Blood Soulstice
Every December 25th, he feeds
Krampus sauntered through the blizzard, with his dirty burgundy sack hunched over his boney shoulders, as the moonlight of December 25th called to him. His hunger was insatiable.
The child inside the bag kicked him in the back of the leg again. Krampus turned and growled at it, and the thing quieted with a whimper. The wind blew his red hood back, revealing white frost along his protruded jaw. His horns stabbed into the moon behind him. The thick fur, now frozen, seemed like it was coated in blood. He brought up his claw and placed the hood upon his goat-like head, and turned back from the thing in his sack, hunched forward, and began to move forward again. He could smell his destination, just ahead, passing through the brick bridge over a frozen pond. He proceeded slowly, heart pounding with hunger, toward the next house that waited for him and children of earth, that he fed upon every year.
The house was a brick cottage with smoke billowing from the chimney. It was unlit and quiet. They would be asleep, and Krampus liked it better that way. He scratched with his long and sharp claws at the wooden door until he found the lock and pushed it open with a mumbled creak. The house smelled of newly baked treacle and chocolate. And, most importantly, the odor of eager children.
