Krampus Quotes

Your dreams are your spirit, your soul and without them your are dead. You must guard your dreams always. Always. Lest someone steal them away from you. I know what it is to have your dreams stolen. I know what it is to be dead. Guard your dreams. Always guard your dreams.

Your dreams are your spirit, your soul, and without them you are dead.

Shit spews from your lips as from the ass of a pig.

Then let us go and be terrible.

The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you.

Burn? Smite? Punish? Why is your god so intolerant? So jealous? Why must there be only one god? Why is there not room for many?

Back, devil! Return thee to Hell!" The beast rolled its eyes. "I am not a devil, fool. Do you ever wonder why you seek the Devil with such vigor? I shall tell you. Because you cannot face your own wickedness. The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you. So look at yourself, for you are the only devil in this room.

A house built on lies has a weak foundation.

You can never be done with music. No more than you can be done with breathing. The day you quit is the day you die.

Krampus reached over and wiggled one of the nails protruding from Jesse's leg. "Ow, fuck!" Jesse cried. "Watch it. Goddamn, what's wrong with you?" "You still live." "Yeah... I still live. Lucky me.

Free your spirit.

Just be careful what you say. Don't upset him." "You mean the Grumpus guy?" "It's Krampus.

You worship death. You and all the One Gods. They seduce mankind with their promises of glory attained in the hereafter, thus blinding men to the splendor before them here on earth. One can never expect to achieve enlightenment if one does not first live life to its fullest.

Me, I say too much optimism will get you killed.

How will I make a people who do not understand the power of belief believe? And without their belief Mother Earth will wither and Yuletide will fade...and so, too will I...like all the spirits and gods before me.

For the world is a hard place and nothing comes without a price.

Krampus's voice trailed off, he glanced at Jesse. Jesse's head lay on his shoulder, his eyes closed; there came no sign of breath. "It appears I am talking to myself." Krampus crossed his arms atop his chest and grunted.

Does mankind truly hate itself? How can one surmount such irreverence?

Man has only himself to fear now . . . he has become his own worst devil.

Would not do to have children watch dear old Santa hack Krampus and his abominations to death, after all.

He saw Krampus grinning at him and knew then that the Yule Lord was right, he could no more quit music than breathing, and while he needed air to live, he needed music to truly be alive.

wanted, a pretty lie, and they believed, because a pretty lie is easier to believe than an ugly truth.

You are free. The world is yours. got take it.

How will I make a people who do not understand the power of belief believe?

Jesse couldn't picture a more desolate setting to meet his end. He watched the water drops gather and slide down the windshield, remembered how as a child he'd pretend they were eating each other, tried to pretend he was sitting in the back of his daddy's car now heading over to Grandma's for dinner.

Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die. That is why it is so important that I reawaken the spirit within mankind. Help them to believe again. Because it is their power of belief, their love and devotion, that heals the land.

There are other things besides gods in which to put one's faith. Earthly things.

Silly man, no one is asking you to denounce anyone. Only to open your heart. To invite them all into your house.

Satan? I am not Satan!" the beast growled. "I am Krampus, the Lord of Yule. Now if you do not get out of my way I will tear out your heart and eat it!

You are but a pathetic ass, and shall always be a pathetic ass, one who suckles upon the end of your god's cock like a gutter whore" -Krampus

Just be careful what you say. Don’t upset him.” “You mean the Grumpus guy?” “It’s Krampus.” “Just who’s this—

Christmas,” Krampus spat. “No, Christmas is an abomination. A perversion! Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die.

I am fearful most men of this age are like you. They have forgotten what it is to huddle in a hut with the beasts and demons howling outside their door. They no longer have want of a great and terrible spirit to protect them. They have lost their fear of the wild and with it their need to believe. And I cannot blame them, for they now have the power to chase away the shadows with a mere flick of a switch. So I must ask myself, what role can I play in a world where men worship the moving-picture box, where they make and consume potions that eat away their own brains, where they ravage and pillage entire mountains, kill the very earth itself? “Mankind has lost its connection to the land, to the earth, to the beasts and spirits. They gather their food not from the forest and fields, but from plastic bins and ice boxes. Their lives are no longer tied to the cycles of the seasons and the harvest, no longer do they need the Yule Lord to chase away the winter darkness and usher in the light of spring. Man has only himself to fear now . . . he has become his own worst devil.

Why would they destroy the forest, the mountains . . . the very land?” “For the coal. They blast the tops off the mountains to get to the coal.” Krampus shook his head, his face bewildered. “It is like cutting off one’s own arm to feed one’s self.

What if, in some alpine town lost in the snow, or a village buried deep in the English countryside, the Old Ways haven’t been forgotten? What if that town or village is the very same one where I happen to be watching a Krampus run or mummers play right now?

They headed east, deeper into hill country, leaving Krampus’s gift of Yule cheer in over three dozen homes spread about as many neighborhoods all along eastern Boone County. Most of the visits went smoothly, as smoothly as one could hope for any home invasion carried out by a host of costume-clad devils.

Krampus found me, forced me into servitude—me, the son of Odin, a slave to a low-cast demon. I did not care, did not feel. Hollow of heart and soul, I came to believe this to be my fate, my penance, that I had been spared to bear torment not just for my own vanity and arrogance, but for that of all my forebears.

Do you ever wonder why you seek the Devil with such vigor? I shall tell you. Because you cannot face your own wickedness. The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you. So look at yourself, for you are the only devil in this room.

Santa Claus ran his finger across the rough parchment, lightly tracing the inscription below. “Charity unto others brings its own reward,” he whispered.

Spain?” Jesse said and glanced about at the others, but they looked equally perplexed. “Spain?” “Yes, to Baldr’s castle. Where did you think he lived? The North Pole?

But things don’t always go the way folks want . . . or hope. Life ain’t like that.

Something’s just not right,” he said, shaking his head, “not by a long shot.

There is so precious little magic left in this world . . . so little. Why must your ambitions come at such a cost?

He inhaled deeply, felt some vestige of strength returning to him, the moon’s rays, the stars, and forest air all like food for his starving soul.

and a man who spends Christmas by himself was indeed a man alone in the world.

Lord of Yule, son of Hel, bloodline of the great Loki, swear to cut your lying tongue from your mouth, your thieving hands from your wrists, and your jolly head from your neck.

She laughed and said not to confuse pride with nobleness.

Stop your weeping. Grief is for the dead.

And my eyes, too, have been opened,” Krampus said. “For I clearly see that mankind has not yet forgotten who they are. That deep down their wild spirit still burns. That they need only a little nudge to be set free.” Krampus grinned, beamed. “And I will always be there to give them that nudge . . . in some shape or form, no matter what games the gods may play.

Hey!” the kid screamed. “Hey, you can’t do that!” He stood up and when he did, Santa snatched the bicycle out from under him. He lifted the bike over his head and chucked it down the hill.

Those who are gone, those who are leaving us, draw close again at Christmas, whether passing through in Perchta’s hunt, attending ghostly churches on Christmas Eve or conjured by our memories, and we reach out to them.

Search for his beasts, his abominations, the Belsnickels. For they will be on the hunt as well. When you find them, stay with them like a dark omen, lead me to them with your cry . . . for my sword thirsts for their blood.

He noticed Millie Boggs’s little plastic Jesus wedged between the back of his cab and the front of the camper shell. The baby Savior appeared to be looking directly at him and smiling. “You having yourself a good time?” Jesse shouted up at the doll.

Behind every tale of Christmas monsters lurks the true darkness of Christmas – the solstice, and the longest night of the year. No matter how brightly our fires burn, or how many fairy lights we turn on, Christmas is still spent deep in the shadows.

Their lives are no longer tied to the cycles of the seasons and the harvest, no longer do they need the Yule Lord to chase away the winter darkness and usher in the light of spring. Man has only himself to fear now . . . he has become his own worst devil.

However it happened, by the early thirteenth century the connections between the Good Ladies, the striga-women and Christmas were fixed, with one text claiming that: On the night of Christ’s Nativity they set the table for the Queen of Heaven, whom people call Frau Holda, that she might help them.

Makwa, my bravest warrior.” His words were earnest and measured. “The great spirits call. It is time for you to go to them, to be honored for your loyalty and bravery. Mishe Moneto has gathered all your great fathers and they all await you with a magnificent feast. Go to them with your chin held high. Take your rightful place.

Is there not room in your heart for both? They both spread peace, charity, and goodwill.” “Only Jesus can save your soul from eternal damnation.” A smug smile spread across the reverend’s face. “Can Santa Claus do that? Don’t think so.” Santa let out a sigh. “We all serve God in our way.” Then, almost to himself: “Sometimes whether we wish it or not.

Jerome K. Jerome used the telling of Christmas Eve ghost stories as a framing device for his 1891 ghost-story collection, Told After Supper, claiming in his introduction that: Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories… It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders, and blood.

In the Victorian era, the wildness of Christmas wasn’t just tamed – it became thoroughly domesticated. The new fashion for Christmas celebrations embraced the festivities, the good cheer and the parties, but also set them firmly inside the home. Family was becoming central to Christmas, with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert portraying themselves celebrating in domestic bliss, surrounded by their children.

So I must ask myself, what role can I play in a world where men worship the moving-picture box, where they make and consume potions that eat away their own brains, where they ravage and pillage entire mountains, kill the very earth itself? “Mankind has lost its connection to the land, to the earth, to the beasts and spirits. They gather their food not from the forest and fields, but from plastic bins and ice boxes.

And then, slowly, I realise I can hear something – a low, jangling discordant music accompanied by screaming laughter, faint at first but growing ever louder, ever closer. I catch a glimpse of curling, gigantic horns silhouetted against the Christmas lights, and then, suddenly, the street is swarming with monsters. With masks depicting terrifying leering grimaces, mouths filled with jagged teeth, huge horns (often over a metre high), and costumes of shaggy pelts, these are the Krampuses. They are enormous – many of the Krampus performers wear platforms on their shoes to give them extra height, and the bulk of the pelts and horns make them even larger, towering over the spectators. They walk with a loping, swinging tread that only renders them more menacing, more animalistic, and serves to shake the giant cowbells that are strapped to their backs – this is the hideous music that accompanies them, so loud you have to yell to be heard. Every Krampus carries a switch.

Today is Jesus's birthday. Just pointing that out, brother, on account that some folks get a bit confused this time of year." He put a light hand on Santa's arm and grinned. "They think it's Santa Claus Day." Santa met his eye and held it. "Reverend," the lady said. "Don't you even start." She looked at Santa apologetically. "Just ignore him. He's a bit impractical when it comes to Christmas." "Darn straight I am. Santa Claus and all his little presents get in the way of God's message." "As can religion," Santa replied.

In other places, though, the vibe is different. In the Lombardy town of Guissano, huge figures of witches are dragged through the town to a jaunty drum-beat before they’re burned by a baying crowd. These figures represent real women who were murdered out of hatred, misogyny and ignorance, their effigies paraded to upbeat music and set aflame while people cheer wildly, hideous deaths enacted and re-enacted year on year, celebrated again and again. Of all the monstrous Christmas traditions, this is one I have no wish to attend.

Burn? Smite? Punish? Why is your god so intolerant? So jealous? Why must there be only one god? Why is there not room for many?' 'What?' 'One god, why can you honor only one god?' 'Why...every child in Bible school knows the answer to that. It is the first commandment: "You shall have no other gods before me."' 'You have not answered my question. Wherein lies the harm? Since earliest time men have sought the shelter of many gods, harmony with all the wild spirits. It would seem the more gods one had standing watch over one's self the better. Would it not?

Like the folklorists spinning beguiling fantasies of ancient pagan rituals, Jerome, Borlase, Dickens and the Jameses (M.R. and Henry) were tapping into the old need for darkness within the new, Victorian, family Christmas, when people were meant to be getting cosy round the tree or roasting chestnuts by the fire with their nearest and dearest, and not rampaging drunkenly through the streets in a horrible mask. The traditions might have shifted, and the tales may have been rendered in a form that could be enjoyed quietly, at home, with your family, but everyone still wanted midwinter to be full of ghosts and monsters.

must ask myself, what role can I play in a world where men worship the moving-picture box, where they make and consume potions that eat away their own brains, where they ravage and pillage entire mountains, kill the very earth itself? “Mankind has lost its connection to the land, to the earth, to the beasts and spirits. They gather their food not from the forest and fields, but from plastic bins and ice boxes. Their lives are no longer tied to the cycles of the seasons and the harvest, no longer do they need the Yule Lord to chase away the winter darkness and usher in the light of spring. Man has only himself to fear now . . . he has become his own worst devil.

In the fourteenth century, the name Perchta started being used to refer to these women. With the name derived from the word ‘Epiphany’, it may be that Perchta herself was part of a medieval tradition of personifying festivals. From the early fourteenth century on, over the Twelve Nights of Christmas Perchtas joined the gang, roaming about at night, bringing prosperity to those who left them food, occasionally eating babies, disembowelling people and stuffing them with straw. St Lucy, sweet, innocent and pure, would be absorbed into all of this as well – a girl associated with Christmas and midwinter because of the date of her saint’s day, pulled into the pack of semi-benevolent monstrous Christmas women.

This other Lucy is nothing like the demure, sweet victim of the hagiographies or the pure, white vision I’ve just seen outside the cathedral. Instead, on 13 December, she is said to ride through the skies with a cavalcade of the dead, of ghosts and, sometimes, of children who died while still unbaptised. Going house to house with her terrifying entourage, she looks for the food that has been left out for her. If all is well, she’ll eat the offerings and bring good fortune in return, and if she encounters any good children on her way she gives them treats. But if the food offerings are incorrect or forgotten, and if Lucy finds that the tasks of the household – especially those related to weaving – have not been finished and laid aside for her celebration, she brings disorder, bad luck and death. If she finds children who have misbehaved, she’ll gut them, pull out their organs, stuff them full of straw, and sew them back up again. Sometimes she’s depicted holding a distaff with a child’s intestines twined around it, an impressive combining of the normally very separate interests of cloth-making and disembowelling.

Look into Bavarian and Austrian tradition further and there is another witch monster who bears a striking similarity to Lucy: Perchta. Rather than travelling on Lucy’s Night, Perchta conducts her grim business on the Twelve Nights of Christmas or the week after Lucy’s Night (a period known as the Christmas Ember Days), and is especially associated with Epiphany itself. In fact, it’s where Perchta’s name likely comes from – and why it sounds so similar to the ‘Perchten’ monsters mentioned in the chapter before – both were named after the day they appeared.vii But in all other regards, Lucy and Perchta are almost identical – rewarding good children and gutting the bad before stuffing them with straw (Perchta adds the flourish of sewing up her victims using a ploughshare as a needle and a chain as thread); obsessed with the idea that the tasks of the household – especially weaving – must be completed and set aside before their nights begin, and demanding food offerings be left out for them, bringing good luck where they find them and bad where they do not.viii There’s another Christmas witch too – though an altogether kinder one – the Befana. An Italian variant, Befana, like Perchta, appears on Epiphany, and, like Perchta, she takes her name from the festival. She also gives good children sweets, but the bad children who meet Befana only have to contend with gifts of coal rather than being gutted. The history of these Christmas witches may well be one of the most complex of all the seasonal monsters. After all, only an utter mess of tangling beliefs can lead to a semi-benevolent, disembowelling witch who demands offerings, gives presents, and flies across the land followed by an army of the dead.

Baš sam davio mačiće na potoku, kada je preko livade dotrčao Toni i sav zadihan objavio: stigli su Francuzi!

If this is to be my throne, it will need a complete overhaul.

An offer. A choice. I imagine a wiser woman wouldn’t be tempted. But wisdom rarely outshines desperation.

I should have known it would cost me more than I wanted to give.

Well, do it. Kill me. Make me pay my penance.” “Oh, little one.” He shook his head slowly. “Not all penance is death.

You may scream, little one. There’s no one who will hear you.

A faint whistling sound was her only warning before he brought the birch rods down across her bare ass.

He slid his big hand down to cup her aching pussy. Krampus made a low, pleased noise. “You’re lovely, little one.

Was it her imagination, or was there something akin to fondness in his tone as he wedged a third finger into her?

Krampus wrapped one hand around her throat, creating a cage she couldn’t escape if she’d tried, and pulled her back more firmly against his chest.

something wet and sinuous slithered down between her breasts and wrapped around one nipple. His…tongue?

Imogen came so hard, every muscle in her body locked up. And still he fucked her. On and on it went, through another orgasm, two, three, until her body gave out and she went lip like a rag doll.

I can’t come again.” She whimpered and tried to close her legs, but he was having none of it. He pressed her wider yet and picked up his pace, pulsing hard against her G-spot.

He eased his tongue out of her and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her pussy. “Good girl.

Askasleikir, Bowl-Licker, December 17 to December 30. If you bring a bowl of gruel or warm cereal to eat in bed before you drift off to sleep, this Lad is waiting under your bed for when you set the bowl on the floor. That's when he slides the bowl underneath and licks it clean.

Besides, monster smut is all the rage these days.

I remain in a constant pursuit of betterment.

at least I knew for certain that no mere bullet was going to kill a krampus—not unless it was attached to the end of a nuclear bomb.

Just after a krampus that people had spotted in the area.” That got my attention. “A krampus? You’re sure?” Petra nodded. “I saw it walking down the road, swinging its chains around. Those fucking horrific bell things were making noise. You can’t really mistake a krampus for anything else.” In mythology, a krampus was a sort of anti-Santa. It would spirit away the naughty boys and girls to its lair. What it did with them is open to interpretation; some say it drowned the children and ate them, while some suggested it just kept them until they behaved and then brought them back. In most instances the truth is quite far removed from reality, but in the case of the krampus, truth and reality weren’t all that dissimilar. Krampus don’t care one way or the other about the behavior of the children they steal. They take children back to their lairs and feast on their souls, tossing the corpse of the child into a nearby stream or river when they finish. Unlike animals that need to hibernate during the winter, krampus only feed during the coldest months of the year, before vanishing once spring arrives. Before the tenth century, there were hundreds of the bastards running around, although nearly all of them were killed after it was made illegal to create them. Like most of the truly horrific creations in the world, krampus were made using dark blood magic. At one point, they’d been human, although once the magic had finished with them, any glimmer of humanity had been extinguished. They were considered a crime against magic, and their creation was punishable by death. Apparently, someone was unconcerned about the possibility of such things, if he or she had taken the time and effort to make a krampus and unleash it on the town of Mittenwald.

Reading the bible is like dumpster diving. You sift through the garbage hoping to find anything of value.

The excitement of the first Sunday in Advent had hardly died down when the sixth of December came around, one of the most momentous days for all houses where little children lived. On the vigil of this day Saint Nikolaus comes down to earth to visit all the little ones. Saint Nikolaus was a saintly bishop of the fourth century, and being always very kind and helpful to children and young people, God granted that every year on his feastday he might come down to the children. He comes dressed in his Bishop’s vestments, with a mitre on his head and his Bishop’s staff in his hand. He is followed, however, by the Krampus, an ugly, black little devil with a long, red tongue, a pair of horns, and a long tail. When Saint Nikolaus enters a house, he finds the whole family assembled, waiting for him, and the parents greet him devoutly. Then he asks the children questions from their catechism. He has them repeat a prayer or sing a song. He seems to know everything, all the dark spots of the past year, as you can see from his admonishing words. All the good children are given a sack with apples and nuts, prunes and figs, and the most delicious, heavenly sweets. Bad children, however, must promise very hard to change their life. Otherwise, the Krampus will take them along, and he is grunting already and rattling his heavy chain. But the Holy Bishop won’t ever let him touch a child. He believes the tearful eyes and stammered promises, but it may happen that, instead of a sweet bag, you get a switch. That will be put up in a conspicuous place and will look very symbolic of a child’s behavior.

If you are naughty, Krampus will eat you.” I started laughing, which probably confused him.  Well, that part of the story had turned out to be true.

There can be no doubt- no doubt- that the Krampus-host is another Ancestral-folkloric memory of the actual, objectively-existing Hobbmen. The Hobbs, the Hairy Ones, the Master's goatish and bestial servitors who are indwellers in this very wild Nature that covers the world in forestland and mountains. From the Seirim of the old Semites to the Saytrs of the Greeks, we aren't dealing with different beings, just different human groups remembering those beings in their own distinct ways. Their Master is always the same- Azael as the leader of the Seirim, Pan as leader of the Satyrs- always the "Goatish" God, always the Master.

I am the scrape of branches at the window when your guilt begins to fester, the warning mother’s whisper to mischievous children and the dark shadow of Old St. Nick.” With a lift of his head he said, “You may call me Krampus and you, dear Daphne, are on my naughty list.

crying

lip

Tall, with the muscular body of a man, the Krampus had a huge goat’s head, with thick horns curling on either side of its head. Beneath leather and metal armor, it was completely covered in shaggy, dirty-white fur, and its eyes were bloodred. But through the matted coat, there was almost the outline of a human skull. A thick chain was wrapped around its waist and trailed on the ground behind it.

I wasn't sure if he would know what to do. And if he didn't, whether I would be brave enough to suggest it. Without me even saying a word, though, he opened his mouth and unfurled the most amazing tongue I'd ever seen. A thing to put Gene Simmons to shame: long, brilliant red, with a clever, curling tip. Possibly prehensile. Like it was an experiment, he made a tentative slurp and rolled his tongue in his mouth, like he was tasting wine. "Hmmmmmmmm.

Dad went back to the front, taking Jovie with him, and Kye cornered me. Backing me up until my ass bumped into one of the workshop tables. “You have no sense of personal space, do you?” Not that I minded. Especially when he trapped me there, planting soft kisses against my throat and shoulder. “We could try for a workshop-table-baby.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, making my toes curl. “How about it?” It took an extreme amount of willpower to not let his kisses distract me. “First, we’re not trying for any kind of baby while Dad’s here.” He grunted, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. “We could come back after hours.” My brows hiked into my hairline. “Why would we come all the way back into town when we have a perfectly comfortable bed. And kitchen. And living room. And the armchair that we still have yet to christen.” We shared a wicked smirk before I gave him a quick, chaste kiss and whispered, “I don’t want a chisel poking my ass while you fuck me. Not sexy.” “Armchair baby it is,” he sighed, like he was accepting the next best option. “Should I at least buy you a drink first? Soften you up a bit?” “Hmmm,” I hummed, reaching up to tap his chin with my index finger. “Well, if you insist. How about hot cocoa?” He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes, and I had to keep myself from getting swept away by his gaze. “I know just the place.” Kye donned his coat and slid his hand into mine. We made our way to The Bowl, ordered our drinks, and met at the windows where, almost exactly one year ago, I’d dabbed whipped cream off his nose. I reached up now to do the same after he took his first sip, because he still didn’t have the skills to drink The Bowl’s monstrosity properly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I accused, balling up the napkin. I’d never openly admit it was one of my favorite things. “Holly?” “Yes?” “Shut up and forking kiss me.” And I did. I forking kissed the big, Krampus-looking, kindhearted, funny, foul-mouthed, available all-months-of-the-year alien. It just happened to be another one of my favorite things.

Because it's the truth. I am not a holiday they rejoice in. I'm the holiday that they fear.