying to catch my breath in the frigid air.

Peering down, I started taunting Bugsy who was leaping and barking in rage.

“Bub! You made it!” Chad yelled from the front porch, then scooted into the house.

Instantly, my dad, Ron, shot out of the side door and limped fast, waving his crutches at my attacker. “Shoo! Out of here!” One crutch gently prodded Bugsy who got the message.

As he padded away, Bugsy sniffed over my bike—recognizing junk—and delivered the final insult. Lifting his leg, he piddled right on the handlebars.

Despicable dog! I burned for revenge.

“Come on down, Bub—safe now,” Dad urged.

“Thanks, Dad!” I exclaimed, watching Bugsy disappear from sight.

“No problem.” He squinted and pointed to my upper lip. “Growing more peach fuzz, son?”

“Dad, please!” I said, horrified. “You’ve reminded me ten million times. At least.”

“That’s a lot. Okay, Bub, sorry. Anyway, Chad said Bugsy’s big as a wolf. He’s just a runt.”

“Well, maybe he exaggerated some … family trait, as you say.”

Dad grinned as I descended fast and, sidestepping yellow snow, kicked my clunker on the way over to him. “Sir, my bike’s busted bad. Can I please get a new one for Christmas? I really need it—not an exaggeration.”

Dad clenched his jaw. “Bub, uh … actually … we need to discuss that over the weekend. Christmas might be a little different this year.”

That’s when Chad reappeared on the front porch and started heaving snowballs! Dad and I retaliated before he waved us inside where Mom cheerily greeted us.

It turned out that my father was correct—this Christmas would be different. But as I entered our warm, modest home, I had no inkling that one of us would soon face a danger far beyond Bugsy … not to mention unravel a great mystery, confront a ghost, and help create magic.

Me.

But I’m jumping way ahead of myself. …

CHAPTER 1

In case anyone doubted Christmas was around the corner, that Sunday Mom put out seasonal plates decorated with cartoony reindeer pulling Santa around on his sleigh. In my opinion, it was fantasy overload.

“Hello, aren’t we a bit old for those, Mom?” I said while cracking my knuckles. I was almost twelve, waaay past believing a red-suited chubby guy circles the globe without GPS or oxygen, delivering tons of toys in a single day. Why did parents keep up the charade year after year?

As Mom set down the last plate in front of herself, she replied: “Well, don’t inspect it, just eat from it. We don’t live in a museum, you know.” She was more frazzled than usual, her frizzy hair standing on end like she’d received another shock from our erratic toaster.

“I like ’em,” Chad said, trying to crack his knuckles too. “Feels like Santa’s on his way.”

Mom smiled and pecked Chad’s forehead. “Wash your hands, boys, and no more knuckles.”

St. Nick and his antlered friends were soon smothered by a plop of meatloaf with a side of veggies. As usual, Dad led the conversation. “So, Chad, how was your class holiday party?” Chad launched into a looong story as my mind wandered while pushing carrots around.

In the distance, Dad’s words barely registered. “Eat your carrots, guys, good for vision. You never see a rabbit wearing glasses.” I ignored his drab stab at humor, lost inside my own world.

Me with Sean and the gang at the ramp by the river. Awesome summer day, me on my gleaming custom red Schwinn bike, jumping off the ramp and doing a perfect 360 over the river. All the girls swooning—

“Young man, are you daydreaming again?”

I snapped to attention. “Sorry, Dad. What’s up?”

Dad leaned back in his chair, drawing in a deep breath. With hands behind his balding head, he shifted his broken leg until the plaster cast peeked out from under the table. “It’s important to know we’re having a lean Christmas this year.”

I glanced over at Chad. When had he finished the story about his class party? My little brother’s usually bright face—resting beneath a mop of scruffy, sandy hair—dimmed like a broken light bulb. “How lean?” I asked, imagining a slightly less shiny Schwinn.

“Scanty, I suppose, is the right word.”

“What does ‘scanty’ mean?” Chad asked.

“It, um, means we need to tighten our belts,” Dad said with a wince as he bent over and tried to scratch his leg through the cast. “Since I lost my job at the plant—you know, after the auto accident—we haven’t saved much money. We’re down but not out.”

“So, no new bike for me?” I asked, trying not to frown.

Mom sighed as she messed with her hair, surprisingly finding a pencil amid the tangled curls. “You know I’ve been working two jobs to make ends meet until Dad heals up. I just wish it were enough … for a special Christmas.” Her eyes moistened while Dad stared hard at the salt shaker on the table. We all hated to see Mom sad.

“But,” Chad piped in, trying to stay upbeat, “there’ll still be Santa gifts, right?”

Mom barely nodded and rubbed her nose. Dad kept staring down the shaker. Chad turned to me to fill the void, but I was finding salt fascinating too.

Dad came to life. “We still have a little money stashed away.” He meant in the tin box inside a kitchen drawer, labeled: Property Ron & Chris Olney. They called it the Kitchen Kitty, but it was really just whatever remained after bills and groceries were paid. Dad cleared his throat. “Although, with me laid up now and who knows what medical costs might arise, we really need to—”

“Be scanty?” I interrupted, aware of my last “Kitty peek” showing a mere $400.

Dad nodded sheepishly, staring at his leg like it was a curse.

“Guess I’ll be waiting another century for a new bike,” I grumbled, rising from the dinner table. “May I be excused?”

“Me too,” said Chad.

Mom nodded. “Clear your plates.”

My parents sat at the table, exchanging awkward looks, their nightly ritual for months. I had to escape the dungeon, go stretch my legs. Chad needed it too … poor guy. He was only ten—and just barely.

“Can we walk down to Grant’s?” Maybe drooling over the stock in the bike shop’s window would pep up Chad. Besides, easy access to Main Street was the only perk of living in this old part of town instead of newer areas like most of my schoolmates.

Dad checked his watch. “Stay on familiar streets, back by dusk, no talking to strangers. Love you guys.”

I nodded to Chad, who seemed happy to be taking a stroll with his big bro. After decking ourselves out in full winter garb, we charged out the holiday-adorned door into the white swirls of a snow flurry.

Mom and Dad stood in the doorway, watching us leave, holding hands … their usual.

Chad was short and chunky, while I was tall and wiry. After a quick dusting from the elements, we were transformed into an odd pair of snowmen who’d just sprung to life, cruising down the street. “Real bummer about Christmas, huh?” I nudged Chad.

“Yeah, but Santa will visit. Always does.”

“Well, this year don’t expect anything with a big bow on it.” I wanted to say more but bit my tongue.

Chad pouted while gazing back at the long line of decorated, unlit street lamps. “It’s not fair,” he finally said.

I couldn’t argue.

At that moment, we passed a fancy house with a huge Christmas tree in the window—twinkling lights, glass ornaments, silver angel on top … glorious. Our tree at home was a Thrift-Mart model, only four feet tall, with spindly, fake branches … no comment.

“Sometimes, I wish we were rich,” Chad lamented while shivering.

“Yeah, well, money’s not everything,” I lied. “Maybe if we stare through the window at Grant’s long enough, he’ll take pity and gift us bikes to ride into the sunset,” I said with a wink, trying to cheer him up.

Just as Chad cracked a grin, I heard the strangest sound coming from a large, red building across the avenue. Two street lamps in front were broken, adding to the mystery of the clunking, grinding noise.

“What’s that place?” I murmured, realizing I’d never noticed it before, though I’d walked the route many times. Most buildings in this part of town were old and quaint, but this was a gigantic warehouse with dozens of dark windows. Like the eyes of a spider, they all seemed to stare right at me! The hairs on the nape of my neck stood up.

Chad shook his head and continued strolling the last block to Main Street alone, as if nothing were amiss. But how could I not have spotted the hulking warehouse before? And that sound—much louder than the factory Dad used to work at. Concrete grating against concrete? Giant cogs turning? Then a heavy thud, followed by silence again.

“Hey, wait up, buddy!” I called to Chad, almost at the end of the block. Glancing back, I noticed a sign on the wrought-iron gate in front of the building: RSS, Inc. I shrugged at the meaning of the letters, just as mystifying as the shadowy structure itself.

Next was Clarke’s Department Store, its big show windows lit with Christmas-themed displays … including Santa with elves, merry mannequins decorating trees, and skiers racing down an Alpine hill. How many wide-eyed window shoppers, including Olney clan, had stood here captivated in the past?

When I caught up with Chad, he was firmly planted in front of Grant’s Bike Boutique. On Sundays, Main Street resembled a ghost town, no shoppers in sight. We were the only ones crazy enough to traipse around that day.

Suddenly, the sound of boots crunching through snow interrupted. I turned, but we were all alone—my imagination? Chad was standing still, fogging up Grant’s window glass as he gawked at the colorful bikes inside. All were mechanical marvels—bells and mirrors attached to sturdy handlebars; rich leather seats atop shiny, triangular frames; and plump tires with unworn treads. I, however, only had eyes for one: my dream machine, on display, front and center.

“There she is …” I whispered in awe, my heart pounding. The Schwinn Crimson Crusher mountain bike, price tag $500—one for the ages. It was a custom model, not available online or anywhere else. Medium shade of red, sleek lines, aluminum frame, shiny as a new coin, with gleaming spokes and a 24-speed drivetrain. The polar opposite of my rusty and decrepit clunker. “She will be mine,” I vowed, realizing its price likely exceeded our family savings.

Chad laughed. “In your dreams. Hey, I want that one too.”

“No way!” I snapped back. “It’s too big for you. The Crusher’s my destiny. I’ll make sweet jumps and leave Bugsy in the dust.”

Chad shrugged as his eyes roamed to a bright blue bike in the corner. “Fine, keep your pink bike. I’ll take that smaller blue one.”

“You’re blind as a bat. Mine’s crimson, not pink. Besides, who cares what color it is? Just look at her … total perfection.” My eyes glazed as I studied every inch of the frame—not a thing I would’ve changed except the price. But Chad was right; it was only a dream.

Keeping tabs on the sneaky sunset, again I had the feeling someone was watching. Out of the corner of my eye, had I glimpsed the ghostly reflection of a petite, spike-haired girl? I spun around to find us still alone on Main Street, except for store window mannequins and a Santa figure dangling above.

Strange.

“Let’s get going, close to dusk,” I said with chattering teeth, wrapping my arms around my chest, both cold and spooked.

“Can’t we check the window display at Toby’s Toys?” Chad asked hopefully. “Best marbles around, especially thumpers. Please!”

“Negatory. We’ve teased ourselves enough for one day.”

“You really think we’ll get zilch for Christmas this year, Bub? Mom and Dad always kid about misbehaving—lumps of coal—but now I think they’re serious.”

“Don’t worry, shrimp. I’ll donate my baseball mitt. Too small for me anyway.”

Chad crumpled up his nose. “Why would I want that stinky, old thing?”

Pulling my brother into a playful headlock, I turned him around to face the way home. Scanning the route ahead, I saw a chain of lampposts lighting up—one after another—except for a dark patch in front of the RSS building.

In the movies, scary music would be playing and girls screaming.

“Do you hear that scraping sound?” I asked, straining my ears to detect those noises again.

“Maybe it’s Santa’s sleigh landing on a rooftop?” Chad said—still dreaming, still believing.

Exhaling frosty fog, I shook my head. “If so, he’s scouting a bit early. C’mon, I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”

As we hustled back along the road, the warehouse delivered a parting shot: another loud thud. Obviously, something peculiar was going down.

Then I spotted a clue. Attached to the front roof was a small, circular sign rotating slowly, back and forth. The sign was emblazoned with two legs—one red and one black—crossing each other like a pair of swords on a big coat of arms.

But the feet didn’t have toes; instead they were rounded like a pair of long socks. That’s when it struck me: These were old-fashioned stockings. And as the sign spun one way, the stockings got smaller and smaller … before spinning opposite when they enlarged again. A perfect illusion—hypnotic—and I stared a moment before breaking away.

Arriving home minutes later, we stripped off our gear and warmed up by the fire. Dad hobbled in and asked us about the bikes, and Chad described his new favorite, the Blue Beast. I kept on nodding, but I wasn’t really tuned in.

As I gazed into the flickering flames, my head kept replaying the crunching of snow and the image of a girl reflected in the shop window. And that intriguing warehouse with its frightening sound effects. The stuff of nightmares, yet I was drawn to it like steel to a magnet.

CHAPTER 2