Ethereal Chronicles

Each Christmas Eve, the houses would grow still, falling silent in anticipation of St. Nicholas’ visit. When the final light flickered into blackness and a soft whisper of snow swirled in the frosty air, so St. Nicholas would come. And just as quickly, he would leave, the houses behind him enveloped in kindness and generosity.

It is a kind tale, and a true one, but what they do not tell you is that St. Nicholas did not pay a visit to all, for not every man, woman and child earned his favor. Those whose hearts were tarnished with sin faced a different visitor, one far darker and far crueler. For where Nicholas embodied joy, his counterpart, Krampus, was the harbinger of punishment. And on this particular Christmas Eve, a small family would come to know the true weight of his wrath.

Hans had waited eagerly for St. Nicholas. Unlike the other children in the village who had succumbed to slumber with dreams of sweet gifts, he remained fully alert, cocooned in a blanket by the dying embers of the hearth. His stomach churned with the guilt of his indulgence as he eyed the half empty plate of biscuits and drained glass of milk.

In the adjoining room, his parents lay in a drunken slumber, their snores ringing through the house, mingling with the howling of the wind outside. The household had grown bitter, more hostile in recent months. His mother and father snapped towards one another like rabid dogs, their anger spilling into Hans, who, lost and sorrowful, had begun lashing out at others in return.

It was perhaps three in the morning when the first sound came; not the jolly tinkling of bells but the strange, discordant clatter of metallic scraping against frozen ground. Hans, heart pounding, sat upright, peering out towards the door as weak candlelight cast trembling shadows across the walls. The air grew cold as the door creaked open, but it was not a jolly, warm man standing at the entrance, but a sight that stifled his breath with horror.

Before Hans stood a great, towering beast, its body covered with thick, black fur. One of its feet was not human but the cloven hoof of a goat. Horns, curling and sharp, jutted from its skull, and its face – oh, its face – was a hideous blend of man and beast. Human eyes burned like embers into Hans and its tongue, long and sloppy, protruded wildly from its maw. In its clawed hands, the creature gripped a set of rusted chains, laden with cracked bells.

“Not what you expected?” Krampus grinned, his fangs glistening in the warm candlelight. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for you. You need only watch, learn a lesson, perhaps.”

Hans’ voice caught in his throat. He wanted to scream, to run, but his body only let him open and shut his mouth stupidly. Krampus stepped forward, causing the candle to flicker. With a swift motion, he seized the boy harshly, tightly wrapping the cold chains around him. To this, Hans opened his mouth in attempted protest, but his cry was met with a gnarled wooden stick that struck a stinging blow against his face, and he fell silent.

Krampus then dropped Hans’ entangled form to the ground and limped towards the room of Hans’ parents, the dragging sound of his hoof causing Hans to shiver with nausea. A few moments later, screams erupted through the air as Krampus hauled the couple from the bed, dragging them to the kitchen where their son lay bound.

Krampus first turned to Hans’ mother, dealing a harsh kick to the back of her legs so that she fell to her knees and brought her hands to her head in a futile attempt to shield herself.

“You.” He bellowed, his voice reverberating about the room, “You have wallowed so deeply in your own sorrow that in doing so you have neglected your own son. You have left him adrift, forced to go down a path of roughness that was never meant for him.”

She winced and cowered beneath his fiery gaze, which then turned to focus on her husband.

“And you have indulged in the ways of sin, sleeping in the arms of others and leaving your wife’s affections to turn cold. A crime far too great to go unpunished.”

Krampus withdrew from his robes another long length of chains, which he rose high in the air and brought down upon Hans’ mother with unmoving ferociousness. He dealt her twenty, maybe thirty blows, each strike landing with a sickening crack as it tore at her flesh and left her bones exposed. Only when she collapsed in a sobbing, bloodied heap did he cease, and turn to the father once more.

“Lashes are too good for you.” He said, his voice a low sneer. “You will face punishment in the embrace of Hell.” With a single, powerful hand, Krampus lifted the screaming man into the air. With his free hand, he retrieved the great wicker basket he had been carrying upon his back, from within which the muffled cries of other souls echoed, begging for redemption. Krampus forced Hans’ father into the basket, who gripped the edges for dear life as though he were dangling from the ledge of a terrible cliff. But Krampus was an impatient creature, worn from the night and eager to continue with his dealings. So, with a flicker of movement, he dragged his claws across the man’s fingers, severing them from his hand one by one. The father roared as his grip failed and he fell, screaming with anguish, into the deep abyss.

Krampus turned back to face the terrified boy and his mother, licking the blood from his claws with relish. His wicked smile twisted as he spoke, “You had better pray that I do not come across your faces next Christmas. Next time, I will not be so lenient.”

Without another word, he slung the basket over his shoulder and strode towards the door. The night swallowed him whole, leaving behind him only silence.

Hans’ mother never again let him out of her sight, or her affections.

Krampus is the dark, often demonic counterpart to Saint Nicholas from Central European folklore. He appears to children only during December, punishing those who have behaved badly and were not rewarded with gifts by Saint Nick.