Rennzenstein

To the ordinary American man, a stop at Uncle Abe’s Christmas Tree Lot was nothing more than a rite of passage to welcome in the winter season for him and his family. To Bill Helpson, it was a meticulous and considerably more calculated decision than that. Bill’s longtime acquaintance, Abe Richards, had owned and operated the lot seasonally since the mid-1980s and wanted nothing more than to bring a little holiday season and Christmas cheer to the homes of the surrounding Biloxi, Mississippi area. Most of the local casinos had sold out and began purchasing artificial trees, but for the everyday residents of the area, there was a bit of a reluctance to adapt to the faux tree model.

​Bill scanned the tree lot several times, deliberating on which tree to select for the year. It was undoubtedly the most “excessively unnecessary” purchase of the season each year that he and Kim would pay for on their shoestring budget. Half of the trees were under a primarily enclosed, white and red tent, while the other half were setup just outside of it. The lot was located just north of US Highway 90 on the western side of town. Neither Bill nor Abe appreciated the all gravel parking lot immediately adjacent to the lot. The Gulf Coast wind would regularly breeze with gusts that would pick up the dust and throw it carelessly at the trees. This, of course, was further compounded by the stupid, redneck-driven 4x4 pickup trucks that would rush into the lot or peel out of it in an effort to try and impress their “soon to be exes.”

Abe and Bill had progressively gained a certain mutual respect for one another after years of Bill’s patronage. It was November 28th, and by his exact calculations, there were 96 trees on the lot. He didn’t know how frequently that Abe would restock the lot or from where the trees were sourced, but it hadn’t really mattered to him up to this point. His reason for pickiness was all about the size and aesthetics. His 240 square foot living room did not have a lot of wiggle room with the existing furniture setup, and he knew that his at-times, overbearing wife, Kimberly, would be quick to unload on him if he chose incorrectly. He walked up and down the aisles of the lot several times, examining each one and trying to make a decision. Abe was precise; Eight rows of eight trees inside the tent, and three rows of eight trees just outside of it. Much like a grocery store would do with bread, he tried to stack the trees that were the worst looking closest to the front to try and clear them off of the lot as soon as possible. There were plenty of “Joes,” “Dicks,” and “Rons” that would come to the lot in a hurry and in typical “man-brain” mode would just grab the first tree in sight. For most of them, it was just another task to check off the list.

Nonetheless, Bill watched as a handful of them carelessly flew into the lot, picked up a tree, and only occasionally took the time to properly tie it down. Most of the time, they were recklesly tossing it in the back of their beat-up pickup. Of course this was a perfect way to complement the empty beer cans that would slide up and down in the grooves of the scuffed and scratched truck beds as they cruised down the highway and through town. Bill often wondered about the logic of these types. Did they knowingly leave this kind of garbage in there to make their old-lady mad? Or, did they even have an old lady anymore? By his own estimation, most of them were quite likely the type to quickly grab food stamps, throw everything else towards child-support, and magically live on some kind of “all beer” diet. He couldn’t stand the thought of such inconsiderate actions, but alas, he was a man too, and he knew that in order to properly assimilate that he obligatorally had to pick up on all of the grunts, grumbles, and burps of all of the rest to fit in accordingly. It was almost a “switch” of sorts that he would flip on when the occasion merited the need. He wouldn’t always humor it. It was undoubtedly his own decision, and only his. He was a better man than most of these types. Or, at least, by his own estimation, he was. 

As Bill stared and studied the tree that he was deliberating on purchasing from Abe (for record’s sake, it was the fourth tree on the third row inside of the tent), he began to ponder and daydream about the bozo that flew into the lot in the red 4x4 Dodge pickup. Bill’s mind spoke loudly.“Not going to be a drunk like the rest of ‘em. Nope, not me. That’s not my scene. Who lives in the freaking Barq’s root beer capital of the world and spends it all on Flitz Beer? Only idiots like this guy over here. God only knows if he didn’t drink and drive himself over here anyhow. Should I say anything? I know…maybe, I should point him to one of the ugly ones that ‘ol Abe needs to get cleared out of here. That’d probably be the polite thing for me to do, right?” Bill called out to the man. “Hey, partner, saw a really nice looking tree on the front of the lot. It’s got your name on it.” Slurring his words and reeking of a stale can of Flitz, the man replied, “Oh…. really? My naaa…me?” Bill’s own voice going through his mind. “Just as I thought.” He speaks aloud.“Yes, sir. That one over there, three down on the second row there?” The man struggles to speak with clarity from his public intoxication. “Yo…u know………whaatttttt…. I b’lieeeeeeve ‘yer righttttt.” The man went over and picked up the tree and walked towards Abe who quickly gestured a thumbs up to Bill. Bill chuckled to himself. “I don’t even work here, and I just did that effortlessly. Gosh, I’m losing track of time. I had better pick ours out and hurry home before Kim gives me another lecture on time management. Yep, I’ll go for the fourth tree on the third row. That’ll do just fine.” He had spent a solid 90 minutes on the lot before coming to that conclusion. Maybe, he was intentionally killing time; maybe he wasn’t. Regardless of that fact, he knew that he had to yield results from his journey to please Kim accordingly.

…

If Abe Richards had approached collecting the trees that he would sell on his lot this year the same way that he always had, there would have been different and more favorable results at the close of the season. His usual supplier was his own brother-in-law, Dave Bilby. The two men had run into a bit of a falling out between one another and their wives last Christmas, all over a stupid game of “red-meat poker.b” It was a “Christmas-only” game that he and Dave had come up with after a long bender about six years earlier. The loser had to supply a cow and have it butchered, providing all of the meat to the winner. Abe had come out on top 4 of the last 5 years, but the previous year, Dave had pulled a crooked maneuver that gave him the competitive advantage by cheating with the use of mirrors and discrete little markings that he had made on the back of the playing cards. Dave’s wife, Jean, was unaware of her husband’s duplicitous maneuvers in the game, and truth be told, he never explained to her the main reason why Abe had become so angry. The conversation replayed over in Dave’s mind. “Abe’s just an angry drunk. He got a little carried away. Water under the bridge.” No. It couldn’t be that simple. Jean, however, never challenged it. Dave was a decent man. He’d take her down to Burger World every other Thursday for a chocolate milkshake and a Sloppy Single every chance that he could. He’d butter her up just the way that she wanted, with lots of sugar and plenty of flattering comments about how good she looked. There was no ulterior motive in Dave. There couldn’t be. Or, was there?

…

As he hurried home eastward down US Highway 90, Bill Helpson soaked in the sounds of the Gulf Coast waves crashing into the nearby shore. The windows were rolled down, and the screech of Steppenwolf pumped quite loudly through the halfway-working car stereo. He returned to their meager and generally uninteresting residence in the center of Violet Street. There wasn’t much to it-- Violet Street, that is. Eleven homes and a dilapidated trailer house, if you want to count that as a home. He hadn’t seen anyone living in it in ages, just the occasional drifter or teenage druggies that would find their way into the house to do illegal activities. By his recollection, they just went in there to spraypaint pentagrams and crookedly shaped renditions of green and yellow leaves of their favorite plant. Bill surmised that this must have only been as a result of their dimly-lit, pea-sized brains “using the dad-gum stuff.” This was the only rational thought that he could come up with. Yet, these “pea-brains” were convinced that everything they did was hilarious. Hagel Winnesby had once lived there, but that had been some thirty years ago or more. This was around the same time that he and Kim had moved in and purchased their place.

Their home must have been built in the 1950s. It was nothing more than a simple, dingy, white pier and beam home with a screened-in porch and a couple of white rocking chairs facing the street just within. Bill did not know the first thing about trimming hedges, and he rarely bothered. As a result, the property often looked unkempt and overgrown. Not only that, whatever idiot had decided to put the electric meter on the front of the house facing the street as compared to the back or the side must have been stoned out of their gourd.

He and Kim had tried to have the meter box relocated numerous times, but this was always to no avail. It was something about the way the power lines had to come across the street without causing a risk to the residents, and live wires being too low to the ground. Clearly, from his vantage point, it was some kind of ridiculous, legislative nonsense at the state level. Nobody bothered to use their driveways anymore, and there was not a single garage, attached or detached on the entire block. Everyone just parked in the front yard or in a poorly-kept, caliche ditch adjacent to the property. The sheer number of oil spots dripping into the grass and further damaging the always challenged soil just beneath it would have left most environmentalists having panic attacks around the clock. He pulled the red, aged and sunbaked, ‘98 Dodge Neon into the front yard parking spot with the Christmas tree wedged into its underwhelming and long-abused trunk. He saw Kim come out of the front door while concluding a call on the dated, cream-colored, cordless phone that should have long ago been retired. Neither of them were very technical, and they refused to modernize around the house very much. They owned one mobile phone, but only used it to place and receive calls, never anything more. It was a dated Nokia flip phone, with an all-monochrome screen, and a green backlight. Bill’s frequent conversations with BellSouth and their efforts at forcing him to upgrade the mobile phone were frustrating, but he always stiff-armed his way out, and somehow, miraculously, the now 15-year-old mobile phone still worked and held a charge for all of his and Kim’s simplistic needs. He’d only replaced the battery on it twice. Kim hung up the cordless phone and spoke to Bill. “So… that’s what you ended up with, huh? Let’s bring it in and see whether it’s worth any account. I got us some red-beet soup on the stove in there.” Bill scratched the back of his head and seemed agreeable “Okay, Kim. Sounds good. I hope you like it. I took a good bit of time trying to pick the right one.” They moved their small, tan, fabric-covered loveseat to the left a couple of feet and placed the tree in the aged and quiet, wood-paneled corner. Kim studied the tree and commented. “Well, it’ll do then. Thanks, Bill. I’ll get the ornaments.” She went into the kitchen and pulled out a large cardboard box that was full of holiday decorations that she’d made over the years. She’d made them with pinto beans, pieces of dilapidated wood that were falling off of the house which she’d hand paint, little twigs picked off of the poorly manicured hedges, and vintage Barq’s Root Beer bottle lids. She would even occasionally get creative with her empty Marlboro cigarette cartons and “gently” used cigarette filters. Yet, somehow, it was always perfect. The simplicity of it all left her and Bill charmed once the tree was decorated.

In their living room, they also had a 1989 19” Mitsubishi MGA television set purchased on their only credit card at the time, fully-equipped with the same bunny-ear television antenna, a free television converter box sent to them by the government, and a VCR/DVD player combo unit. The worst part was that the “picture” was sent down a poorly transmitted audio/video signal on an aged and worn coaxial cable that had long grown weary from the constant plugging and unplugging that they had to do with it. They had relented on the DVD player when Movie Town stopped carrying VHS tapes altogether. Truth be told, they mainly watched or re-watched movies made before the year 2000 because all of the gizmos and gadgets on anything after that point were just “annoying” to them, and the plot lines were often paper-thin compared to the glory days of film and television before the millennium. ​

The five-foot-eight, Douglas fir tree sat to the right of the television set, which Kim religiously kept on PBS all day, less the occasional movie rental night when they would splurge on a film or television show. This was only about once per paycheck. She and Bill had decorated the tree the previous night with her homemade decorations, carefully strung popcorn, and a few new additions for this year, which included a couple of playing cards on fishing line, collaged Barq’s Root Beer cans, and a picture of she and Bill taken on their old Polaroid the previous Christmas. The film choice while decorating was White Christmas, to which Bill silently protested. He simply didn’t care for Bing Crosby. He felt this was primarily because he didn’t relate to him or the story in the least bit. He chose his battles carefully with Kim. She had been in poor health for a few years prior to this point, and he didn’t want to do anything to exacerbate matters. They’d even shared a kiss under the mistletoe when film characters, Bob and Betty, declared their love for each other in spite of Bill’s growing disdain for what he deemed a “second-rate Christmas classic.” Bill was accustomed to the taste of the Marlboro and Barq’s that constantly lingered on Kim’s breath. Quite curiously, he had gotten to the point of almost liking the odd pairing. He had worked at the Coca-Cola/Barq’s bottling plant for several years in Gulfport, and perhaps the constant aroma of the much-beloved root beer was something that gave him some sort of solace or rest. He wasn’t quite sure the exact reasons why he felt this way but his endearment to Kim rarely wavered.

…

Abe went over to the rear portion of Dave’s Christmas Tree Farm quite late on the night before Thanksgiving. He knew that he needed to collect the trees from a spot that would be less noticed by Dave, so he went considerably further back from the main stretch of trees that seemed to be almost mathematically planted in parallel lines. It was more of a wooded area that had some Douglas Firs interspersed throughout it. Since it was quite dark outside, he could not make out what Dave had ever-so cautiously and creatively placed on the tops of the many trees that he would load into his moving truck. He began lifting each of them by the roots and taking them in truckloads via the property’s back entryway. This path was about one mile from Dave and Jean’s residence, and from Abe’s vantage point, they likely wouldn’t notice if he kept the headlights off.

Naturally, given the impending holiday season, Dave and Jean had been pondering earlier in the week on if Abe would swallow his pride to come and collect the trees, but from his own vantage point, he wasn’t the one with the problem, Dave, “the cheater” was.

…

Despite their trade, Dave and Jean were not much of a Christmas decorating sort of family. They typically sold trees to money-grubbing vendors and the occasional families that would actually make the long and arduous trek. These were the types that would head directly to the farm to pick out their own tree. (Their farm was in Oxford.) Dave had even invited the MSU American Heritage Arbor club out to the farm for research a few times over the years.

Despite a considerably well-liked and accepted public reputation, Dave was an extremely private man with many vulnerabilities. It was almost as if Satan himself were constantly tapping on his “temptation” button, and pinpointing the pressure point, and not relenting until Dave would cave and do something that he’d later regret. He’d been hiding the evidence for years. He never killed anyone, but his bizarre interests and vulnerabilities had led him to a peculiar hobby of overnight grave robbing to extract teeth and skulls for an abstract art project of sorts. He always buried the other parts of the skeletons and remains in the woods on the back of his and Jean’s property when he was “reportedly” traveling on business, making “connections” with prospective vendors, sellers, and other farmers to share industry knowledge and tips and remain networked. He hadn’t actually done much traveling in several years, but Jean never knew otherwise. In a strange ritual of sorts, he’d gotten into a rhythm where he would place the skulls on top of the Douglas Fir trees he had separately planted in the woods. He would thread the top of the tree through a small crack that he made in the occipital bone with his large flathead screwdriver and point their eye sockets toward the sky. He’d progressively worked this process down to an exact science. Just days before the Thanksgiving holiday, Dave had just completed his “100th” steal. He felt like he could call this intrinsically natural project complete, and once again, he would have a cure from the sleepless nights that he quite often faced. Two-hundred eye sockets facing the sky, with their remaining teeth threaded and glued carefully and sporadically placed on select branches, and of course, most importantly, that feeling of having a strange sort of relief from his internal struggles. It was not because of a particular part of his past that he needed to bury, so to speak, but rather, an important way to pass the time. Dave wasn’t fulfilled just by selling Christmas trees to vendors and hipster families anymore. He had to keep things more interesting. This had become his therapy, an original Mississippi artform, really. He had debated on if he should reveal this truth to Jean but had elected not to do so for fear of her ridicule or another thing to add to her growing distrust. For all he knew, she might have just turned him over to the authorities and had him thrown into the county lockup for his eccentric behaviors once she discovered it.

…

Dave awoke from a dream. It was quite late just one night before the trees would be unknowingly stolen from him. His mind was racing. He knew that Christmas trees in the earliest of their glory days were rooted in Germany, and subconsciously, he must have concocted the unique name for the “cursed Christmas trees.” They were indeed cursed because of the thing that he had done to them. It was unthinkable, connecting these long-rested, sin-stricken, lifeless skeletons of the past, with these beautiful, faultless, living things in the present. He didn’t know what their sins were, but they indeed were all guilty. This, he was sure of.  The word went through his mind with rapidity. “Rennzenstein. That’s it... Rennzenstein. Turning their heads to the heavens and again opening their eyes to the world beneath it. What a beautiful thing that I’ve done.” Though lying in bed, he felt a chill down his spine and a sinister sense of satisfaction burning within himself. He would go out and pay his respects to his masterpiece again; Jean’s sleeping pills were doubled down tonight after all, and that gave him an extra window of time and added comfort level to go out and admire his handiwork yet again in the still of the night.

…

As he arrived back to Uncle Abe’s Christmas Tree Lot, something inside of Bill still felt unsettled. He hadn’t slept well the previous night. It was almost as if the tree that he’d brought home were an unwelcome addition to Violet Street. Neither he nor Kim were feeling good about the Douglas fir anymore. Though neither of them had exchanged words about it, the tension between the pair had increased considerably with their shared cup of early morning coffee. Caffeine, though a source of anxiety for many, was certainly not that for the two of them. It seemed to have an unexpected, life-preserving quality to it. The way that it would put them into motion for the next day was long a habit that they shared with one another in their simple life. Each year just flying by and their bodies growing older, but not dead… yet. Certainly, for Kim, death lurked just outside the door as a result of her terminal illness. This reality wasn’t slowing her down to the point of a depression, though. She hid her fear well and rarely said much about her physical struggles to Bill, which seemed to offer both of them a much-needed respite. This was mainly as a result of the overbearing nature of Bill’s now-deceased father and his fixation with discussing medical ailments every waking hour of the days that he spent with them before his passing.   ...

Back at Uncle Abe’s lot again, Bill broke the silence as Abe sat engulfed in a trance looking at the sky, clearly pondering on something. “These are different, Abe. Did you get them somewhere else? I’ve been buying from you for years, and I can tell. They are different. Do you have a new supplier?” Abe shook his head aggravated. “Na…you must be mistaken. It’s the same supplier that it has always been, tree farm out of Oxford.” Bill was adamant. “I’m not so sure. I looked at those trees for over an hour yesterday and ended up having to settle on one. Usually, you always have a few REALLY good ones, and I can leave with confidence. I didn’t feel that way this go around.” Abe’s face got notably red. “Okay….then. ‘Mister particular’ about the Christmas trees, are you now? Why don’t you leave the Chrismas-tree business to the experts? I saw you trying to sell Jerry Buck one of the crummy trees out front.” Bill dished it back out. “Experts? Come on now, Abe. Don’t flatter yourself... That’s just it. There didn’t use to be so many crummy ones. I don’t think they were tended to or watered the way they needed to be while they were grown.” Abe was flustered beyond his limits. “They’re the same height and size. What’s the freaking difference?” Bill started to mellow out. “TLC. You know, tender love and care. No good, sober-minded tree farmer would sell such second-rate trees to you to sell to me.” Abe motioned with his finger. “Get off my lot, NOW. I don’t want to see you again.” Bill waved and began walking away as he spoke.“ Don’t you worry about that, Abe. I’ll be moving my business elsewhere in the years to follow. Like these trees long should have been, you’ll probably be dead within the year anyhow, old man.” He left the lot and used his dated mobile phone to call in sick to the bottling plant. He wasn’t feeling well after the heated exchange with Abe. From now on, it was just Abe. He certainly wouldn’t ever be “Uncle Abe” to Bill again.

…

Bill returned home to see his neighbor, Will Ragles, unloading a Christmas tree from the back of his black Nissan pickup truck. It was yet again, another second-rate tree. “Hey Will, what do you know?” “Oh, nada mucho. I’m just gonna take this tree in for Jill and see if I can get my lazy behind off the couch for more than one night a week again.” “Good luck with that. That must be from Uncle Abe’s. That crook is one mixed-up son of a gun this year.” “Oh, really? How do you figure?” “The trees. Doesn’t anyone pay attention? They aren’t any good this year. I tried to talk to that old geezer about the lackluster quality of ’em today, and he ran me right off of his lot.” “Oh, come on now, Bill. No offense whatsoever, buddy, but you know that you and Kim have always been a little “particular” about everything. I mean, EVERYTHING down to the angle that you want me to park my truck.” “Yeah. I guess your right. Maybe I’m just sleep-deprived. Good luck with Jill…and the tree.” Bill came inside. There was the sound of Charlie Rose, the familiar stench of Marlboro skinnies, and another coffee pot with filtered Barq’s Root Beer being consumed. Kim would regularly run a batch of the Mississippi-based Brew Brothers Coffee on top of two twelve-ounce cans of Barq’s. “What are you doing home, Bill? Thought you had to work.” “Called in sick. I didn’t sleep much.” “Yeah, me neither. What do you reckon is working on us? The croup?” “I don’t know, Kim. I’m not ready to offer any theories. I have a strange feeling, though. I think I need to lie down.” “Alright, go get a nap then. I’ll brew you some Sleeping Bear Chamomile tea to calm your nerves.

…

Kim stared at the tree and felt as if it were “glaring” back at her. Perhaps it was in approval; perhaps it wasn’t. Her coffee cup was half-full, and she was trembling a little bit more than usual, the shakes had come been coming back again. She wasn’t relieving her stress the way that she typically would with arts and crafts with household items and other knick-knacks. Not only that, she had not been taking the medication to treat her decaying condition the last few months to try and save some money to purchase Bill a “new” used vehicle from Bronco Billy’s just up I-10, due north of town. She lit another cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke above her head and glared at the popcorn ceiling above, yellowed from her incessant smoking over the past thirty years, and further reminded of Bill’s lack of effort to repaint it. His work was backbreaking and tiring most of the time, and she never really expected him to do anything about it. She just didn’t often have the “gusto” needed to get up and do it herself, and they certainly didn’t have the means to pay to have it done. Suddenly, she heard a faint whisper echoing in the room. She called out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. What did you say?” She asked rather casually and far less troubled than she should have been. The whisper repeated, this time more clearly. “Rennzenstein...” Seconds went by, then the word was spoken again in a whisper near the Christmas tree. “Rennzenstein...” She read the label on the can of Barq’s to try and ground herself and rule out psychosis. “Rennzenstein? What? Is that all you have to say?” There was only the silence of the room and the moderately decorated and drying out Douglas fir there “glaring” back at her, bountifully needled and motionless. She fell asleep, and her mind kept going back to the word Rennzenstein as she drifted into a nightmare. Over and over again, the word repeated, first in her own voice, and later in the voice of another far more demented than she could ever fathom. She began floating above a wooded area and saw the terrifying image of a fairly-aged man dancing around a series of Douglas fir trees and manically chanting the word repeatedly in circles and smiling with a face of hysteria as if he’d discovered the cure to some life-threatening disease or ailment.

…

Bill woke up suddenly and saw the flash of red lights through the window, and then heard the overpowering siren of a large fire truck. He rushed to the window, a bit alarmed, and was startled to see the Ragles’ place next door completely burned to the ground, with only the slab and their newly acquired Christmas tree, seemingly unscathed or bothered by the flames. Interestingly, there were absolutely no visible decorations or lights. Bill ran outside in only his muscle shirt and his red, plaid-printed boxer shorts and approached one of the firemen at the scene. “What’s going on here? Will and Jill are okay, right?” The fireman shook his head negatively. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t disclose that right now. We arrived at the scene and have not found much evidence of survival. Hope to God if they were home, that they got out as quickly as they could. This isn’t pretty.” “Well, what was the cause?” The fireman responded depressingly. “Hard to say, the fire marshal’s on his way... could be a gas leak.” Bill hadn’t checked on Kim before he ran outside. He had run out in panic. He raked his hands in disbelief over the top of the few sparse gray hairs that he had sprouting out of the top of his worn and rounded head. The flashing and spinning red lights from the fire-truck siren were surely reflecting over the front of his oversized forehead as if it were a well-polished mirror. No time to think about that, though. The Ragles family was quite likely gone, and from here on out, completely erased from further existence by something unexplainably terrible.

…

The relationship that Bill and Kim had with the Ragles was not a great one, but they still cared for them and would indeed be unsettled by this incident for many days and years to come. He ran back inside. “Kim…Kim…The Ragles place, it burned down. Don’t know if they were home, but it’s not looking good.” “Oh my gosh, Bill!” She got up out of the tan easy chair that she frequently slept in in her floral printed pajamas and matching slippers, and slowly hobbled out to come and inspect the scene. It was mainly just residual smoke at this point and the stubborn Douglas fir tree that Will had picked up earlier that day. Kim was overwhelmed with the haunting image from her dream. She recognized the tree quite well. This was far worse than any déjà vu, and she clearly recognized that fact. As she and Bill embraced one another, they saw a police car approaching and noted the officer’s detailed examination of the tree. Interestingly, on various limbs, there appeared to be teeth threaded and/or glued onto them. Kim felt the hair standing on the back of her neck and looked at Bill with temporarily lifeless eyes that must have either crossed over to the other side or seen a ghost. “What’s wrong, Kim?” Kim’s face lost a shade of color as she reacted. “I…I…I’ve seen it.” “Seen what?” She continued responding in terror. “Seen that tree with the teeth on the limb.” Bill looked at her in a confused manner. “Say what?” Kim pointed to the tree and her voice raised slightly. “Don’t you see the teeth on the limbs, Bill? This is too much for me. I’m going back inside.” She turned the television on and nervously smoked another Marlboro “skinny” for health’s sake. Kim spoke aloud, her voice still shaking from the situation, “just great...another freaking PBS telethon holiday fundraiser. I’m going to bed.” It was futile, she would toss and turn for hours restlessly. It was far too difficult for her to sleep after the eerie lifelike vision or dream that she had just experienced and its parallel to the Ragles incident.

…

Abe left the lot at 10PM that night with one of the trees. For record’s sake, it was the second one on the fourth row, just inside the tent. He set it up inside. Mary was asleep in their bedroom. He peeked in. There she was, his wife of forty-two years, just laying there with only the warmth and purr of their small, orange cat, Pickles, emerging from within and the dull hum of her CPAP machine effortlessly delivering that extra bit of poorly-filtered air to her while she slept. He wasn’t going to decorate the tree much. He would just throw a few lights on it, “call it done,” and turn in for the night. He mumbled to himself as he reflected on the day. “If only you knew, Helpson. These trees are some of the finest that I’ve ever sold. I guess you don’t quite grasp that now, do you?” He hadn’t noticed the human teeth on the branches until now. The skull must have fallen off somewhere on the truck ride leaving Dave’s too. He hadn’t noticed any of the “additions” to the trees in his late-night covert operation of stealing from his estranged brother-in-law. “What are these…??” He yanked one of them off and sized it up to his own when he noted the connection. “Must be an upper bicuspid. Wait a minute…what’s going on here? Why would these be on Dave’s property?” He observed another 26 or 27 teeth sporadically glued and threaded on the narrower branches. He headed into the kitchen to call Dave to confront him and then remembered the dilemma that he would put himself in by doing so. If he called the police, he would implicate himself too. What a mess this entire situation was becoming. Abe felt walls of panic engulfing him. “If only… if only I hadn’t stolen…ugh… all of this deception... I wouldn’t be in this predicament if we could have just ‘patched’ this up. Clearly, this guy needs some help, but I can’t ‘know’ this information having ‘never been back there.’” The feelings of fear, anxiety, and panic were too much for him to bear. He ran into the kitchen and forcefully yanked the stubborn, hunter green-toned refrigerator door open and popped open a Flitz Beer, and desperately tried to numb his feelings. He talked to himself at an elevated pace as his heartbeat started to race faster. “This isn’t kicking in fast enough. Ugh... I need something stronger.” Suddenly, there was a whisper in the next room. “Rennzenstein… Rennzenstein.” He didn’t think he was buzzed enough to be hearing things. As he went back into the living room, he saw the face of the tree glaring upon him in judgment. The glass beer bottle shattered in his hand explosively and all over the worn, brown-checkered linoleum floor just beneath him. Rennzenstein. As if a fatal Molotov cocktail had quickly engulfed the room, the beer splattered in every direction and sparked the top of one of the room’s dated outlets. It had long needed work, and the port just below it was plugged into the tree. Sparks flew and caught the surrounding furniture ablaze. The living room and kitchen were engulfed in flames in a matter of minutes. Mary and Pickles were stuck on the far end of the house, and “Uncle Abe” was isolated in his own personal hellfire. As it burned, it quickly melted away the final bits of life that he had left within him. He collapsed to the floor on top of the shards of glass as the living room continued to blaze uncontrollably. For a moment, he thought he saw Pickles near the tree. The final words that he heard repeatedly chanted in a whisper, “Rennzenstein...” seconds went by, and then the word was spoken again, “Rennzenstein.” All of the decorations and lights that he’d just put up were completely destroyed, and the tree was left perfectly intact as if a forcefield or shield were protecting it amidst the surrounding turmoil leading up to his demise.

Mary awoke and smelled smoke and heard the crackle of the flames. She quickly went to the window and climbed out with a heated Pickles in her arms. Unbeknownst to her, he had leapt onto her to alert her of the situation after his own quick analysis. It was, indeed, a close call. Two minutes longer, and they would have been gone too. Another house burned to absolutely nothing and a lone, unscathed Christmas tree standing unscathed and undecorated where the living room had once been.

…

Bill and Kim elected to dispose of their tree after the Ragles’ house fire and opted to “modernize” and purchase an artificial tree to use for the rest of their years. Kim couldn’t unsee the chilling image of the man gallivanting around the tree and chanting the word that she would never repeat aloud again. It lingered with her every step of her weary life, but she was thankful that she and Bill were spared of becoming statistics in Biloxi’s latest slew of deaths. She never explained to Bill the cursed word that she’d heard uttered from the tree in their living room or the mysterious man in her dream. The less Kim thought about all of it, the better off that she was. She still puffed on the Marlboro skinnies as if the tobacco giant was going to go out of business without her patronage. Kim had not quite sold Bill on the Barq’s infused coffee. The two remained amicable after the bizarre incidents that had recently unfolded. They lived their simple life, fully enriched with PBS, coffee, and wood-paneled walls in their simple and unmanicured, little home on Violet Street.

…

Dave Billy looked at the newspaper and read the headline. LOCAL CHRISTMAS TREE VENDOR DEAD IN HOUSE FIRE. “Good riddance,” he thought. Dave’s realization that his trees were missing was indeed unsettling and unnerving, but he quickly found a guilty sort of relief in knowing that the world was rid of Abe. How cold-hearted could a man be? He knew that he was wrong for the things that he had done, but he didn’t need some “nosy” type like Abe butting into his business or exposing his weaknesses. He went into the kitchen and saw his wife, Jean, tearfully embracing with Mary, who had arrived earlier that morning and then felt a sudden urge to sneeze as Pickles leapt on top of the counter just to his right. The feline was just staring and glaring at him in the all-knowing way that only the smartest of cats can. To try and appear more distraught about the situation, he picked up Pickles and started to rub his belly to comfort him and “visibly” express the pain he felt in losing his brother in law, Abe. He noticed a coarseness that shouldn’t have been on the feline’s belly. When he went to inspect it, he saw the word RENNZENSTEIN etched onto it. “Oh, dear God…What have I done?” he thought.

…

There was a gap in the Christmas tree lot market the following year in Biloxi. Uncle Abe’s Christmas Tree Lot was nothing more than an eyesore at this point. It was still wrapped up in caution tape, and generally just an overgrown and unkempt property.

Unfortunately, there were still at least 42 trees that were none the older or any more worn than they’d been a year prior. The bizarre Rennzenstein ritual that Dave had done to the trees had granted them an unexplained, fireproof immortality. The cursed word could not be found in any dictionary, and any effort to define it could only end in calamity. How many had died as a result of Rennzenstein cursed trees was uncertain, but there was a not a soul in Harrison County or any part of southern Mississippi that would dare get any closer to them, not even Dave Bilby.