A Day in the Life: The Krampus
The Mountain Cave
It is December 5th. Krampusnacht.
In a cave high above the tree line, where the air is too thin for humans, the creature stirs. Krampus is old. Older than the Saint he serves. He smells of wet goat fur, sulfur, and unwashed wool. His horns curl back from his forehead, jagged and etched with frost.
He stands up, hooves clattering on the stone floor. He is seven feet of shaggy black fur and muscle. He picks up his bundle—birch branches, or Ruten—that are brittle and sting like a whip. He picks up his chains—rusty iron hung with heavy cowbells. He shakes them, and the sound is a discordant, clanking crash that echoes down the valley. It is time.
The Descent
He bounds down the mountainside. He moves like a goat, finding footing on icy ledges where a man would slip and fall. The chains drag behind him, leaving furrows in the snow.
He sees the lights of the Austrian village below—warm, yellow lights. He hates the warmth. He loves the cold. The cold is honest. The cold judges everyone equally. If you are weak, you freeze. Reaching the edge of the forest, he waits.
He can sense the Naughty. It is a distinct smell, like stolen sweets, lied-about homework, and pulled pigtails. It smells like selfishness.
The Procession
The village street is crowded. They are expecting him.
He bursts from the shadows, shaking his bells. The sound is deafening. People scream, and children hide behind their parents' legs. This is a festival, yes, but the fear is real. When you see the Devil coming for you, instinct overrides logic.
He spots a teenager who shoved his little sister into the snow yesterday. Krampus charges. He does not stop. He swings the birch branches. Swish-crack. The boy yelps, running. Krampus chases him. He is fast. He gleefully terrorizes the crowd, lunging, growling, his long, pointed tongue flickering out to taste the snowy air. He grabs a man who cheated on his taxes. He shakes him. The man laughs, but his eyes are wide.
It is a game. But it is also a reminder. The dark exists. The cold exists. Be good, or the mountain will come for you.
The Sack
The crowds have dispersed, and the streets are empty. Krampus is not done. He moves silently now, the bells stilled.
He approaches a house on the outskirts. A child lives here who has been truly wicked. Not just childhood mischief. Cruelty. He peers through the window. The boy is awake, staring at the dark.
Krampus opens the door. It enters the room. The temperature drops ten degrees. He opens his sack. It is a dark, bottomless pit of burlap.
He does not take the child. Not this year. The Saint stayed his hand. Instead, he leaves a piece of coal on the pillow. It is still hot. It sears the sheet. He leans over the trembling boy, breathing his sulfurous breath into the child's face. "Change," he growls. The voice sounds like a rockslide. He turns and leaves.
The Ascent
The work is done. The sack is empty of children, but full of fear.
He climbs back up the mountain. The adrenaline fades. His old joints ache. The wind howls around him, welcoming him back. Reaching his cave, he drops the chains, and the silence of the peaks returns.
He curls up on his pile of furs and closes his goat eyes. He will sleep for a year. But he will be listening. Keeping his list. Checking it twice.
