Mrs. Krampus
Mike wasn’t supposed to be awake. He knew that. Eleven years old, and every Christmas, without fail, he was the Problem Child. The one who peeked. The one who couldn’t wait.
The year before, Mom had found the torn flap of wrapping paper under his bed, the year before that she’d caught him rifling through the attic boxes. It didn’t matter if he swore he was only looking. The verdict was always the same: Mike peeked.
This year he had promised himself it would be different. He would wait. He would be good.
So when he padded out for a glass of water and found the living room glowing with lamplight, he thought nothing of it. Mom was on the rug with her wrapping paper spread in a halo around her, scissors flashing, tape dispenser clicking. Bing Crosby crooned faintly from the radio.
Mike leaned on the doorway, sipping his water. He almost turned back upstairs. Almost, but curiosity tugged at him, as it always did.
“That’s a cool one,” he said, nodding toward a long red-foil package half-wrapped at her knees. “Bet whoever gets that’s gonna flip.”
The scissors froze mid-cut.
Mom didn’t look up right away. When she did, her smile was stiff, her knuckles white where they pinched the paper. “What did you say, Michael?”
He swallowed. “Just… looks cool. Like a Nerf gun or something.”
The tape refused to stick. Her fingers trembled. “And how,” she asked carefully, “would you know what’s in there?”
Mike blinked. “I don’t! I was just guessing.”
Her eyes narrowed. Too much red in them. The air felt suddenly colder, though the radiator clanked and hissed behind the couch.
“Every year,” she whispered. “Every year you peek. Every year you ruin the magic.”
“I didn’t!” Mike’s voice came out high. He took a step back. “Mom, I swear, I didn’t this time.”
But something in her had already changed.
Her shoulders hunched, bones popping under the sweater. The smile widened too far, showing teeth—so many teeth. A musky, burnt smell filled the room, cinnamon and soot.
Mike’s stomach dropped. “Mom…?”
Her nails lengthened first, curling dark as fireplace pokers. Then the horns: thick, ridged, sprouting through her scalp and tearing the neat part in her hair. Her cardigan stretched, split, until tatters dangled from fur that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Krampus knows,” she rasped, but the voice wasn’t hers anymore. It dragged like a chain across stone. “Krampus always knows.”
The sack by her side writhed. Mike hadn’t noticed it before, rough burlap stitched wrong, bulging like something inside was kicking. Whimpers leaked through—children’s voices, muffled, crying his name.
He stumbled backward into the coffee table. The long red box slipped from the rug and thudded against his shin. The same one he’d called cool.
His present. He didn’t know that. But she did.
Her face, if it could still be called that, split into a tusked grin. “So you peeked again.”
Mike shook his head hard enough to make his eyes water. “I didn’t! I swear, Mom, I didn’t peek this year!”
The tree lights flickered, then flared white-hot, bathing the room in a glow that twisted her shadow across every wall. Chains rattled as she uncoiled, horns nearly scraping the ceiling, claws reaching for him.
“Liar,” Mrs. Krampus breathed.
Mike grabbed the box, clutching it to his chest like a shield. The paper tore under his grip, and for the barest instant he saw the edge of plastic—bright, colorful, the toy he’d wanted all year. His.
Her roar shook the ornaments from the branches. The sack yawned open wider.
And before he could move, before he could scream, the lights blew out.
The last thing he heard was the scrape of chains, the sound of wrapping paper tearing itself to shreds, and his mother’s voice, warped, monstrous, hissing his name over and over in the dark.
When the lights finally came back, the living room was empty.
Only the long red box remained, ripped open, no present inside.
The front door creaked. Keys jangled.
“Mike?” Dad’s voice floated in, tired from the late shift. He set his lunch pail on the counter, dropped his boots heavy on the mat. “You still up, buddy?”
He walked into the living room and stopped.
The rug was bare. The tape, the scissors, the rolls of wrapping paper—gone. No tree lights. Just the lamp burning low, and the faint smell of smoke and cinnamon hanging in the air like someone had scorched cookies in the oven hours ago.
“Linda?” he called softly.
Silence answered.
His eyes fell on the box by the coffee table. Wrapping torn. Empty.
He crouched, ran his hand over the paper as if it might explain itself. For a moment he thought he heard something, chains dragging, faint and far away, the kind of sound you feel more in your teeth than your ears. He shook his head.
The house settled.
Dad straightened, rubbing his face. “Jesus,” he muttered. “What a night.”
Upstairs, the wind rattled Mike’s bedroom window.
But there was no one left to hear it.
THE END
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