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.

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.

Then let us go and be terrible.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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—

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Foolish people never want to be reminded of how great they can be, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't have to be reminded.

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.

Unlike the death-and-resurrection mummers play, dated so securely (and so disappointingly) to the eighteenth century, Christmas guising is over 1,500 years old: wearing costumes and masks was associated with Kalends from at least Late Antiquity.

In the mid-fourth century AD, Bishop Ambrose of Milan recorded a tradition ‘of the common people’, where on 1 January they disguised themselves as stags. His contemporary, Bishop Pacian of Barcelona, wrote a short treatise condemning the act (called Cervus – ‘stags’). The treatise hasn’t survived, but we do have Pacian’s rueful (and endearing) musing that many people who hadn’t previously known about the practice had read his treatise, thought dressing as a stag on 1 January sounded quite fun, and started doing it themselves. ‘I think,’ he reflected, ‘that they would not have known how to make themselves into stags unless I had shown them by reprimanding them.

For much of the early medieval period, Christmas was often regarded as the opposition to Lent – a time of wild revelry before the restraint and piety that started on Ash Wednesday and ran until Easter.

We’re in the Internächte now – the ‘in-between nights’ – a term used in some areas of Germany and Austria for the period that runs from Christmas Day to Twelfth Night, on 6 January. It’s a good word to describe the strange, quiet interval that follows the chaos of Christmas itself and runs (at least in modern times) until New Year; a period when you lose track of time, as the normal working week is, for many people, suspended. Throughout history, this period has been associated more with relentless feasting and festivities than the quiet of the modern day, but it was still an in-between time, when nothing was quite as it should be – a perfect moment for the supernatural to slip through.

This performance is not limited to Marshfield – it’s part of a centuries-old Christmas tradition known as mumming (or mummering). Some parts of the Marshfield play are unique, but the structure of it – the death, the resurrection by a doctor, the pleas for donations, the inclusion of Beelzebub and Father Christmas – is found in similar performances all over Britain, an echoing of strange, murderous, devil-filled plays that fills the country at Christmas.

I’m desperate to understand what I’ve participated in, and I’m surprised (and a little disappointed) to discover that rather than being an arcane mystery, or a folklore that has been passed down through the ages, we can actually pinpoint the origin of the plays fairly easily.

The teasing is perhaps best embodied in a statue on a fountain in the Swiss town of Bern. Sculpted in the 1500s, it shows the child-eater stuffing a child into his unnaturally enormous mouth, with several more children stuffed into a bag at his side. It’s hideously unpleasant but painted in bright colours, perched on a pole that shows dancing animals in amusing hats and a favourite of local children. He’s fun and scary at the same time, bright, terrifying and frozen in place – able to horrify but not able to attack.

There are plenty of variants of Krampus runs scattered through Europe, especially in the Alpine regions. In some, the performers are separated from the public by metal fencing and the worst the monsters can do is rattle the railings or swipe at the spectators standing too close. Given the mayhem of Salzburg, I can see why some town councils and attendees prefer to be a little safer and a little more removed from the Krampuses (though if I’m entirely honest, it sounds a lot less fun). In other places, the spectacle is more stage managed, with pyrotechnics, fog effects, and a soundtrack of heavy metal rather than clanking cow bells. In some places, modern additions to the Krampus outfits, like glowing LED eyes, are forbidden, in others they’re happily embraced. Plenty of Krampus groups do house calls as well as the main run (some, joyously, allow for house visits to be booked online on the Krampus group’s website). In other places, the Krampuses take part in a short play with St Nicholas before they rampage through the town.

In the Vienna Folklore Museum is a yellowing wooden goat head on a pole. It has flapping black ears, short, curved horns, wide black eyes and an enormous, gaping, snapping mouth, lined with sharp little rows of carved wooden teeth. The jaw is rigged so that it snaps closed when the performer, holding the pole and hidden beneath a sheet, pulls on a thin piece of string dangling from the back of the monster’s head. This creature is called a Habergeiß, a name almost certainly related to goats (‘geiß’ is the Austrian for ‘goat’) and it can be found prowling the streets and snapping at the unwary in Bavarian towns over Epiphany.ix Over in Poland there’s the Turon, another horned, shaggy monster head with a clacking jaw that’s held on a pole by a performer under a sheet. The Turon is led on a rope house to house, where its escort sings carols and the Turon jumps and claps his jaw, chasing the householders. In Romania there are the Corlata, monsters who appear at the end of the year led by groups visiting houses, and are made from (you’ll never guess) a horned, wooden head – a stag’s, this time – with a clacking jaw, held on a pole by a performer who hides under a sheet (although the sheet that covers the Corlata can often be extremely brightly patterned – one photograph from 2010 shows it covered in brilliant flowers). In North-East Germany there’s the Klapperbock (the snapping buck), in the Italian Tyrol there are the Schanppvieh – snapbeasts (although these normally appeared at Carnival rather than Christmas). In Switzerland there’s the Schnabelgeiß, the ‘beak goat’, which looks like all the other goat monsters except that the snout narrows to a point, to take the form of a beak. In Finland and Sweden there are the Nuuttipukki, more stags who bother householders, this time on St Knut’s Day, on 13 January (hence their name). And we’ve already come across the Finnish Julebukk – the Yule goat – another goat monster portrayed by a performer hiding under a sheet, this time made of animal hides. In some parts of Lithuania and Silesia, meanwhile, there was the Schimmelreiter – the grey rider – which came with a new innovation. As in Britain, this monster was a horse, with a snapping head that was often a horse’s skull held on a pole, but this one was played by multiple people and could be ridden.x It starts to feel like you can’t go to Europe over the Christmas period without being snapped at by an animal head on a pole, held by a performer lurking under a cloth.

There is a gap of about three to four hundred years where the Christmas horned monsters aren’t attested in the sources, where the complaining churchmen found other things to moan about, and the folklorists had yet to appear. It is, technically, possible that the tradition of parading snapping, horned animal heads on poles at Christmastime died out across Europe in the fifteenth century, and then re-appeared during the eighteenth in a completely unconnected form that happened to look extremely similar. But it feels like the simplest explanation is that the traditions were related, that the Christmas horned animal costumes of the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries were an extension of the Christmas stag guises from Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages.