Savoring the Fear of the Fittest

As I stroll through the frozen landscape, the crunch of snow beneath my boots is music to my demonic ears. The Yuletide season is upon us, and with it, the perfect opportunity to feast on the fear of the guilty. My eyes scan the horizon, searching for the perfect prey, the ones who have been warned but still choose to ignore the consequences of their actions. The scent of desperation wafts through the air, a delicious aroma that makes my stomach growl with anticipation.

I recall a particularly satisfying encounter with a group of village children, their parents too blind to see the warning signs. They thought they could outrun me, outsmart me, but I always get my due. The terror in their eyes, the sound of their screams as they realize their fate, it’s a symphony of joy that I savor with every fiber of my being. The irony is not lost on me - these are the ones who should be on the nice list, yet they’re the ones who suffer the most. Ah, the hypocrisy of it all.

But what’s a Yuletide celebration without a few well-placed scars? I delight in the art of psychological warfare, the subtle manipulation of the minds of the guilty. A whispered rumor here, a faint hint of dread there, and the seed of fear is planted. And when the time is right, I reap the harvest, collecting the fear that I’ve so carefully cultivated. It’s a never-ending cycle, one that I’m grateful to be a part of. For in the world of the Krampus, there’s no such thing as a peaceful holiday season.