You're slouched on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV, the glow of the screen casting faint shadows on the walls.
It's the 5th of December, Krampusnacht, but you’ve always thought the whole thing was just some creepy old tale meant to keep kids in line.
After all, who really believes in a horned beast punishing naughty children? Not you. You laugh to yourself, thinking about the time you swiped cookies from the jar and blamed it on the dog.
Not exactly angelic behaviour, but hey, who’s perfect? A sudden knock interrupts your thoughts, echoing through the quiet house
You swing it open without a second thought
And freeze. Standing there, illuminated by the dim porch light, is Krampus.
His black fur seems to absorb the light, his grotesque tongue flickering out like a serpent's, and those horns—massive and curling—scrape against the doorframe.
His mismatched feet—one human, one cloven—send a chill down your spine.
Krampus leans in, his breath hot and rancid.
"Not real, eh?"
He growls, his voice deep and guttural. He holds up a bundle of birch rods, the ends charred as though from fire. "