by Douglas Ford
“Krampus is the anti-Santa and one evil son-of-a-bitch. On Christmas, if you run into Krampus instead of Santa, you know you’ve fucked up. You’ve been bad. Really bad. If you don’t believe me, just Google it. If I’m lying, God strike me dead now. Just don’t send Krampus. I’d rather God come after me. That Krampus, he’s one mean s.o.b.”
–a man overheard by the author while waiting in line to visit the mall Santa
We think Rudolph’s glowing nose caused the affliction.
All that radiation, you know.
Before we got smart and built a containment unit, we just let Rudolph roam about wherever he pleased.
Big mistake.
Forty elves lost all their hair the first year. Santa had to keep them all out of sight. No mall appearances, just stand-ins that season. No one could accuse us of misunderstanding the importance of appearance. Try to explain to little Johnny who just wants a fire truck why the elves look like aborted fetuses.
Anyway. The rash on Santa–we didn’t notice it at first because of his usual red cheeks and red suit. Those inflamed pustules blended right in until they started bursting, probably because of the constant scratching.
Like I said, the radiation, and all that exposure, Christmas after Christmas.
The scratching concerned us, but Santa’s behavior after that downright alarmed us. Hallucinations had set in, though we didn’t think much of them at first. Said he kept seeing stars, but we see a lot of stars up here. Then the pustules began bursting, and all that green! It could have looked festive if it hadn’t made his beard so crusty. Then the outbursts; the throat-tearing; the biting. So we put Santa in the containment unit—with Rudolph, yes, and we just hoped for the best. For both of them.
What about Christmas then? We had a solution, if a radical one. But you know what they say about desperate times. So we unchained Krampus, the one once used to frighten bad children; the one with the filed teeth and forked tongue; the one who uses the leather lash. We thought we could reason with Krampus. We thought we could bargain with him—step in for Santa, and in return, we would cut the chains and let him out of that ice pit. But we underestimated what years of isolation would do to an already damaged psyche. We had no idea what lengths he would go to or how hungry he had become, and we certainly had no idea that he would develop such unnatural tastes for human flesh.
So please accept our apology. We regret that your holiday lights now serve as a beacon for an unwelcome visitation. We regret that you must now keep your windows and chimneys boarded up. We regret that you must keep your children and pets locked inside basements, attics, and bomb shelters.
As a token of our regret, please accept these toys. You will note that they possess the likeness of Rudolph, and before you judge them as inappropriate please keep in mind that our normal production has declined and that we already had these in overstock. Also note that we’ve disabled the device that lights its nose. Should you notice that your Rudolph nose does in fact work, please collect your children, and leave the room immediately. Please wait at least twenty-four hours before re-entering. Just do not contact us to return the toy. Contacting us could jeopardize your safety. And, until further notice, please also ask your children to stop writing Santa. Krampus, you see, reads all the mail now, and we continue to receive many letters, most of them testimonies to good behavior. A disturbing number, however, show signs of coercion, as if parents insisted that their children write confessions, admissions of their many transgressions.
Even more disturbing, these confessions most often come with travel directions.
Doug Ford has taught for the past five years at the State College of Florida. His previous work has appeared in various fiction magazines and web sites. He will continue writing until those pesky little voices inside his head finally stop.