đ Folklore Files: The 12 Fiends of Christmas - Part 2 đ
Oh Come All Ye Frightful
This is the second part of my exploration into the darker side of Christmas folklore. If you havenât read Part 1 yet, Iâd recommend starting there, as it introduces the tradition of Christmas terrors and covers the first six figures: Krampus, Frau Perchta, the Perchtenlauf, GrĂ˝la, the Yule Cat, and Window-Peeper.
What follows are the remaining six terrors that haunted Europeâs winter nights. More of GrĂ˝laâs 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.
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7. KertasnĂkir
On the night of 23rd December, the thirteenth and final of GrĂ˝laâs sons arrives. His name is KertasnĂkir, which translates as Candle-Stealer, and he comes for the light itself.
In medieval and early modern Iceland, candles were precious. They were made from tallow, rendered from sheep fat, a laborious process that consumed valuable resources. Each candle represented hours of work, and during the darkest weeks of winter, when daylight lasted only a few hours, families relied on them for every evening task. Reading, cooking, spinning, any work done after the sun set required candlelight. Running out meant sitting in complete darkness until morning.
KertasnĂkir followed children through the house, waiting for them to set a candle down or leave one unattended. The moment they turned away, he would snatch it and disappear into the shadows. Sometimes he ate the candles directly, biting into the tallow like food. Other accounts describe him hoarding them before vanishing back into the night.
His arrival on 23rd December carried particular significance. This was when families needed their candles most, preparing for Christmas, finishing the last tasks before the holiday began. To lose candles on this night meant facing Christmas in darkness, a catastrophe in the Icelandic winter.
Children were warned to never leave candles unattended, to guard them carefully during the thirteen nights the Yule Lads prowled. The warning served a practical purpose. Unattended candles caused fires, wasted expensive tallow, and represented carelessness that could endanger the entire household. KertasnĂkir personified the consequences of such negligence.
Like his brothers, Candle-Stealer transformed over the centuries from a genuinely threatening figure into a mischievous character. Modern Icelandic tradition has him leaving small gifts in shoes on the night of 23rd December. But the original KertasnĂkir stole rather than gave, and what he stole was something essential for survival.
The image of a figure lurking in the darkness, waiting to extinguish the light, carries primal fear. In the Icelandic winter, darkness was not merely inconvenient but dangerous. Without light, simple tasks became impossible. Candle-Stealer represented the loss of safety and comfort, the return to primitive conditions where humans huddled in the dark waiting for dawn.
Even in modern Iceland, where electric lights have replaced tallow candles, KertasnĂkir endures in the collective memory. He is the last of the Yule Lads to arrive, the final warning before Christmas itself. Of all GrĂ˝laâs sons, he perhaps comes closest to stealing something truly irreplaceable.
8. HurĂ°askellir
On the night of 19th December, the ninth of GrĂ˝laâs sons arrives in Icelandic villages. His name translates as Door-Slammer, and his obsession is exactly what it sounds like. He slams doors. All night long. Every door he can find.
HurĂ°askellir prowls through houses after the family has gone to bed, moving from room to room, throwing doors shut with tremendous force. The crashes echo through the farmhouse, jolting sleepers awake. Just as they settle back down, convinced it was the wind or their imagination, another door slams. Then another. The pattern continues until dawn, a relentless assault on sleep and sanity.
In the isolated Icelandic farmhouses, where families lived in close quarters during the long winter months, sleep was precious. The work was hard, the days were short, and rest was the only escape from survivalâs grinding monotony. HurĂ°askellir denied them even that. His door-slamming was torture designed to exhaust and unnerve.
The sound itself carried psychological weight. A door slamming in the night suggests an intruder moving through the house with hostile intent. Each crash triggered the instinct to investigate, to check whether the family was in danger. But when parents rose to look, they found nothing. Just the door, closed, with no explanation. The uncertainty was worse than seeing HurĂ°askellir himself.
Some accounts suggest he had a particular hatred for peace and quiet. If a household was sleeping soundly, HurĂ°askellir would seek them out specifically. He represented the chaos that could invade even the safest spaces, the reminder that no door was strong enough to keep out every threat.
Children were told that HurĂ°askellir particularly targeted households where children had been slamming doors during the day. The warning discouraged rough treatment of doors (which in timber-scarce Iceland were valuable and needed to last) and taught respect for the householdâs peace. Slam doors during the day, and Door-Slammer would return the favour a hundredfold at night.
The tradition also reflected a deeper anxiety about the integrity of the home during winter. Doors that didnât close properly let in drafts, which could mean the difference between warmth and freezing. HurĂ°askellir personified this failure of security, the breakdown of the barrier between the safe interior and the hostile winter outside.
Like his brothers, HurĂ°askellir has been softened in modern Icelandic tradition. He now leaves small gifts for children on the night of 19th December. But the original Door-Slammer was not funny. He was exhausting, relentless, a force that denied rest to families who desperately needed it. In a climate where survival depended on maintaining strength and alertness, sleep deprivation could be as dangerous as starvation.
9. Belsnickel
He arrives in the weeks before Christmas, though never on a predictable schedule. Belsnickel comes from the German tradition, brought to Pennsylvania by Dutch settlers in the 18th century, and his appearance is designed to terrify. He wears torn, ragged clothing patched together from furs and scraps. His face is often hidden behind a mask or blackened with soot. In one hand he carries a switch, in the other a bag of treats. Which one a child receives depends entirely on their behaviour.
The name Belsnickel likely derives from the German âPelz-nickel,â meaning âNicholas in furs,â though some suggest it comes from âbel,â meaning to beat or thrash. Either etymology fits. He is St Nicholasâs darker cousin, the figure who arrives before the saint to judge whether children deserve gifts or punishment.
Unlike Krampus, who accompanies St Nicholas as a companion, Belsnickel works alone. He appears without warning, often banging on doors or windows to announce his presence. When the family lets him in, he demands to know whether the children have been good. Parents are expected to provide honest accounts. If a child has misbehaved, Belsnickel knows. He always knows.
The test begins once he enters the house. Belsnickel scatters candy and nuts on the floor, creating a tempting pile of sweets within easy reach of the children. Then he gives a command: do not touch them. The children must sit still, hands folded, whilst the treats lie before them. Belsnickel watches, switch in hand, waiting for someone to break.
Any child who reaches for the candy receives a sharp crack across the knuckles or a swat on the legs. The switch moves fast, and Belsnickel shows no mercy for weakness. The test continues until he is satisfied that the children have demonstrated sufficient self-control, or until he grows bored of tormenting them. Only then does he allow them to gather up the scattered treats.
Well-behaved children might receive additional rewards from his bag: more candy, small toys, or fruits. Badly behaved children receive nothing, or worse, a beating with the switch that leaves welts and bruises. In some variations of the tradition, Belsnickel carries a bag similar to Krampusâs basket, and threatens to stuff the worst children inside and carry them away.
His appearance varies by region and family tradition. Some describe him wearing antlers or horns. Others give him a long beard matted with dirt and twigs. The common elements are the furs, the filth, and the aura of barely contained violence. Belsnickel is not jolly. He does not smile or laugh. He arrives as judge and executioner, and children are expected to treat him with fearful respect.
The tradition thrived in rural Pennsylvania German communities throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. Belsnickel would travel from house to house in the days before Christmas, often portrayed by a young man from the community who took the role seriously. The performance could turn genuinely frightening, with Belsnickel chasing children around the house, cracking his switch against furniture, and demanding confessions of wrongdoing.
Parents used Belsnickel as a year-round threat. Behave or Belsnickel will hear about it. Heâs making his list. He knows what you did. The warnings intensified as Christmas approached, and when the ragged figure finally appeared at the door, children understood their behaviour had consequences.
The tradition faded in the mid-20th century as German cultural practices became less prominent in American life. Some Pennsylvania Dutch communities still maintain the custom, though in softened form. Modern Belsnickel is more likely to be jovial than threatening, his test more game than genuine ordeal.
But the old Belsnickel was no game. He was a wild man who brought the threat of violence directly into the home, sanctioned by parents who invited him in. The candy test was psychological warfare, deliberately placing temptation before children and punishing them for natural impulses. The lesson was clear: control yourself, or others will control you through pain.
Belsnickelâs ragged appearance set him apart from more refined Christmas figures. He came from the woods, from the wild places beyond civilisation. His furs and dirt suggested something primitive, something that existed outside normal social rules. When he entered the house, the boundary between order and chaos blurred. Children faced not a jolly gift-giver but a dangerous stranger who held absolute power over them, and their parents offered no protection.
The switch remained Belsnickelâs defining implement. Not a bundle of birch rods like Krampus carried, but a single flexible switch that could strike with precision. The threat was specific, immediate, and personal. This was not abstract punishment or distant consequences. This was pain, delivered by a figure standing three feet away, and there was nothing the child could do to escape it.
10. Hans Trapp
In the Alsace-Lorraine region along the French-German border, children feared a figure even more horrific than Krampus or Belsnickel. His name was Hans Trapp, and unlike the other Christmas terrors who emerged from pure folklore, Hans Trapp was based on a real person. Hans von Trotha was a 15th-century knight and nobleman whose cruelty became so legendary that he transformed into a Christmas monster after his death.
The historical Hans von Trotha lived in the late 1400s, a wealthy landowner who controlled vast territories near Wissembourg in Alsace. Contemporary records describe him as viciously greedy, exploiting his peasants and engaging in protracted disputes with the Church over land and resources. In 1476, the Bishop of Strasbourg excommunicated him for his crimes, a serious punishment that marked him as beyond redemption. Von Trotha died shortly afterward, and the folklore that emerged transformed him into something far worse than a mere greedy nobleman.
The legend claims that Hans Trapp, driven from his lands and consumed by rage, retreated deep into the forest. There he lived as a hermit, his mind twisted by isolation and his soul corrupted by evil. His hunger grew until ordinary food could no longer satisfy him. He began to crave human flesh, particularly that of children.
Hans Trapp fashioned a disguise from straw and rags, creating a scarecrow-like costume that concealed his identity. Dressed in this grotesque outfit, he would emerge from the forest during the Christmas season to hunt for children. The scarecrow appearance made him seem almost inanimate at first glance, a harmless figure standing at the edge of the village. But when children came close, Hans Trapp would lunge forward, revealing himself as horribly alive.
The most disturbing element of the legend involves a specific victim. According to the tale, Hans Trapp captured a young boy in the forest, took him back to his lair, and prepared to cook and eat him. He sharpened his knife, built a fire, and was on the verge of butchering the child when God intervened. A bolt of lightning struck Hans Trapp dead before he could commit the murder, saving the boy but condemning the cannibal to eternal punishment.
Death did not end Hans Trappâs threat. His spirit continued to haunt the forests of Alsace, and during the Christmas season, he prowled the villages looking for wicked children to punish. Parents invoked his name throughout the year as the ultimate deterrent. If you misbehave, Hans Trapp will come for you. He knows where bad children live, and heâs still hungry.
Unlike Krampus who works alongside St Nicholas, or Belsnickel who tests children before rewarding them, Hans Trapp serves only as pure terror. He offers no rewards, no second chances. He is vengeance personified, a cannibal who specifically targets children. The scarecrow costume adds an additional layer of nightmare fuel, the image of something that should be inanimate suddenly moving with predatory intent.
The tradition remained strong in Alsace well into the 20th century. During the Christmas season, a man dressed as Hans Trapp would visit homes, his costume constructed from straw, rags, and a terrifying mask. He carried a large stick or switch, and sometimes a bundle of switches wrapped in chains. His appearance was deliberately shocking, designed to frighten children into obedience.
Hans Trapp would interrogate the children about their behaviour, his voice harsh and threatening. Parents would provide accounts of misbehaviour, and Hans Trapp would respond with physical punishment. The beatings could be severe, and the psychological impact of being struck by a scarecrow cannibal proved effective in enforcing discipline.
Modern celebrations in Alsace have softened the tradition somewhat. Hans Trapp still appears during Christmas markets and festivals, but his role has shifted toward performance rather than genuine terror. The historical connection to the real Hans von Trotha is often mentioned as a curious footnote, a reminder that some monsters have their roots in actual evil.
The evolution from greedy nobleman to cannibal scarecrow reveals how folklore processes real villainy. Hans von Trothaâs documented cruelty provided the seed, and centuries of storytelling grew it into something far more monstrous. The excommunication became damnation. The greed became hunger. The exploitation of peasants became the literal consumption of their children.
Hans Trapp endures as one of the most disturbing Christmas figures precisely because of his basis in reality. He was not a mythological creature or a pagan spirit Christianised into folklore. He was a man who became a monster, first through his actions in life and then through his transformation into legend. The scarecrow costume serves as his eternal punishment, a grotesque shell that traps his spirit and marks him as both less and more than human.
In the Alsace region, elderly residents still recall the genuine fear Hans Trapp inspired. The figure arriving at the door was not a friendly visitor bearing gifts. It was a cannibal in a straw disguise, a predator who hunted children, and the knowledge that he had once been a real person made the terror cut deeper.
11. Knecht Ruprecht
In German-speaking regions, St Nicholas does not travel alone. His companion is Knecht Ruprecht, whose name translates roughly as âServant Rupertâ or âFarmhand Rupert.â He appears dressed in dark robes or covered in filth and straw, his face often blackened with soot or hidden behind a dark beard. In his hands he carries either a bag of ashes, a stick for beating children, or both. Unlike Krampus with his demonic appearance, Knecht Ruprecht looks almost human, which somehow makes him more unsettling.
The tradition dates back to at least the 17th century, with written references appearing in German Christmas plays and poems from that period. Knecht Ruprecht serves as St Nicholasâs enforcer, the figure who handles the unpleasant business of punishing wicked children whilst the saint maintains his benevolent image. When St Nicholas arrives at a house to deliver gifts, Knecht Ruprecht follows behind, carrying his bag and his stick, ready to dispense justice.
The interrogation follows a specific pattern. St Nicholas questions the children about their behaviour, asking whether they have been obedient, whether they know their prayers, whether they have studied their lessons. Knecht Ruprecht stands silently beside him, waiting. If the children answer satisfactorily, St Nicholas rewards them with nuts, apples, or small gifts. But if they hesitate, if they admit to misbehaviour or fail to recite their prayers correctly, St Nicholas turns to his companion.
Knecht Ruprecht steps forward with his stick. The beating he delivers is not symbolic. Parents expected real punishment for real transgressions, and Knecht Ruprecht obliged. The stick came down on legs, backs, and hands, leaving marks that lasted for days. Some versions of the tradition describe him carrying a bag of ashes that he would throw in the faces of particularly wicked children, blinding and choking them.
The worst children faced a grimmer fate. Knecht Ruprecht carried a large sack, and tradition held that he would stuff irredeemably bad children inside and carry them away. Where he took them varied by region. Some accounts suggest he drowned them in a river. Others claim he took them to the Black Forest and abandoned them in the wilderness. A few versions suggest he simply kept them, making them work as his servants for a year before releasing them.
One particularly dark variation of the tradition involves Knecht Ruprecht asking children whether they want to pray or be beaten. If the child chooses prayer, he must recite perfectly. Any mistake results in a beating anyway. If the child chooses the beating, Knecht Ruprecht delivers it with enthusiasm. Either way, the child suffers. The false choice reveals the cruel streak running through the character.
The physical description of Knecht Ruprecht evolved over time. Early accounts present him as a wild man covered in animal skins and straw, similar to Belsnickel. Later traditions cleaned him up somewhat, dressing him in dark robes that suggested a monk or servant. The blackened face remained constant, though its meaning shifted. Originally it may have represented his time spent near fires or chimneys, later it became a mark of his association with darkness and sin.
Unlike Krampus, who is clearly a demon, or Hans Trapp, who is an evil spirit, Knecht Ruprecht occupies an ambiguous position. He is St Nicholasâs servant, which suggests he works in service of good, yet his methods are brutal and his appearance threatening. This ambiguity made him particularly effective as a disciplinary tool. He was not obviously evil, which meant children could not simply dismiss him as a monster. He was St Nicholasâs companion, which gave him legitimacy and authority.
The tradition spread throughout German-speaking Europe, with regional variations developing distinct characteristics. In some areas, Knecht Ruprecht became almost comical, a bumbling sidekick to the wise St Nicholas. In others, he retained his fearsome nature, a genuine threat that parents invoked year-round to maintain order.
German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe referenced Knecht Ruprecht in his writings, cementing the figure in German cultural consciousness. The poem âKnecht Ruprechtâ from 1802 depicts him arriving at a house on Christmas Eve, questioning the children, and threatening punishment for those who have misbehaved. Goetheâs version is relatively gentle, with Knecht Ruprecht ultimately dispensing gifts rather than beatings, but the underlying threat remains clear.
The tradition continued well into the 20th century in rural German communities. Men would dress as Knecht Ruprecht and accompany someone portraying St Nicholas on house visits during the Christmas season. The performance was taken seriously, with Knecht Ruprecht genuinely frightening children and parents expecting him to discipline those who deserved it.
Modern Germany has largely abandoned the harsher aspects of Knecht Ruprechtâs tradition. He still appears in Christmas markets and festivals, but as a historical curiosity rather than an active threat. The beatings have stopped, the sack remains empty, and the ashes stay in the bag. But the memory persists, particularly among older Germans who recall the genuine fear his arrival inspired.
Knecht Ruprecht represents a particular type of Christmas terror: the authorised punisher. He was not a rogue demon or an evil spirit acting independently. He was St Nicholasâs chosen companion, given explicit permission to hurt children in the name of discipline and moral education. This official sanction made him perhaps more frightening than monsters who operated outside the law. When Knecht Ruprecht beat a child, he did so with parental approval and divine authority. There was no appeal, no escape, no mercy. St Nicholas had made his judgment, and Knecht Ruprecht carried out the sentence.
12. Kallikantzaroi
In Greece, the Twelve Days of Christmas bring not a single monster but an entire horde of them. The Kallikantzaroi are goblins who emerge from the underground on Christmas Day and terrorise villages until Epiphany on 6th January. They are grotesque, malevolent, and utterly dedicated to causing chaos during what should be the most sacred period of the Christian calendar.
The appearance of the Kallikantzaroi varies wildly across different regions of Greece, but all descriptions agree on their fundamental hideousness. Some accounts describe them as small, dark creatures with monkey-like features, covered in thick black hair. Others portray them as tall and emaciated, with skeletal limbs and sunken eyes. Many versions give them animal characteristics: goat legs, horse hooves, pig snouts, or donkey ears. Their eyes glow red in the darkness. Their breath reeks of decay. Some are said to have enormous tongues that hang down to their knees, or genitals so large they must be carried in wheelbarrows.
For most of the year, the Kallikantzaroi live deep underground in the earthâs depths. There they spend their time attempting to saw through the World Tree, the cosmic axis that holds the earth in place. They work ceaselessly at this task, sawing through the massive trunk bit by bit, getting closer to severing it completely. If they succeed, the world will collapse into chaos. But every year, just as they are about to cut through the final section, Christmas arrives.
On Christmas Day, the Kallikantzaroi abandon their sawing and surge up from the underground through any opening they can find: wells, chimneys, cracks in the earth, even toilets. They emerge into the human world and spend the next twelve days causing havoc. By the time they return underground on Epiphany, the World Tree has healed itself completely, and they must begin their sawing all over again. This cycle has continued since time immemorial.
Once above ground, the Kallikantzaroi engage in various forms of mischief and malevolence. They spoil food, sour milk, and foul water. They ride on peopleâs backs whilst they sleep, causing nightmares and exhaustion. They sneak into houses and urinate on food stores or defecate in containers of grain. They smash pottery, tear clothing, and break furniture. Some accounts claim they kidnap children or young women, dragging them back underground.
The goblins particularly enjoy tormenting anyone foolish enough to be outdoors after dark during the Twelve Days. They jump on travellers and force them to dance until they collapse from exhaustion. They ask riddles that have no answers, beating anyone who cannot solve them. They demand tribute of food and drink, consuming vast quantities before vomiting it back up and demanding more.
Greek families developed extensive protective measures against the Kallikantzaroi. Burning specific woods in the fireplace, particularly oak or olive, helped keep the creatures away, as they feared fire. Hanging a pigâs jawbone outside the door served as a deterrent. Leaving a colander on the doorstep worked because the Kallikantzaroi would become obsessed with counting the holes and lose track of time, fleeing when dawn approached. Some families marked their doors with crosses in charcoal to prevent entry.
Children born during the Twelve Days faced particular danger. Greek tradition held that these children might transform into Kallikantzaroi themselves, especially if they were boys. To prevent this fate, the infant had to be bound in garlic and straw, or held over a fire to singe away the goblin nature before it could take hold. Some families went so far as to bind the babyâs feet in iron, believing this would prevent the transformation.
The Church played an active role in combating the Kallikantzaroi. Priests would go from house to house during the Twelve Days, sprinkling holy water and performing blessings to drive the creatures away. On Epiphany, the Great Blessing of Waters ceremony served to purify the world and send the Kallikantzaroi back underground for another year. The priest would throw a cross into a body of water, and young men would dive in to retrieve it despite the winter cold. This ritual marked the end of the goblin invasion.
The origin of the Kallikantzaroi remains unclear. Some scholars connect them to ancient Greek beliefs about spirits and the underworld. Others suggest they represent a Christianised version of older pagan traditions about the dangerous period of the winter solstice. The name itself may derive from the Greek âkalos-kentauros,â meaning beautiful centaur, though this seems ironic given their hideous appearance. Another theory links it to Turkish or Slavic words for werewolf or vampire.
The tradition persisted in rural Greece well into the 20th century. Elderly Greeks recall their parents taking the threat seriously, performing the protective rituals faithfully each Christmas season. Even in areas where belief in the actual existence of Kallikantzaroi had faded, the customs continued as cultural practice and insurance against the unlikely possibility that the old stories might be true.
The image of the Kallikantzaroi sawing at the World Tree carries particular symbolic weight. They represent chaos constantly threatening to break through into ordered reality, held back only by the cycle of the sacred calendar. Their annual emergence during Christmas, the celebration of light and salvation, creates a deliberate contrast between the holy and the profane, the divine and the demonic.
Unlike other Christmas terrors who punish specific moral failings, the Kallikantzaroi are indiscriminate. They torment everyone equally, without regard for behaviour or virtue. Good children and bad children alike faced their mischief. This randomness made them perhaps more frightening than figures like Krampus or Belsnickel, whose attacks could be avoided through obedience. The Kallikantzaroi simply hated humanity and delighted in causing suffering.
Modern Greece has largely relegated the Kallikantzaroi to folklore and childrenâs stories, though the Epiphany blessing of waters continues as an important religious tradition. Tourist shops sell Kallikantzaroi figurines as souvenirs, transforming the fearsome goblins into kitsch. But in remote villages, particularly in mountainous regions, some elderly residents still take precautions during the Twelve Days, just in case the old stories were not entirely wrong.
These are the twelve terrors of Christmas, the figures who haunted European winters long before the season became synonymous with shopping and sentiment. They emerged from real fears: the darkness, the cold, the need for obedience and productivity in communities where survival depended on cooperation. Parents invoked them not out of cruelty but out of necessity, transforming abstract dangers into concrete monsters that children could understand and fear.
The tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas has faded, replaced by carols and comedy specials. The monsters have been domesticated, transformed into cartoon characters and tourist attractions. Krampus appears on greeting cards. The Yule Lads leave gifts instead of causing mischief. Frau Perchta no longer slits bellies open in the night.
But the stories survive, preserved in folk memory and academic collections, reminders of a time when Christmas was not safe or comfortable but dangerous and dark. When the Twelve Days between Christmas and Epiphany marked a period of genuine supernatural threat, and families took real precautions against the things that prowled the winter darkness.
The terrors are still out there in the folklore, waiting in the Alpine forests and Icelandic caves, sawing at the World Tree deep underground. We simply choose not to believe in them anymore.
Until the next long winter night, when the wind howls outside and something rattles at the door.
Have a spooky Christmas đť