‘Krampus Traces, Tracks and Rounds ’em Up’: A Poem by Paul A. Freeman

Krampus Traces, Tracks and Rounds ’em up

The Prologue

St. Nicholas compiles a list each year
Of children who’ve been good and who appear
Deserving of the presents on his sleigh,
Who treat their fellows nicely, come what may.

But what of youths who roam about the streets
At sundown, causing mayhem? Santa’s treats
Aren’t given to a rowdy, foulmouthed lout
Who lacks respect for others and will flout
The tenets of society at will.
For those discourteous few there is a bill
That must be paid to cancel out their sins,
In deepest winter, ere New Year begins.

The Story

One Christmastide, three bullies, after dark,
Took refuge in a bandstand in a park.
And though that day they should have been at school,
They felt that breaking rules was far more cool.
Whilst contemplating mischief they drank beer,
Smoked cigarettes, their aura spreading fear
Through overloud, expletive-ridden talk,
Curtailing several townsfolk’s evening walk.

Their leader was a burly yob named Shane,
Who revelled in imparting mental pain
In schoolmates through relentless jibes and jeers
Till victims’ eyes were red and ran with tears.

His right-hand man, a stick-thin thug called Neil
Would ambush kids in corridors and steal
By menace and by threat their ready cash,
Then rifle through their lunchbox in a flash.

The third, the stoutest member of the crew,
Was Ralph, who hung about the junior loo;
The torturing of first years was his goal.
He’d hold them high above a toilet bowl,
Turned upside down, suspended by the calf
And dunk them in the water for a laugh.

And so, this night, our hooligans enjoyed
Their roistering, their ill-behaviour buoyed
By alcohol, until a lad appeared,
Afar, in schoolboy garb, and swiftly neared
The bandstand as he crossed the snow-capped grass.

The trio blocked his path. “You shall not pass,”
Said Shane, “Unless you pay to us a toll.
If not, may God have mercy on your soul.”

The boy held in his arms a pile of books.
Said he, “You’re none too clever by your looks.
The library is close, I urge you take
Yourselves there ere it closes, for your sake—
For if you act to realise your threat,
You’ll owe my demon chief a mortal debt.”

“What rot!” cried Neil, and with a sweeping blow
The pile of books lay strewn across the snow.

Emboldened, Ralph stepped forward and let fly
A punch which struck the youngster in the eye.
It sent the stripling sprawling on the ground;
And yet he did not make a single sound.
He stood, he stayed, he held the trio’s gaze,
His features set and angry, eyes ablaze.

And suddenly the bullies looked confused;
The boyish face grew old and seemed amused.
His mouth became a rictus of a grin,
A reeking hole with blackened teeth within
His clothing turned to rags, his size increased,
His hair snarled up—he turned into a beast.

And then the creature spoke. “I’ve watched all year,
Your cruelties, instilling abject fear
In innocents to cause them untold harm;
For what you’ve done there is no healing balm,
So to my master, Krampus, I have sent
A full report, and though you may repent,
I reckon once he understands the gist,
He’ll add your names on Yuletide’s naughty list.
’Tis Christmas, and it’s time for you to pay;
On planet Earth you’ve spent your final day.
My task is done, the hour’s growing late,
The moment’s come to meet your dreadful fate.”

Before Shane, Ralph or Neil could respond,
The beast was gone, as if he’d waved a wand.
No footprints in the snow nor books remained—
And in hell’s bowels a monster was unchained!

The bullies tried to guess what just occurred
And comprehend the things they’d seen and heard.
Said Ralph, “I blame that bargain beer we chugged.”
While Neil surmised, “Our cigarettes are drugged.”
And as they pondered options one and two,
Shane noticed an anomaly quite new.
At one end of the park a swirling mist
Hung low against the icy ground it kissed;
And emanating from some place below,
There came a dull and yellow sulphurous glow.

Upon the air they heard a rhythmic clank,
First indistinctly, then the trio shrank
When in the mist a silhouette appeared,
Immense in size, and as the vapour cleared
They saw ’twas Krampus, freed from Satan’s pit
To root out malefactors deemed unfit
To share the air with folk considered ‘nice’—
And on that count these hoodlums would suffice.

Half-demon and half-goat, he glanced about,
His horned head searching, long tongue hanging out
As if to taste the air, while in one hand
He held three sets of shackle chains, each strand
Intended to immobilise his prey
Before they could abscond and get away.

Soon Krampus had tracked down the three he sought;
For in a trice his sniffing nostrils caught
The whiff of fear, and so he set a course
Towards the bandstand and the odour’s source.
He bared his fangs, he thrashed his heavy chains,
His image stamped itself upon the brains
Of Shane and Ralph and Neil as they stood still
In terror, feet like clay, without the will
To move, till Krampus roared, then every one
Was filled with a compelling urge to run.

I mentioned early on that Ralph was stout.
This took its toll, and soon the tubby lout
Who liked to torture children in the loo
Was lagging far behind the other two.

Said Shane, “Too many hamburgers and fries,
Potato chips and supersized pork pies
Have done for Ralph; I doubt that he’ll survive,
But we may still emerge from this alive.
His sacrifice will give us time to flee
To safety. What say you? Do you agree?”

Though breathless, Neil nodded his accord,
Which left Ralph on his own, in hopes the Lord
Could save him, so he fell on bended knee
And gabbled forth to God a desperate plea.

The sight of Ralph in prayer made Krampus snort
With laughter, for his lesson would be taught
No matter that his victim might repent.

Above the thug the ruthless demon bent,
Secured Ralph’s wrists with shackles where he kneeled
And raised him high while like a pig he squealed;
He then gave Ralph an open-handed whack
And tossed him in the basket on his back.

“This one is ripe for drowning!” Krampus cried.
“Beneath the black Plutonian sea I’ll hide
His stinking corpse until it’s been picked clean
Of flesh by monsters ne’er by humans seen.”

If Shane and Neil thought one would be enough,
The demon was about to call their bluff;
For Krampus was unswerving and still had
A brace of oafs to capture earmarked ‘bad’.

The two remaining bullies had a lead
Upon the demon, so they upped their speed
And thought of seeking refuge if they could
Beyond the park, within a neighbourhood
Of tenements; but every time they knocked
Upon a door, by silence they were mocked.
No matter how much noise they tried to cause,
It seemed all sound was muted or on pause.

Shane yelled unto the residents within
Their living rooms, but none could hear the din.
They sat, instead, beside their Christmas tree
Enjoying festive programmes on TV.
And though Neil flailed as if a maniac,
Nobody saw him, not one soul waved back.
And when he tried to break a window pane,
The rock he hurled bounced off and injured Shane.

Then from close by a bellow shook the air.
’Twas Krampus, sniffing out the fleeing pair.

“There is a church,” said Shane, “not far away.
A holy place to keep this fiend at bay.
Within its walls we shall see out the year,
Till January puts us in the clear.”

So Shane and Neil set off along the street,
Towards St John’s in hopes that they were fleet
Of foot enough to get there ere the brute
Could overtake them, cutting off their route.

Alas, with more than eighty yards to go
The beast was on their tail and gaining, so
Shane lashed out with his leg, disabling Neil,
A kick that caught his friend above the heel
And turned his ankle, causing him to fall
And tumble till he halted, in a sprawl.

The beast was swiftly looming over Neil
And snapped the shackles on him as the deal
With Santa Claus demanded in a bid
To rid the world of every wicked kid.

“This one is ripe for eating!” Krampus said.
He closed his talons over Neil’s head
And flung him in the basket with his friend,
The hapless Ralph, to contemplate his end.

The chase resumed, with Shane some way ahead
Of Krampus, as unto St John’s he sped.

He reached the Norman church with yards to spare,
And as he leapt the lychgate saw a glare
Behind the stained-glass windows where the light
Of candles brightened up the joyless night.
A carol concert seemingly was set
For eventide. Supposing Shane could get
Amongst the congregation, he’d be free
From Krampus, a protected refugee.
This was, perhaps, his only chance to live.

Alack, the church’s porch door wouldn’t give;
For on the chancel wall some youth had scrawled
Despicable graffiti that appalled
The clergy’s sensibilities and mocked
Their calling—so the entrance door was locked.

Shane banged upon the door and begged for help,
But none were there to aid the ill-bred whelp.
From God’s protection Shane had been shut out,
For it was he, the irreligious lout,
Who aerosol in hand had been the one
To spray the words, ‘The Devil’s work is fun!’
Upon the chancel wall, then thought it swell
To rob the church collection box, as well.

From in the graveyard, Krampus said, “My friend
You are the last from hereabouts I’ll send
To Hell this night, so come out now and brace
Yourself against the sinfulness you face.”

To pound upon the door had proved in vain,
Which made it ever futile to remain
Inside the church’s porch, so Shane stepped out,
Away from God’s securely sealed redoubt
Into the churchyard, tears upon his cheek
And muttering apologies to seek
Exoneration and a full reprieve.
But Krampus had no patience to receive
Fake penitence, he merely was a tool
Of Satan, sent to fetch a sinful fool.

Said Krampus, “Of the trio, you’re the worst,
And so you’ll be the most severely cursed.”
And noting this, one-handed Krampus gripped
The bully by the collar while he slipped
The cover from his basket to expose
A sight that even more increased Shane’s woes.
Inside were maybe twenty dozen souls
In torment on a bed of red hot coals,
Their skin burned off by steaming, sulphurous gas,
Their flesh a pus-filled, suppurating mass
Of buboes, while their piercing screams of pain
Relentlessly were stabbing at Shane’s brain.

“Please, spare me!” cried the bully. “I’ll be good!”
But Krampus was emotionless as wood.
Around Shane’s wrists the final shackles closed
As Santa’s will on badness was imposed.

“This one is ripe for torture!” Krampus said,
And in a basket hot as molten lead
Dropped Shane amongst the damned, where his two friends
Still vainly hoped to somehow make amends.

The Epilogue

So Ralph, the least appalling of the three,
Got drowned, and fed the fish in Pluto’s sea,
While famished imps in Satan’s dreaded pit
Cooked Neil above a fire, upon a spit.
And as for Shane, ’tis said his soul’s aflame,
Tormented, and has just himself to blame;
And if you’re near St. John’s, upon the breeze
You’ll hear Shane’s tortured wailing through the trees.

Paul A. Freeman is the author of Rumours of Ophir, a crime novel which was taught in Zimbabwean high schools and has been translated into German. In addition to having two novels, a children’s book and an 18,000-word narrative poem (Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers!) commercially published, Paul is the author of hundreds of published short stories, poems and articles.