“Let me in!” she yelled, banging her fists on the door.
More laughter.
“Sorry, Freddie Hallow-Hart, you know the rules!” came a disembodied voice from behind the door.
“I am a paying guest at this hotel.” She almost stamped her foot in frustration.
Whistles and guffaws from inside met her protestations.
“I don’t care how much you’ve paid, missy, this is Krampus Night, so you’d better get running!” returned the voice through the locked door.
According to the folklore, by showing due respect to Krampus—and proving to the demon that you were no bah-humbug—he would leave you alone for the season, and thus ensure the townspeople enjoyed a merry and prosperous Christmas market. Each year, on Krampus Night, a resident of the town volunteered to play the demon while others opted to be part of the grisly goblin army. Garbed in rags and gruesome masks, they banded together and paraded up and down the high street, singing and carousing and hunting for victims. For the rest of the participants—called “runners,” which now included Fred—the object was simple: don’t get caught.
This annual event was marketed as a bit of fun but, as with many traditions, it was steeped in superstition, and nobody wanted to risk the success of the market by bucking against it too much.
“It’s no good,” said Ryan, grabbing hold of her hand and trying to pull her away. “We need to leave now, or we’ll both get locked up.”
“Oh, for god’s sake!” she shouted in exasperation, beforebreaking into a run beside the elf. “This town is bloody ridiculous!”
—
The sound ofFred’s and Ryan’s boots slapping against the cobblestones echoed around the empty street—but a distant roaring, getting louder by the second, signaled that they wouldn’t be alone for long. Fred’s lungs were burning with the exertion and her boobs were jiggling up and down, barely contained by the lace of her bralette—what wouldn’t she give for a decent sports bra right now! Ryan still had hold of her hand, and when the indistinct rumble became the sound of beating hooves and drums, she wondered if this was how she would die.
Howls and hollering filled the air. Fred turned in time to see four horses round the corner, pulling a replica of a medieval tumbril with prison bars. The rider on the box seat, playing the part of Krampus, was cloaked in furs and wore a hideous mask with two long goatlike horns twisting up out of his head. Running alongside the carriage were dozens of fur-clad goblins wearing equally terrifying masks; they carried broomsticks and shook their pitchforks.
“Shiiiiiiiit!” she yelled.
On Krampus Night one of the pubs in the town was declared “home.” It was the only establishment to remain open; all the others would bar their doors, the customers singing and drinking with equal gusto to keep the spirit of Krampus away from their homes this Christmas. Bets wouldhave been laid weeks in advance on which runners would be caught or reach home triumphant.
“Where’s home?” Fred gasped.
“The Crooked Elm,” Ryan replied, hoarsely.
“We’ll never make it!” she wheezed.
“Quick, in here!” Ryan tugged her sharply left, into a dark alley between a butcher’s shop and a souvenir store calling itself the Tartan Emporium. She squeaked indignantly as he pushed her into a deep doorway and squished himself in beside her. “Shhh!” he implored, passing her a floppy collapsible water bottle.
She looked him up and down, taking in his short green tunic and tights. “Where were you keeping this?” she whispered, the feel of it both comfortingly and worryingly warm in her cold hands.
He flashed her a grin. “Never you mind.”
Fred grimaced but unscrewed the cap and drank deeply.
As the thundering parade passed their hiding place, they both flattened themselves against the wooden door in the wall. Steam plumed out of the horses’ nostrils and Fred could see all the waifs and strays who had been captured by Krampus and the evil elves. The prisoners rattled the bars of the giant cage, laughing and shouting, passing beer bottles and hip flasks between them. For kids growing up here, it was seen as a rite of passage. Every year, friends dared each other to take part in the exhilarating and slightly terrifying tradition; one travel writer had described it as being “like Halloween on cocaine.” It was a hoot when you wereeighteen; less so when you were thirty-five and had anticipated a quiet night in your hotel room with a few glasses of wine andThe Real Housewives.
“Aren’t you a bit old for all this nonsense?” Fred hissed as her breathing began to calm. She was dripping with sweat that was fast turning icy.
“Who are you calling old? I’ll have you know I am at the peak of physical fitness.”
Fred attempted a derisive snort, but it turned into a kind of death-rattle choke as her lungs continued to gripe about the unplanned exercise.
Ryan had the gentlemanly decency to ignore her unladylike splutterings and said, “I’m doing it for charity. The British Heart Foundation. Fancy sponsoring me?” In addition to the thrill seekers, the night also encouraged community-spirited souls to run the gauntlet for charity; dressing up was an optional extra. Dressing up like one of Father Christmas’s elves just seemed like asking for trouble, in Fred’s opinion.
Each year, on the last day of the Christmas market, Father Christmas and Krampus had a face-off outside Frost Hardware to decide who would own Christmas. It was a tradition that had been going for as long as anyone could remember. As far as Fred knew, Father Christmas had always been triumphant.
“Who’s playing Krampus this year?” Fred asked.
“Bettina O’Toole.”
