Christmas Eve Delight
I jolted from my deep slumber and stared at the sky; the Autumn man in the moon winked. I smirked, “Welcome, October, my pre-Christmas vigilant.
Fall is the time of year when Santa Claus is a valuable not-so-secret weapon, “You better be good, or Santa Claus won’t bring you presents.” Some children fall for this ruse, but most know Santa Claus comes anyway. The naughty children who know there are always gifts under the Christmas tree are unaware that St. Nicolas has a friend for the vilest youngsters.
Very few children worldwide are aware of good ole St. Nick’s companion. The children of Germany know and fear Krampus. They will tell you he is scary and how he puts terrible children in his big black sack. Many storytellers say that Krampus walks among us in disguise, wearing a long black cloak with sleeves that cover his long gruesome arms and hands. They tell tales that if you lock glances with Krampus, you are staring into the blackened eyes of Satan.
It was a devilish Christmas when five-year-old Johnny gifted his grandmother a lovely red gift box with Mery Christmas written on the lid. In the box were butterflies — he had removed their wings. She was horrified, and Johnny giggled with delight. I have documented that horrific Christmas. This act is when Johnny starts to fatten up with darkness.
Johnny shared that he was fascinated with hurting animals the following Christmas Eve. Hearing their last shriek was music to his ears. His bedroom was filled with dead animals and not stuffed as trophies, just lifeless and decaying. The smell was pungent. He shared that he once killed the neighbor’s cat. I wasn’t surprised — it wasn’t a question of why; it was a question of when. Little did Johnny know, he was growing tastier with every vile deed.
Each Christmas Eve, Johnny would share his most hidden secrets with me. He didn’t know how close I was listening. This kid has the makings of a serial killer — the perfect meal for St. Nick’s comrade.
His parents were poor, and their shanty home proved poverty. John’s parents gave all they could afford to their son, as love alone didn’t change him for the better. They feared Johnny. They said he was quirky. It is not quirky; it’s sinister.
Johnny came out of the darkness and called for me. He watched the shadows and waited with excited anticipation to tell me of his wrongs. I could smell his blackened heart’s stench.
I stepped out from the fade into the chilled Christmas Eve night, “There you are. I thought I wouldn’t see you this year. You should know I did it. I killed them: mother and father.”
Devine.
The only light was that of the full moon, which brightened the fear on his face when I lowered my hood. Tonight was the first time Johnny had witnessed me without a disguise. He could not keep from looking at my glorious horns and deep black eyes. He squealed like a pig when I grasped him with my large hands and dug my sharp black claws into his weakened muscles — fear and madness tenderize children. Delectable.
Every last bite was gratifying. Krampus licked Johnny’s blood from his long crooked fingers. It’s been so long since St. Nick’s confidant tasted the flesh of evil, and Johnny was well worth the wait.
Pulling his cloak back over his shoulders and the hood over his horns, he hissed, “Goodnight, wicked children. I’ll be waiting for you in the holiday shadows.”
The End
Maryann Lindquist & Mojha MacDowell
