The train to Salzburg was canceled due to a blizzard in Bavaria. Munich was getting hit with its heaviest snowfall in twenty years. The ticket agent said there was a later train we could catch but he was noncommittal about its chances of getting through. Without any real options we boarded the later train, along with a hundred other stranded passengers. There were of course no available seats so Hayley and I sat on our luggage in the breezeway next to the toilet. I doubt this is how Julie Andrews arrived in Salzburg. The hours passed and the snow mounted but we pulled into the city just after dark. Even at night, tired and dragging a suitcase through the snow, I found Salzburg charming. I think I missed the mountains, and since it wasn’t too cold I could pause to appreciate the winter world around me. At the hostel Hayley and I were given “Free Shot” coupons for the bar and cashed them in immediately as painkillers. The Sound of Music was being played, apparently on an endless loop, in the common room. Hayley asked the front desk clerk if hearing “My Favorite Things” sends him into a murderous rage now. He smiled in an effort to mask his obvious rage.

We had a day to kill before Krampusnacht, “Krampus Night”, so Hayley and I bundled up and went exploring. We followed the road downhill from our hostel and crossed the Mirabell gardens just as a troop of kids were being herded through by their teacher. It was a field trip right out of The Sound of Music and I half expected them to break into song. Another postcard view. It was a very walkable town, straddling the Salzach River at the base of the northern Alps. One could stroll the riverside on tree-lined pedestrian paths while admiring a grand view. Salzburg was one of those places that seemed to be locked in time, too beautiful or too historic to be allowed to change. In other words, a nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live here, unless you like having tourists around – all the time.

Since this was the birthplace of Mozart there were plenty of opportunities to hear his music. Hayley chose a small venue in the Salzburger Hof with a single pianist. We sat down as Hayley studied the program with growing unease. She pointed to a word.

“Hey, what’s this claviermusik? A clavier is a harpsichord, isn’t it?”

“You hate the harpsichord,” I said.

“I know.”

You’d never have guessed it. Hayley smiled and applauded for forty-five minutes, then tipped the harpsichordist at the end. Whenever we travel it’s always Hayley who hands out money, whether it’s to beggars, street performers, or harpsichordists. I pay for drinks later. I prefer this arrangement because I’ve never figured out how to give money to strangers with tact. I just feel like a fat monarch tossing coppers at the poors.

Lunch, though I hesitate to call it that, consisted of hot chocolate with Baileys and an apple strudel. Maybe I am a fat monarch. But all those sugars will keep us warm, we reasoned. We needed the extra warmth because we’d signed up for a walking tour of the city, hoping for more detailed information about the Krampus festival.

Krampus is dark Santa, with claws. Though broadly human in outline, he is covered in fur and has the head of a horned animal. His specialty is punishing naughty children at Christmastime. He beats them with branches and since he’s part demon he sometimes tosses a kid or two in his basket and hauls them off to hell. His present incarnation goes back to medieval times; a wild man living only tenuously on the fringes of society or in the surrounding woods. Wilderness is a pagan environment, and anthropomorphic creatures like Krampus represent our less exalted selves, hearkening back to when we consorted with animals and were hardly different from them. Such brutes were feared and reviled by good Christians. As Joseph Campbell said in The Power of Myth, “God is not in nature” in the Western tradition, and medieval art depicts these wild men being driven out of villages. Thanks to the Krampus festival, and a greater appreciation of the natural world, they were being welcomed back.

After our walking tour, which was heavy on the Julie Andrews stuff, we stopped by a visitor center to ask about the Krampus festival. The woman almost spat at the mention of the name.

“Not a fan of Krampus?” I ventured.

“It’s not as bad as it used to be. But before…” she trailed off.

“What was different?” I asked, smelling gossip.

“Those Krampus,” she began, making another face, “they were bad. They would really hurt you.”

“Give you a good thrashing, eh?”

“They would put razor blades in their whips.”

“Wait, what?”

“They would sew razor blades in their whips and,” she made a swatting motion, “cut your legs.”

I understood her lack of enthusiasm for the Krampus Festival. She probably had PTSD from her childhood in Salzburg.

“They’re not like that now, you understand?” she said before we left.

The sound of rattles reached our ears, martial rather than musical, like a clanking medieval army on the march. Shadows appeared up the Linzergasse, cast by the lights of the procession slowly moving towards us. Above the dark mass rose a pair of black horns, then another. The Krampus had arrived. Hayley moved behind me. She might have been thinking about razor blades.

First on the scene was a demon, pure and simple, maybe the Big Guy himself. Goat horns. Red face. Long black fingernails. He rode in a wooden cart pulled by other demons and howled at the people surrounding him. More Krampus arrived, shaking the large rattles they wore on their backsides by hopping in place or twerking. They made a racket that echoed in the narrow street. Sometimes a Krampus would dash up to an onlooker and give them a hard stare before walking away or, if they were found lacking, thrashing them with a whip. The crowd swept past and carried us along. A few people ran up to the Krampus for selfies while others, locals, avoided them. One annoyed woman swung her bag at them when they approached. It might have been the lady from the tourist information office. The Krampus took it all in stride, alternating between interacting with the crowd and gathering themselves in groups for a wild stomping rumpus. We separated ourselves from the katzenjammer so we could cross the Salzach river ahead of the procession.

The elaborate masks are hand-carved from pinewood. They all feature vast and pointy horns. If the mummers were following tradition they were drunk, so the Krampus Run is very much an auf eigene Gefahr (enter-at-your-own-risk) affair. Not as dangerous as the running of the bulls, though women may disagree.

After crossing the river we got lost in the side streets, but the procession wasn’t far behind. We followed the hurly-burly to a small square and staked out a corner to wait. The shaggy ones were already pouring into the square, led by a bat-eared demon with a realistically carved snarl: folds of black flesh curled back to expose red gums and dagger-like teeth. Next was a black-furred beast with curling horns above and protruding tongue below. Among the demon-like Krampus were old hags: hook-nosed, pimple-chinned, with stringy gray hair falling over raggy clothes. They may have been Perchten, something like a Christmas witch. Some stories maintain that they appear as beautiful women to right-minded boys and girls and only appear hideous to those of poor character. Like Krampus, she has a special punishment if you’re really naughty. She’ll sit on you, slit open your stomach and stuff your insides with straw. Something for kids to dream about instead of sugar plum fairies.

A demon with gleaming blue eyes and active bitch face detached itself from the procession and rushed up to me. I was face to face with Krampus, its horned head inches away, looking me up and down. I was found wanting and Hayley was treated to the sight of her boyfriend trying to skip away from the business end of a whip. “I don’t know why,” she said later, “but that made me really happy.” The same Krampus went on to high-five some little brat further up the street.

A final rumpus took place at Residenzplatz square where a platform had been erected in front of the Salzburg Cathedral for the Krampus to gather. They swayed their shaggy bodies beneath statues of saints and wagged their rumps at them as if in mockery. The wild men were showing the villagers how to have a good time.

Krampus and his ilk have a very long lineage. He is a distant relative of the Minotaur of Greek myth. Even earlier examples can be found in the half-human, half-animal figures depicted in cave paintings across Europe, and the 40,000-year-old Paleolithic figurine known as the Lion Man that was carved from a mammoth tusk. In these images of fantastic creatures we see our ancestors moving beyond representational art and creating something new. It might have been an illustration of the belief that by killing and eating certain animals we acquire their prowess, or perhaps it represented the first stirrings of religious thought, or maybe it was always just about scaring children to make them behave.