10:00 PM CST / 11:00 PM EST

The snow hit hard that morning in Red Hollow, Wyoming. Not a big town—just a smattering of shops, a post office that didn’t open on Mondays, and a diner with coffee as black as the clouds above it.

Marshal Elias Baker pulled into town alone, driving an unmarked Bureau rig with half a bumper and no heater. The warrant in his coat pocket was little more than theater. No judge in the country would issue a real one for “mythological entities.” But two children had vanished without a trace. One turned up three days later—stuffed inside a tree, hands bound with candy-striped twine, eyes wide and white as the snow.

The locals didn’t call it murder.

They called it a warning.

It was Saint Nicholas Eve—December 6th. Traditionally the night Krampus walked. The old tales said he punished the naughty while Saint Nick rewarded the nice. But in Red Hollow, there was no Saint Nick. Just scratch marks on doors and the occasional hoofprint in the snow that melted before dawn.

Baker interviewed the surviving child. Little Daisy Moore hadn’t spoken since they found her, but she drew pictures. Over and over again. Horns. Chains. A sack. And blood. Always blood.

That night, Baker walked Main Street alone, peacoat tight around his shoulders, Glock at his side. He wasn’t here to make arrests. He was here to hunt something no one else would touch.

At 9:43 PM, a scream cut through the hush. A man, maybe thirty, staggered out of the alley by the feed store, arms slashed and shirt soaked. “Chains,” he gasped, “he’s got chains—”

Baker shoved the man aside and charged into the alley.

And there it was.

Eight feet tall, twisted horns like a mountain ram, black fur soaked with sleet. Its eyes glowed with malevolent glee, and from its belt hung bells that made no sound. It grinned—jagged teeth yellow and cracked—and dragged a sack behind it that moved.

Baker didn’t hesitate.

“U.S. Marshal,” he growled, drawing his Glock. “You’re done here.”

Krampus laughed.

It was a hollow, ancient sound—like sleigh bells tumbling down a dry well.

Baker fired. The shot hit square in the chest—but Krampus barely flinched. He charged, chains clanging now, real and loud. The marshal dove, rolled, and came up with a flare from his coat. He’d brought it for light, maybe for a signal.

He hadn’t expected it to burn that bright.

Krampus shrieked.

Smoke curled from his skin, steam rose from his eyes. Fire. The old stories never said why, but it hated fire.

Baker lit two more, tossing one into the beast’s sack. It shrieked louder, dropping the bundle. A child—a boy this time—rolled free, unconscious but breathing.

Krampus backed away, retreating into the snow and fog. Not defeated. Just warned.

“You come back,” Baker shouted, “I’ll light you up like a Christmas tree.”

The monster vanished.

By morning, the town was quiet again. No more children went missing. No more hoofprints in the snow.

But Marshal Baker didn’t leave right away.

He sat in the diner, sipping burnt coffee, a bag of flares by his boot. Because monsters don’t care about dates.

And Krampus had come early this year.