By Martin Pearson

Herr Schicklegruber had lived on Hopeless, Maine for a very long time. In fact, it was such a long time that Herr Schicklegruber, besides having no recollection of when he had first landed on the island, was equally vague regarding the how, or indeed, the why. This, in many ways, was unsurprising, as he was extremely old and his mental faculties were not as sharp as they might be.

It had always been his practice to keep himself very much to himself. He had no idea why this seemed like a good plan, only that somewhere, far back in the deepest recesses of his mind, something told him that it would be wise to maintain the lowest of low profiles. So aloof was he that no one on the island even knew his first name; in fact, it had been such an age since that particular appellation was used, Mr Schicklegruber had quite forgotten what it was himself. Accordingly, he had no friends, and few acquaintances, even of the most distant variety. He lived a simple, solitary existence, preferring to slumber in his armchair and dream dreams which were forgotten as soon as he awoke. Then one day, in a dream of his childhood, memories flooded back to him with crystal clear clarity.

In the days when he was a boy, Austria was a country steeped in folklore, with a peasantry who believed every word of it. In young Schicklegruber’s mind there strode a panoply of mythic characters, some beautiful, some scary, some both.  None, however, were more terrifying than Krampus.

Young Schicklegruber’s maternal grandmother had filled his head with tales of Krampus, the goat-footed, long-tongued monster; an ancient being who stalked the earth on St. Nicholas Eve, seeking out naughty children. Every child in the village secretly cowered beneath their blankets on that particular night, terrified that the monstrous creature would bind them in chains and haul them away in his sack, to meet some ghastly, but undisclosed, fate. Of course, this fear was unfounded for most, as they knew that deep down they were relatively good, and totally undeserving of any punishment that Krampus might choose to dole out. Young Schicklegruber, however, had no such illusions. He knew that he was bad to the bone.  Really, really bad. His father had told him as much, many times.

Herr Schicklegruber senior was a most unpleasant man, who treated his wife and children abominably, with beatings being a regular feature of family life. It is no wonder that Schicklegruber junior believed his father’s words, for when one’s days are viewed through such a prism, it becomes easy to suppose that such brutish treatment is an inevitable consequence of being a truly bad person. Yes, young Schicklegruber genuinely believed that if there was anyone deserving of Krampus’ displeasure, it was surely him.

The old man emerged from his slumbers and looked in confusion at the dying embers of the fire. Whatever was it that had made him have such a vivid and memorable dream? He had not thought about his childhood for years, much less the infantile fear of folkloric monsters. He sighed, then shuffled outside to his meagre woodpile, returning a few minutes later carrying an armful of dark, twisted sticks of wood. These would have to do until morning. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall, and he had no intention of venturing out again tonight; besides, those thoughts of Krampus had made him feel distinctly uneasy.

Wrapped in the warmth of the newly-fed fire, Herr Schicklegruber drifted once more into a contented doze. All dreams of childhood had left him now, and it seemed that he was standing in his sitting room, but observing his sleeping self. It was an odd dream, to be sure. Then it became odder.

A long shadow fell across the doorway, and the suddenly familiar features of the monster that had haunted his every December towered over his sleeping body. The cruel horns, shaggy coat, cloven hooves and obscenely lolling tongue could only belong to…

“Krampus!” screamed the watching Schicklegruber, but his sleeping counterpart stirred not at all.

He watched in horror as the creature wound heavy chains around the figure in the chair, then threw him in a sack. Then Krampus turned to the watching Schicklegruber, looked him full in the eye, and said, in his father’s voice,

“It is time for a reckoning… and you have been such a wicked boy.”

Rhys Cranham wanted to be certain that his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, was ready to take on the mantle of a full-time Night-Soil Man. Rhys was planning to retire from the position very soon, and marry the love of his life, Philomena Bucket. The Schicklegruber house was one he visited but infrequently, but it was necessary that Winston was familiar with every dwelling on the island.

They were more than a little surprised to see that the door appeared to have been ripped off its hinges. The two Night-Soil men looked at each other, not knowing what to expect when they peered through the window of the tiny parlour. In the event, there was nothing to see, the room was empty, but every stick of furniture was broken, as though some great beast had ravaged it. There were drag marks on the ground and scrapes on the walls, as though huge claws had traced deep grooves into the stonework.

“I have seen some strange things while doing my rounds, but never anything like this before,” said Rhys. “We’ll take a look, but I don’t think that Mr Schicklegruber is here anymore. Something has taken him.”

As the pair walked back to the House at Poo Corner, Winston asked,

“Do you ever get used to these things?”

 “Not really,” said Rhys, “This one wasn’t so bad, though.  There was nothing gory to see.”

“It was still disturbing,” said Winston.

“They all are,” agreed Rhys.

“I’ll log it in the journal,” he added. “What’s the date?”

“December the fifth,” said Winston.

Rhys froze in his tracks. The date December the fifth rang distant bells… in fact Christmas Bells, and not pleasant ones.

Suddenly it came to him.

“Krampusnacht!”