“So, let me get this straight,” Paul said as he stirred his coffee. “After we left, you called the police to report that someone stole Santa Bear’s clothes?”

“You know the entire police department thinks you’re a teddy bear rapist, right?” Eric phrased it like a question, but it was more of a statement. “They’ll have a file on you now. Whenever there’s a stuffed animal crime committed, they’ll come knocking on your door first.”

“Or...” Paul interjected with slightly more optimism, “they’ll come to you for advice when they want to get inside the mind of a real demented lunatic. Like when the FBI goes to Hannibal Lector for clues on how to catch a serial killer. Have the stuffed lambs stopped screaming yet, Max?”

I wasn’t exactly sure why I had texted these two about last night. I supposed that, with Beth out of town, I desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, about the craziness I experienced. In retrospect, this pair should not have been included within my generalized anyone. But the damage was done. Here they were and I had already relayed every detail of the almond-related chicanery to them.

“There’s no way his clothes just disappeared,” I defended myself. “I found the scissors. And it definitely happened after you two had left.”

“Look, we all know you hate Santa Bear. You probably had too many drinks last night and don’t remember venting your weirdly misguided rage out on it,” Paul said.

Eric shook his head. “I disagree.”

For a moment I wanted to thank Eric for standing up for me, but I knew there was a dig coming. I crossed my arms and waited for it.

“I don’t think Max would so convincingly win a drunken brawl with a teddy bear.” Insult completed Eric sat back smugly in his chair.

I pulled the almond note from my pocket and set it on the counter. “What about this? The number changed on it. I swear it did.”

Paul studied the note with a series of squints of alternating widths. “It does say ninety-eight. I don’t think it’ll replace six-six-six in the Satanic vernacular anytime soon, but it does have a slightly spooky je ne sais quoi to it.”

Eric gave it barely a cursory glance. “Creepiest little note I’ve ever seen.”

I had to admit that looking at all my pieces of evidence individually didn’t paint the scariest of pictures. “What about the almonds in the Christmas boxes? Or the ornaments? There’s no way that Beth would have had time for all that.”

Suddenly Paul slapped his hand on the counter, his face brightening with some kind of eureka moment. “The squirrels!”

“The squirrels?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you still feuding with the squirrels in the attic? They’ve found a way in and they’re storing nuts around your house for the winter.”

I wanted to spit some sarcasm his way, but his theory sounded better than my theory since mine didn’t exist. “But how does that account for Santa Bear?”

“It doesn’t. Not. One. Bit.” He tapped his finger hard on the counter with each word.

Now Eric had an idea. “I bet it’s a combination of squirrels and Beth. She sets up this weird, seemingly pointless scavenger hunt by hiding almonds all over the place. This, in turn, attracts the squirrels...who then assault the teddy bear...and write notes...” his voice lost some steam at the end until it trailed away completely.

I sighed. While his idea was at the very least plausible, I still didn’t understand how the rodents could run around the house without my noticing. At times, they made a hell of a racket in the attic, scrambling up the beams, across the roof, and in the gutters. There’s no way they could zip around on the hardwood floors and not have me hear them.

Hear them.

It dawned on me then that I hadn’t heard the squirrels recently. I couldn’t remember them making a peep since the morning after the almond arrived. This was unusual as they were always active during the day. “Now that you guys mention it, they’ve been pretty quiet lately.”

“Probably because they’re all happily fat and lazy from chowing almonds,” Paul said. “I bet if you go up there right now and peek around, you’ll find a whole stash.”

I glanced upwards instinctively as if I could see through the ceiling. “Nah, I’ll wait until you guys leave.”

“Nope. Get it done now. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have someone here with you when you solve the mystery?” Paul asked.

“Be realistic. If it’s not the squirrels and there really is some serial killer in your attic, we’ll be able to hear your screams and...do something, I guess. Probably wouldn’t be able to save you, but we could at least be on the local news later.” Eric shrugged.

“He’s right,” Paul said. “I saw a movie once where this creepy little Gollum kind of dude would hide in people’s houses and mess with them until he drove them mad.”

These two were certainly doing my imagination no good at all. But they had a point. At least they’d be here if something did go wrong in the attic.

I lugged my folding ladder in from the garage and huffed and puffed it up the stairs to the second floor. “You’re the biggest guy here,” I said to Eric as I struggled, “Why don’t you carry it for me?”

“Because if I make you carry the heavy things then maybe you’ll be big and strong like me someday. I don’t help because I care.”

With the ladder set up, I headed to the laundry room for a flashlight. When I clicked the button, nothing happened. I tried again after several slaps into my palm. Nothing. The batteries were dead.

Ah shit.

I had only one other light in the house to take into the attic and it was attached to the miners’ helmet of my Squirrel Combat Outfit. The day just kept getting better and better. Now I had to wear it in front of the guys. It might be better to resort to lit matches for illumination than to listen to them for the rest of my life.

They were waiting at the ladder when I marched up the steps with my mining helmet on. The jokes didn’t fly right away as they seemed to need time to process my surprising chapeau. Neither said anything until I slowly reached up and clicked on the lamp. At that, both immediately burst into laughter.

“Shut up. It works.”

“You have a special attic hat? Oh man, if I’m right about the squirrels then you have to wear that out to the bars next time we go,” Paul said.

Eric disagreed. “If you ever wear that in public, I’ll punch you.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle along as I ascended the ladder, pushed up the hatch, and slid it aside. A cold wave of air washed down. I stuck my head in, just enough to shine the light around before I hauled myself up.

“Remember,” Paul called out, “squirrels respond to dominance. Be stern with them. You’re the boss.”

Somehow I didn’t feel in charge.

I hated our attic. It was unfinished. No heat. No lights. No flooring. Just cold blackness with a carpet-like layer of rolled-out pink insulation that wouldn’t support the weight of anything heavier than...well, a squirrel. The hatch opened into the middle, and from it, running to both ends was a wooden beam about six inches wide. Crisscrossing it every few feet were additional beams that ran to the edges of the roof. The purpose of this was to provide limited, pain-in-the-ass access to every part of the attic. It very much reminded me of a spine and ribcage for the house.

I stood up on the rim of the hatch and panned my headlamp around. The antique light beam wasn’t so much strong as it was wide, so while it illuminated a broad swath in front of me, it didn’t extend very far. Holding the exposed rafters above me for balance I began tightrope-walking my way across the attic.

I headed first to my left and found nothing. It wasn’t unusual for me to never see the squirrels during my attic invasions. They’d always hear me coming and escape through their secretly chewed holes.

I turned and went the other way, which took me over our bedroom. As my light swept to my right, I caught sight of a fluffy grey tail. Ah, there they are.

Except it wasn’t moving.

I inched a little closer, just enough to extend my halo of light. It was definitely a squirrel tail. Only, it was just a tail. Attached to nothing.

My stomach soured, but I took a few more tightrope steps. The light extended to what appeared to be the hind leg of a squirrel. Also attached to nothing. The insulation it lay on was stained a darker red, like cherry cotton candy.

From there it just got worse—more bits and pieces of blood-stained furry clumps, scattered about. Not a single intact animal was to be found. Finally, my headlamp illuminated a squirrel head, severed at the neck, mouth open in a silent rodent scream (or squeal, I guess). Then another head. And another.

This was enough for me. I started to tightrope my way backward, not wanting to take my eyes off the carnage, lest whatever did it emerge from the shadows when I turned my back. This proved to be a mistake as my left foot missed the beam, sank straight through the insulation, and then punched through the downstairs ceiling with a crack.

I was half-sitting/half-clinging on the beam at that point, my left leg stuck as firmly (probably dangling comically from the bedroom ceiling) as if I had stepped into a bear trap. All around me were the remains of my former squirrel enemies. Something had slaughtered the lot of them, with nary a sound, and, judging from the number of body parts, with no survivors. My light didn’t penetrate the corners of the attic. Whatever wrecked this carnage could easily still be up here with me.

So, with little regard for my masculinity, bravery, or dignity, I started screaming for the guys.