The snow falls softly as I weave through the market stalls. The late afternoon sun keeps the snow from accumulating on the cobblestones, yet I intentionally feel for each step. My eyes are on the group ahead of me. These teenagers are moving fast from their excitement with what the night is to behold. Their behavior completely opposite of the indifference they carry in the classroom. And I, always the one to slip on ice when I am rushed, am just trying to keep up.

  We had spent the day wandering the holiday markets. Admiring the handmade wooden decorations, glass baubles, and ornate nutcrackers while snacking on candied nuts. After covering most of the market, we stopped to listen to musicians playing in the square. The students egged each other on and the group broke into a frolicing, impromptu dance. But like all teenagers, they finally gave in to their stomachs and follow the savory aromas to a circle of food vendors. As I catch up, I see Gabe.

  “Mulled wine” he smiles, and shoves a mug into my hand.

  “While we have a moment…” I drag him over to a stall with handknit sweaters.

  “Do you like this one?” I ask with a bit too much excitement. I hold up a green and white sweater with a snowflake pattern. I typically am not a holiday person, but I can always find a reason for another wintery sweater.

  “Isa, you knitted a sweater just like that last year.”

  He is right. He is always right.

  “It's pure Bavarian wool!”

  He rolls his eyes at me then scans the stall. “Why don’t you buy some yarn instead? It is more like you to make a sweater than buy one. Plus, it will give you an excuse for why you will unfortunately have to miss my holiday party.” He mocks my voice as he hands me some balls of yarn.

  They are so soft. I imagine the perfect sweater I'd knit in my apartment alone over the holidays. He knows me so well.

  “I don’t need an excuse to be a recluse, but this might seem more socially acceptable.”

  The only thing I ever question Gabe on is his insistence to lead the 8th grade class trip to Europe every year. He is the de-facto trip leader, being the school history teacher, but he makes it into our personal bucket list trip that conveniently aligns with the history curriculum. ‘It’s a free trip to Europe!’ he exclaims every fall, badgering me to join. ‘Haven’t you always wanted to go to Paris/Rome/[insert European city here]?’ Since I have nothing else better to do in December and it is two weeks away from my responsibilities of teaching math to middle schoolers, I always agree.

  The consequence of leading this trip is dealing with whiny, spoiled teenagers. Their overbearing parents who volunteer as chaperones is an added bonus. This year’s trip has been especially painful as the anxious new English teacher, Oliver, has joined. It seems he came with the personal mission to follow me around like a lovesick puppy. Somehow, he still has not figured out I am not into overly affectionate men.

  But earlier this morning…those worries drifted away as the sun twinkled in the soft snowfall. The constant ire of the students melted away as we took in the small Bavarian town nestled in between snow capped mountains. The mountains that stretched endlessly, glistening in the early light. The smell of sweet pasteries and dark coffee warmed us as we took in the picturesque town's Christmas market.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  After I purchase enough yarn for a sweater and Gabe refills our mugs, we stroll back towards the student. We take our time to breath in the fresh mountain air mixed with sweet roasted nuts and savory meats. The sun is starting to drop low in the sky and throws shadows on the ornate wooden Christmas pyramids. They are dramatically highlighted by the glow from the candles at their base. I can see the soft rising heat work to move the fans of the decorative pieces. I have never much enjoyed celebrating the holidays the way I was raised - flashy and overdone - but this I could celebrate.

  The town center is full of 200-year-old stone buildings of all colors, all capped in gabled wooden roofs. All decorated for the holidays in a way that complimented the timeless town. At that moment, I let myself enjoy the holiday decorations strung about town.

  We gather up the students and their parents to find a spot to watch the parade. As the villagers and tourists pack in tight, the energy grows from a calm pleasure to a vibrant excitement that matches the teenagers. Even Oliver seems to be free of the constant nervousness he wears. He joins Gabe and I in conversation without making it awkward. The palpation of anticipation for the Krampusnacht parade has taken over the town.

  "Maybe a Krampus could whip the kids during this parade. Hopefully make them appreciate life and complain less.” I grumble to Gabe as we wait in the crowds. Supposedly, it is not uncommon for a decorative whip held by the costumed Krampus to accidentally branish the first row of onlookers.

  Far in the distance, the energy of the crowd lulls silent. I look towards that end of town where the sun is slowly setting over the mountain slopes. Everyone quiets as the approaching dusk covers us. There is a strained second of pure silence before screams and shouts start echoing off the mountains. Over the cries, I can hear an unrhythmic drumming. The parade has begun.

  The first carry drums which they beat wildly with the singular goal of making noise and invoking terror.

  “These costumes look like a bad mix of Bigfoot and a goat,” Gabe chuckles.

  The next few groups have very similar black and brown furry costumes, but each Krampus wears different grotesque masks adorned with horns. The second wave of costumed men pause our chuckles as they crack whips over their heads. They raise switches and run towards the lines of revelers watching them, screaming into their faces. Screams start overtaking the crowds. With each passing group the costumes became more ornate and gruesome. The fur appears to have patterning that indicates that it could be real fur. The masks seem to be carved from wood. Now that night has come over the town, the torches the Krampus carry cast twisted shadows. The flickering light hides the imperfections of the costumes which makes each Krampus look more real. More like the legend they are trying to evoke.

  “They are serious about this.” Gabe murmurs as we watch each group of Krampus becoming more and more grotesque. Some with whips, others with bells, all screaming and scaring the onlookers. There are cages pulled by horses, also wearing horns, with dolls representing bad children. The sweet music the musicians played during the day has left the town and is now an electronic rock blasting from speakers on top of the cages. The watchers also are getting loud - laughing, smiling, screaming. The crowd pulses with a delight that is slightly disturbing. As I finish off the last of my wine, I start to sway with the horrors of the parade.

  Behind a crew of Krampus with the longest of tongues, beards dragging to the ground, and largest of horns, I can see St. Nicholas bringing up the rear of the parade.

  “I suppose they need to soften all the nightmares they just gave us.” St Nicholas and his elves are handing out candies and smiles.

  As I admire the last of the Krampus passing us now, I notice a very tall, unmasked man walking behind them. His long brown and black hair parts so perfectly around the horns he somehow has attached to his head. It almost appeared as if they were real. From light cast from torches, I can see his face is scarred and he carries a scowl of perfect irrelevance. Though his eyes give away that he actually has an interest in being here - they dart around the crowds scanning for something. He wears a complete black outfit with a fur cloak dragging behind him, this one definitely made of real fur. I look around at the crowds as it does not appear anyone besides myself even notices him. His dark appearance camouflages him nicely into the night. The crowds, already over the gore show, have their eyes on St. Nicholas.

  As I look back at this Krampus, probably the scariest one so far, he looks directly at me. I feel darkness in that stare of black eyes. My stomach sours and clenches. My throat is dry and my hands become wet with cool sweat. I feel like his stare lasts forever. Finally, he turns his gaze from me but not before a slight malicious grin comes to the corners of his mouth. As he passes me, I see starlight flash off his clawed hand, which he has held behind his back.