đ Folklore Files: The 12 Fiends of Christmas - Part 1 đ
Yule be terrified!
As we approach the twelve days of Christmas, I wanted to do something different this year. I thought Iâd tell you about the lesser known terrors, and the darker side of Christmas.
Although the practice has fallen almost entirely out of memory now, it was customary to tell ghost stories at Christmas. It was as much a part of the season as holly wreaths and mulled wine. The Victorians gathered round the fire on Christmas Eve to share tales of spectres and hauntings. Charles Dickens made his fortune from it. His âA Christmas Carolâ was exactly that, a ghostly story for the season, one of many he published each December.
The tradition stretched back further still, to the winter solstice celebrations of pagan Europe. The longest night of the year, when the barrier between the living and the dead grew thin. The darkness invited such stories. Even now, a faint echo survives in Andy Williamsâ 1963 Christmas standard: âThereâll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago.â
But the folklore that survived in the Alpine villages, the Icelandic highlands, and the French borderlands wasnât merely stories told by the fire. These were warnings. Real terrors that parents invoked to keep children in line during the darkest weeks of winter. Figures who prowled the nights on the Twelve Days between Christmas and Epiphany, meting out punishment to the wicked and the lazy.
What follows are twelve of them. This is the first part, covering the first six terrors.
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1. Krampus
The horned figure arrives on the night of 5th December. Half-goat, half-demon, covered in matted fur and chains, Krampus stalks the Alpine villages of Austria, Bavaria, and surrounding regions as the companion to St Nicholas. Where the saint rewards good children with gifts, Krampus punishes the wicked.
His appearance is monstrous. Long curved horns sprout from his head. His face twists into a leering grimace, tongue lolling past his chin. Cloven hooves, sharp claws, and a body covered in dark shaggy hair complete the nightmare. The chains dragged behind him clank and rattle through the winter streets. In one hand he carries birch rods for beating, in the other a wicker basket large enough to hold a child.St Nicholas arrives first at Alpine homes, questioning children about their behaviour. Those who have been good receive small gifts: nuts, apples, gingerbread. But when a child has misbehaved, St Nicholas steps aside. The door opens again, and Krampus enters. He beats the worst children with his switches, leaving welts across their legs whilst parents watch. Others he snatches up entirely, stuffing them into his basket. Some accounts claim he takes them to his mountain lair. Others suggest he drowns them, eats them, or drags them to hell.
On Krampusnacht, young men dress in elaborate costumes and parade through towns in events called Krampuslauf. The costumes weigh up to 25 kilograms, featuring hand-carved wooden masks, heavy furs, and massive cowbells. The performers charge at spectators, rattling chains and cracking whips. The bells create a deafening clang through narrow streets. Krampus figures lunge at bystanders, grabbing hair and giving sharp swats with switches.
In major celebrations like Klagenfurt or Salzburg, over a thousand Krampuses parade through the city after dark. Spectators offer schnapps to performers, who drink before continuing through the crowd.
The Catholic Church banned the tradition in 1746, declaring it too extreme. The prohibition failed in isolated Alpine communities. By the 19th century, Krampus appeared on greeting cards called Krampuskarten showing him tormenting children.
The name derives from krampen, Old High German for claw. Some folklorists connect him to pre-Christian Perchten spirits. The chains demonstrate that St Nicholas has tamed the demon, yet in the Krampuslauf and childrenâs stories, Krampus remains genuine dread. He is the punishment that balances St Nicholasâs mercy. In Styria, families display the Rute (birch switch) painted gold year-round as a permanent reminder.
2. Frau Perchta
She prowls the Twelve Days of Christmas, from 25th December to 6th January. In the Alpine regions of Austria, Bavaria, and Switzerland, Frau Perchta roams the countryside inspecting homes, checking that the yearâs work has been completed. She is the guardian of spinning, the enforcer of domestic order, and the punisher of the lazy. Her methods are brutal.
Frau Perchta appears in two forms. Sometimes she is beautiful, dressed in white robes, leaving silver coins for children and servants who have worked hard. But more often, she appears as a crone. Stooped and ancient, with an iron nose jutting from her face like a beak, dressed in rags, carrying a long knife hidden beneath her skirts.
Her particular obsession is spinning. In traditional Alpine households, women spent winter months spinning flax into thread. The work had to be completed by Epiphany. Frau Perchta kept watch, entering homes during the night, running her fingers along spools and bobbins. If a woman had failed to complete her portion of flax, Perchtaâs punishment was swift and horrifying.
She would slit the womanâs belly open with her knife, reach inside, and pull out stomach and guts. Then she would stuff the hollow with straw and pebbles before leaving the woman to die. The same fate awaited anyone who ate forbidden food on her feast night. Tradition demanded fish and gruel on the eve of Epiphany. Children received similar treatment if they had been idle or disobedient.
On Perchtaâs Night, families left offerings inside the chimney or by the hearth. The name Perchta derives from an Old High German word meaning bright or shining. Scholar Jacob Grimm identified her as the southern equivalent of Holda, another spinning goddess from Germanic mythology.
The Catholic Church outlawed the Cult of Perchta in 1468. The prohibition did little to erase her from folk memory. Instead, the stories grew more violent. She became the Christmas Hag, the Belly-Slitter. Yet traces of the older Perchta survived. The Schönperchten (Beautiful Perchten) appeared during festivals to bring luck. The Schiachperchten (Ugly Perchten) came to drive out demons, wearing grotesque masks with fangs and tusks. Both participated in the masked processions called Perchtenlauf.
Frau Perchta herself is said to lead the Wild Hunt during the RauhnÀchte, the rough nights between Christmas and Epiphany. She rides through the sky at the head of a ghostly army. Those who hear her coming know to hide inside and bar their doors. To be caught outside during the Wild Hunt means death or madness.
The belly-slitting stories are still told, a reminder of when the old goddess walked the frozen earth with a knife in her hand.
3. The Perchtenlauf
The processions begin after dark on the nights between Christmas and Epiphany. Through the Alpine villages of Austria, Bavaria, and southern Germany, masked figures pour into the streets carrying torches and cowbells. They are the Perchten, followers of Frau Perchta, wild spirits made flesh for the Twelve Nights of winter. The Perchtenlauf (Perchten Run) transforms quiet mountain towns into scenes of controlled chaos.
The participants divide into two types. The Schönperchten (Beautiful Perchten) wear ornate wooden masks painted in bright colours, crowned with elaborate headdresses that can tower three metres high. These structures are built from flowers, ribbons, mirrors, and feathers, representing prosperity and good fortune. The masks show serene faces, carved with delicate features. These are the benevolent spirits who bring blessings for the coming year.
Then come the Schiachperchten (Ugly Perchten). Their masks are nightmares carved in wood. Twisted demonic faces with bulging eyes, fangs jutting from gaping mouths, long tongues that loll past wooden chins. Horns sprout from their heads. Animal pelts cover their bodies, and massive cowbells hang from leather straps around their waists. The bells alone can weigh up to 30 kilograms. When the Schiachperchten move, the sound is deafening, a thunderous clanging that echoes off stone buildings.
The Schönperchten bless the crowd, moving through the streets with grace. The Schiachperchten drive out demons and evil spirits that have accumulated during the darkest days of winter. They charge at spectators, rattling their bells and cracking whips, creating noise and chaos meant to frighten away anything malevolent lurking in the shadows. The interaction can turn rough. Schiachperchten pull hair, push people, deliver sharp swats with switches. Spectators who provoke them receive harsher treatment.
Written records from the 16th century mention masked processions during the RauhnÀchte, suggesting the practice was already well established. The Catholic Church viewed these pagan remnants with deep suspicion. In 1570, the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg issued a decree banning the Perchtenlauf, declaring the masks demonic. The prohibition had little effect in isolated mountain villages, and eventually the Church ceased its active suppression.
The masks themselves became treasured heirlooms, passed from father to son, some dating back over a hundred years. Traditional masks are carved from Swiss pine or linden wood. A skilled carver might spend 200 hours on a single mask, working with chisels to create the demonic features. The finished mask is painted, sealed, and fitted with real animal horns, teeth, or tusks.
In major events like the Gastein Perchtenlauf, entire villages turn out to watch. The Perchten gather at the edge of town as darkness falls. Torches are lit, schnapps is passed around, and the participants transform. Once the masks go on, they cease to be individual men and become the Perchten. They do not speak. Communication happens through gesture and movement, through the ringing of bells and the crack of whips.
The run begins with a roar of sound. The Perchten surge forward into the streets, bells clanging, torches throwing wild shadows. Spectators press back against walls. The Schönperchten process with stately grace. The Schiachperchten explode into motion, charging, spinning, leaping. By tradition, spectators offer schnapps to the Perchten, who accept by tilting their masks back just enough to drink.
Children watch from their parentsâ shoulders, simultaneously terrified and delighted. The Schiachperchten deliberately target the young ones, lunging toward them with exaggerated menace before retreating. The old boundaries blur. What began as genuine belief in the Perchten as supernatural entities has transformed into theatre, but the theatre retains its power.
The Perchtenlauf ends with the participants withdrawing into the darkness beyond the village. The torches recede, the sound of bells fades. The Perchten remove their masks only in private. Once the performance ends, the men return to ordinary life, and the Perchten vanish back into the mythology from which they emerged.
4. GrĂœla
In the Icelandic highlands, winter brings not one terror but an entire family of them. At the centre stands GrĂœla, a child-eating ogress who descends from her mountain cave each Christmas to hunt for prey. She is ancient, grotesque, and utterly merciless. Icelandic children grew up with her name as a constant threat: behave, or GrĂœla will come for you.
Most accounts give her fifteen tails, each one capable of carrying twenty bags, and in each bag she stuffs naughty children. Some versions describe her with multiple heads, anywhere from three to as many as forty, each one scanning the landscape for victims. She has hooves instead of feet, claws instead of hands, and her size dwarfs any human. When she moves through the snow towards a farmstead, the ground trembles.
GrĂœla lives in the Dimmuborgir lava fields near Lake MĂœvatn in northern Iceland, though other traditions place her in various mountain caves. She shares her dwelling with her third husband, LeppalĂșĂ°i, a lazy figure who does little but sleep. Her first two husbands she killed. She also keeps the Yule Cat, a monstrous feline the size of a house. But her true claim to infamy comes from her thirteen sons, the Yule Lads, and her singular diet.
She eats only children, and only naughty ones. Well-behaved children hold no interest for her. She can smell disobedience from miles away, a supernatural sense that draws her down from the mountains each December. Once she catches a childâs scent, she sets out with her sacks ready. Parents invoked her throughout the year as the ultimate deterrent.
GrĂœla travels from farm to farm in the isolated Icelandic countryside, peering through windows, listening at doors. When she identifies a household with badly behaved children, she breaks in. The children she snatches up, stuffing them alive into her sacks, loading them onto her tails until she has gathered enough for a feast. Then she returns to her cave to prepare them.
Her favourite dish is a stew. She boils the children alive in a great cauldron, cooking them until their flesh falls from their bones. Some versions suggest she prefers them raw, crunching through bones with her massive teeth and swallowing them whole. Either way, the children disappear entirely. Families who lost children to GrĂœla never saw them again.
The earliest written mention of GrĂœla appears in the 13th century Prose Edda. By the 17th century, Icelandic poets had developed her into the Christmas monster familiar to later generations. A poem from 1746 by JĂłn GuĂ°mundsson describes her in vivid detail: her many heads, her terrible appetite, the bags of children hanging from her tails.
The Icelandic Church attempted to suppress belief in GrĂœla. In 1746, a royal decree banned parents from frightening children with tales of GrĂœla and her sons. The prohibition proved unenforceable. In isolated farmsteads scattered across the Icelandic wilderness, where winter lasted eight months and darkness dominated the days, parents needed every tool available to maintain order. GrĂœla provided that tool.
One particular detail appears in multiple accounts: GrĂœla can only take children whose parents confirm their misbehaviour. She arrives at the door and asks whether any naughty children live in the house. If the parents deny it, she must leave empty-handed. But if the parents admit that yes, the child has been disobedient, GrĂœla has permission to take them. This element added psychological terror to the tradition. Children feared not only the monster but also the possibility that their own parents might hand them over.
Modern Iceland has transformed GrĂœla into something more benign, a figure in childrenâs stories and Christmas decorations. But the older version persists in folk memory. She showed no mercy, no hesitation. If a child had been naughty, GrĂœla took them. The parents could do nothing but watch as she stuffed their screaming offspring into her sacks and disappeared back into the snow.
5. The Yule Cat
The Yule Cat prowls Iceland during the Christmas season, but unlike GrĂœla and her sons, this monster shows no interest in behaviour or morality. It cares only about clothing. Those who have not received new garments before Christmas Eve become its prey.
The creature is enormous, larger than any house. Its fur is matted and filthy, its eyes glow in the darkness, and its teeth can tear a human apart in seconds. It stalks through the winter night, peering through windows, searching for victims. The Yule Cat can smell poverty and idleness from miles away. When it finds someone wearing old, threadbare clothes on Christmas Eve, it strikes.
The tradition emerged from Icelandâs wool economy. For centuries, the countryâs survival depended on sheep farming and textile production. Autumn was the time of slaughter and shearing, and the weeks leading up to Christmas became a race to process the wool harvest. Every member of the household had a quota: spinning, carding, weaving, knitting. Those who completed their work before Christmas Eve received new clothes as a reward. Those who failed received nothing, and when the Yule Cat came, they had no protection.
The new garment did not need to be elaborate. A pair of socks, a scarf, even new shoelaces sufficed. What mattered was having something new to wear, proof that the person had contributed to the householdâs productivity during the autumn months. Servants, children, and farm labourers all faced the same requirement. Finish your work and receive new clothes, or face the consequences.
Accounts describe the creature crouching outside farmhouses on Christmas Eve, watching through windows as families gathered for their meal. Anyone sitting at the table wearing old clothes became a target. The cat would wait until the person stepped outside, perhaps to fetch firewood or check on livestock, and then it would pounce. The attack was swift and brutal. It devoured them entirely. By morning, nothing remained but bloodstains in the snow.
The creature belongs to GrĂœla. She keeps it as a pet, sending it out to hunt whilst she focuses on catching naughty children. The Yule Cat serves as enforcement for a different kind of misbehaviour: laziness. Where GrĂœla punished disobedience and wickedness, the Yule Cat punished those who failed to complete their work.
Icelandic poet JĂłhannes Ășr Kötlum wrote the definitive poem about the Yule Cat in 1932, though the creature featured in folklore long before that. His verses describe the cat prowling through the snow, its enormous shadow falling across houses, its hunger insatiable. In 1987, Icelandic singer Björk recorded a version set to music, bringing the tradition to international attention.
The practical purpose of the tradition is transparent. Icelandâs harsh climate and isolated geography made productivity essential for survival. The wool harvest had to be processed before the darkest months set in. The Yule Cat transformed this economic necessity into supernatural threat, giving children and servants a visceral reason to complete their quotas.
Charitable giving also became connected to the Yule Cat tradition. Wealthier Icelanders would donate clothing to the poor before Christmas, not purely from kindness but from a genuine belief that those without new garments faced mortal danger. The custom of giving clothes at Christmas persists in Iceland to this day.
Modern Iceland has adopted the Yule Cat as a cultural symbol. It appears on Christmas cards, in shop windows, in childrenâs books alongside GrĂœla and the Yule Lads. The threat has been domesticated. But the original function remains visible beneath the commercial veneer. The Yule Cat was never meant to be cute or harmless. It was a monster that ate the poor and the lazy, a creature that enforced economic participation through terror.
Even in the 21st century, elderly Icelanders recall being told about the Yule Cat in their youth. The fear was real. Children worked harder at their autumn tasks knowing that failure meant more than disappointing their parents or going without new clothes. It meant facing a monster that would tear them apart and devour them in the snow. The Yule Cat still watches from the darkness in poems and songs, still judges who has worked and who has not, still waits for those foolish enough to wear old clothes on Christmas Eve.
6. Window-Peeper
On the night of 20th December, the tenth of GrĂœlaâs thirteen sons arrives in Icelandic villages. His name is GluggagĂŠgir, which translates directly as Window-Peeper, and his method is exactly as the name suggests. He prowls around houses in the darkness, pressing his face against the glass, watching the families inside.
The Yule Lads are not monsters like their mother. They are tricksters, pranksters, each with a particular form of mischief that defined their character. GrĂœlaâs sons arrived one by one on the thirteen nights before Christmas, starting on 12th December and continuing until Christmas Eve. Each stayed for thirteen days before departing, which meant that by Christmas, all thirteen were present in the villages simultaneously. After Christmas, they left in the same order they arrived, the last one departing on 6th January.
Window-Peeperâs specific obsession sets him apart from his brothers. Whilst the others focused on stealing food or causing household disruptions, GluggagĂŠgir simply watched. He would creep up to farmhouse windows after dark, when families had gathered inside for the evening meal or were preparing for bed. His face would appear suddenly in the glass, pale and leering, his eyes wide and unblinking. The shock of seeing him staring in from the winter darkness was enough to send children screaming.
But Window-Peeper had a secondary motive beyond simple fright. He watched for things to steal. Anything visible through the window became a potential target. In the old Icelandic farmhouses, families kept their most valuable possessions in plain sight: tools, food stores, clothing. GluggagĂŠgir would peer through the glass, making careful note of what he saw, and later in the night he would find a way inside to take what he wanted.
The tradition of the Yule Lads evolved over centuries. Early mentions describe them as dangerous figures, nearly as threatening as their mother. By the 17th and 18th centuries, they had transformed into mischievous characters, still frightening to children but less likely to cause genuine harm. Each brother received a name based on his particular trick or obsession. Stekkjarstaur (Sheep-Cote Clod) harassed sheep. Giljagaur (Gully Gawk) hid in gullies waiting to steal milk. StĂșfur (Stubby) stole pans to eat the crusts left on them.
Window-Peeper represented a more psychological form of torment. The violation of being watched, of having oneâs private domestic space invaded by prying eyes, carried its own particular dread. Icelandic farmhouses were isolated, sometimes miles from the nearest neighbour. The winter darkness lasted most of the day. When a face appeared at the window, there was nowhere to run, no one to call for help. The family had to endure GluggagĂŠgirâs presence until he chose to leave.
Children were warned about him throughout the year. Keep the curtains drawn after dark, or Window-Peeper will see you. Donât leave valuables near the windows, or heâll mark them for theft. The warnings served a practical purpose in the harsh Icelandic climate. Exposed windows lost heat, and anything left visible from outside was vulnerable to theft by human intruders as much as supernatural ones. Window-Peeper became the personification of these real dangers.
In modern Iceland, the Yule Lads have been thoroughly domesticated. They appear in childrenâs books, television specials, and Christmas decorations. Each one brings small gifts for well-behaved children, leaving them in shoes placed on windowsills during the thirteen nights before Christmas. Badly behaved children receive rotting potatoes instead. The tradition has inverted: the Yule Lads now reward good behaviour rather than punishing the wicked.
But Window-Peeperâs original function lingers in the folk memory. He is the face at the glass, the watcher in the darkness, the reminder that winter brings not just cold and hunger but also the loss of privacy and safety. Even in the sanitised modern versions, GluggagĂŠgir retains something of his unsettling nature. Of all the Yule Lads, he is perhaps the one whose mischief translates most directly into contemporary fears. The sensation of being watched, of eyes on you when you thought you were alone, remains viscerally disturbing regardless of the century.
These six figures represent only half of the Christmas terrors that haunted Europeâs winter nights. The remaining six await in the second part: more of GrĂœlaâs mischievous sons, the cannibal scarecrow of Alsace, St Nicholasâs chain-wielding companion, and the underground goblins who emerge during the Twelve Days to saw through the World Tree itself.
The darkness of winter runs deeper still.
These are excellent! So interesting! Thanks for this! Part II awaits and I don't know if I want to dive right in or wait awhile as I digest this first bunch. Who's kidding who? I can't wait!