It's the eve of St Nicholas Day, December 5th, with a bitter wind howling through the alpine valleys. Your little ones are abed, whispering prayers for treats from the kindly saint. But as the moon rises high, a darker presence awakens. Hooves clatter on cobblestones, birch switches whistle through the air, and a horned shadow looms at your door. It's not here for gifts—it's here for the wicked. And if you've been naughty... it will drag you into the night.
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| Krampus |
Welcome, dear listeners, to Eerie Tales with Cosette. I'm your host, Cosette, and today, on this festive Christmas Day in 2025, we're exploring the chilling origins of a holiday enforcer. This is Episode 16: "Krampus: The Shadow of St Nicholas Eve". Settle in, turn down the lights, and let me spin a yarn that blends ancient lore with spine-tingling terror, reminding us that misdeeds have consequences—even in the season of goodwill.
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Our tale transports us to the frost-bound Alps of 19th-century Austria, where the legend of Krampus thrives amid snow-capped peaks and whispered warnings. In this tradition, St Nicholas arrives on December 6th to bestow gifts upon the virtuous, but the night before—Krampusnacht, December 5th—belongs to his demonic counterpart. Krampus: a goat-horned fiend with fur as black as coal, chains clanking from his waist, and a basket on his back for carrying away the ill-behaved. His role? To birch the backsides of minor offenders or, for the truly wicked, something far worse.
In the village of Schattenberg, tucked in the Tyrolean mountains during the winter of 1892, these beliefs weren't mere stories—they were gospel. Children learnt early: obey, or face the Krampus. He'd sniff out lies, thefts, and cruelty, his lolling tongue tasting the air for sin.
Enter young Elias, a twelve-year-old rascal with wild brown curls and a talent for trouble. He pilfered sweets from the baker, tormented the village cats with slingshot pebbles, and once hid the schoolmaster's spectacles, causing chaos in the classroom. His parents pleaded and punished, but Elias scoffed. "Krampus is for fools," he'd sneer. "Just a tale to make us mind."
As December arrived, ominous signs stirred the village. Barn doors creaked open at night, revealing cloven footprints in the mud. A farmer's goat vanished, leaving only tufts of fur and a faint sulphurous stench. The elders murmured: Krampus prowls early this year, seeking the naughtiest souls.
On December 5th, Krampusnacht, the villagers held their Krampuslauf—a raucous procession to appease the beast. Men in grotesque masks and shaggy suits paraded through the streets, cracking whips, ringing bells, and roaring to scare off the real demon. The air thrummed with excitement and dread, spiced with glühwein and roasted chestnuts.
Elias, undeterred, slipped from his home with mischief in mind. Armed with his slingshot, he aimed to disrupt the parade—pelting the faux Krampuses with icy snowballs. His first volley struck true, toppling a horned figure amid laughter and jeers. But he pressed on, his shots growing bolder until one felled a performer, drawing real anger from the crowd.
Fleeing the chaos, Elias plunged into the bordering forest, the parade's clamour fading. Panting behind a snow-laden fir, he grinned—until the wind shifted, carrying a guttural snarl. The woods fell silent, save for the crunch of approaching hooves.
From the gloom stepped not a costumed reveller, but the true Krampus: over seven feet of nightmare, with spiralling horns, glowing eyes, and claws gripping bloodied switches. A chain-draped basket wriggled on its back, emitting faint whimpers.
"Little sinner," it growled, voice like splintering ice. "Your naughtiness calls to me."
Elias bolted, but the deep snow ensnared him. A lash from the switches caught his leg, yanking him down. Dragged deeper into the woods, he saw glimpses of horror: child-sized bones scattered like forgotten toys, ragged mittens hanging from thorns.
The beast hauled him to a hidden cave, its maw lined with icy fangs. Chained to a rock, Elias faced judgement. Krampus delved into his sack, producing coals that seared not with heat but with visions—every prank replayed, every victim's pain amplified in his mind.
Torment stretched through the night. Elias sobbed vows of reform, begging for release. As midnight waned toward dawn, the creature hesitated, as if heeding a distant call. "Nicholas intercedes... this once," it rumbled, snapping the bonds.
Elias staggered home at first light, scarred in body and spirit. From then on, he was exemplary: aiding neighbours, confessing past wrongs, and even volunteering at the church. But each December 5th, he'd bar his windows and tremble, knowing Krampus lurks eternal.
So, listeners, as you celebrate this Christmas Day, spare a thought for those ancient rites. Be good, for goodness' sake—or the shadows of Krampusnacht may yet find you.
