You may consider the Christmas season a time of fun, and while most Christmas traditions are sweet, especially the ones for little children, like sipping hot chocolate in pajamas while watching Disney movies, there is one tradition in the mountains of northeast Italy that is reserved exclusively for the naughtiest of naughty little kids. The night of the Krampus.
According to legend, one day early in December, a figure half-goat, half-demon arrives. He has horns on his head, a red tongue, and black hair. Sometimes he brings a basket in which he carries off the worst behaved. His main purpose is to punish those who haven’t behaved well this year. A sort of anti-Santa Claus. And with that kind of fear, who wouldn’t behave?
How the Krampus came about is unclear, but it seems the story has its roots in Germanic traditions. Some believe that once upon a time the Krampus and Saint Nicholas were two sides of the same person, delivering presents and chastisements, whichever was merited. Others suggest that he was Saint Nicholas’s helper, the bad cop to his good cop.
But in an instant the atmosphere shifted.
Out of nowhere, creatures part-bestial, part-humanoid monster charged through the crowd.
This December, I had the chance to experience my first, and probably last, Krampus run.
After a five-hour non-stop drive from Munich, I was happy to stop, even if just briefly, at a charming little town in the mountains. Later, I discovered we were already in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, just two hours from Trieste.
As a short person — 1.52 meters, to be precise — I can easily pass as a child.
The town square was packed, people standing to shoulder waiting for the event to begin. My first thought was, This must be something truly funny. And that wasn’t entirely wrong. The evening began with festive music, laughter, and the warm, spicy aroma of vin brulé filling the air.
But in an instant the atmosphere shifted.
Out of nowhere, creatures part-bestial, part-humanoid monster charged through the crowd. They were clad in elaborate costumes, some in fur, and all wielding weapons of various sorts: axes, chains, birch rods. I had come with no very clear notion of what the event entailed, and my confusion must have been apparent on my face, for my partner leaned in to explain what the Krampus was and that its only prey was children. So I relaxed. Briefly.
What I hadn’t accounted for was the fact that the children here were practically twice my size.
Despite the metal fence separating the performers from the crowd, chaos ensued when a mischievous 12 year old boy tried to hide near me. Before I knew it, I was on the receiving end of one of those birch rods. Let me tell you, I wasn’t afraid of their masks — I was afraid of my backside being hit again.
As the two-hour spectacle unfolded, I realized that the festival was nothing like the grim, fear-inducing ritual I’d imagined. Families gathered, children were thrilled, teenagers dared each other to get closer — and closer — to the Krampuses.
And so the business of the Krampuses is not just to scare the living daylights out of bad children, but to preserve an ancient tradition and bring the community together.
Still, I don’t think I’ll be attending another Krampus run anytime soon.
