Until now, I’ve never spoken about what happened on December 10th, 1992.  I was thirteen and in Logan airport, traveling as an unaccompanied minor to spend Christmas in Paris with my father and his new, post-divorce family.  I pressed my face against the cold glass of Terminal E and watched the snow swirl around the runway lights like tiny ghosts. The nor’easter blowing in would be one for the history books, with a massive blizzard and flooding along the coast.  I was parked in a seat in the terminal with cigarette smoke hanging lazily overhead.  Three seats down a seemingly ancient businessman (likely my age, now) in a rumpled suit fidgeted with his cigarette and a small silver flask.  

My flight was boarding at 9:23pm.  The first sign of trouble was about an hour before that.  "Ladies and gentlemen," crackled the voice over the intercom, "Northwest 47 to Paris has been delayed until further notice due to weather conditions."

The businessman sprang to the counter and I laughed; he reminded me of the Russian dancer from The Nutcracker my mother had taken my sister and I to see the night before.  The gate agent behind the counter looked exhausted. Her nameplate said "Jennifer," and she had dark circles under her eyes. "Sir, I understand your frustration, but—"

“Shutup and get your supervisor, you dumb cunt.  I have a meeting in Frankfurt that’s not going to be derailed by your incompetent airline.  

Jennifer's hands shook slightly as she typed on her computer. I'd never seen an adult's hands shake like that before. "Mr. Roberts, I'm rebooking you on the first available—"

“Are you deaf and stupid?” Mr. Roberts yelled.

The storm outside was getting worse. Through the big windows, I could barely see the planes on the tarmac anymore. Other passengers crowded around gate agents at different airlines, their voices getting louder and angrier.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came another announcement, "Logan International Airport is now closed to all incoming and outgoing traffic. Passengers with connecting flights should contact their airlines. The airport will remain closed until further notice."  Mr. Roberts threw his boarding pass on the floor. A woman with three kids started crying. Jennifer looked like she might throw up.

“I’m not fucking leaving!” Mr. Roberts declared, and stomped back to his seat.

I walked up to the counter. "Um, excuse me?"

She looked down at me, and her expression softened. "Hi, honey. You traveling alone?"

"Yeah. To Paris. To my dad." I held up my paperwork. "What happens now?"

Jennifer glanced around nervously. "Well, you'll have to stay here tonight. I'll get you some blankets and see about getting you something to eat."  For the next hour, disgruntled travelers filed out of the airport.  Jennifer brought me a blanket (scratchy), ham sandwich (not bad) and an orange juice (gross).  I nestled into the blanket and started reading the next in the collection of spooky stories my mother had been reluctant to buy me, and eventually nodded off to sleep as the crowd thinned to only a few determined or stranded passengers.  

I startled awake just after midnight.  Some faint noise had broken through the storm and the rattling of the heating system.  I strained to make it out.  Bells.  I looked around: Jennifer’s head was down on the ticketing counter where she appeared to be napping.  Mr. Roberts had fallen asleep with the butt of a still-smoldering cigarette hanging precariously from his bottom lip.  The few other passengers in the terminal were further away, and mostly asleep, except for one little girl, playing quietly with a ball on the edge of the concourse by the hallway.  She rolled the ball down the hallway and she chased after it, running quickly out of my sight.

All of the lights went out in Terminal E.  The emergency lights came up, leaving large shadows between the small islands of light cast randomly on the walls and floor.  I looked around, but everyone else was sleeping.  I considered going to make sure the little girl was ok, decided it was probably fine, and rolled over.  A moment later, my eyes shot open.  There was a smell crowding out the stale cigarette smoke.  It was something I’d smelled dozens of times on scout campouts; the sulfur of a freshly struck match.  It seemed to be coming through the air vents and drowning out all other smells.  

I got up from my seat. The little girl had been gone for several minutes now, and something felt wrong. I walked toward the hallway where she'd disappeared, my footsteps echoing in the empty terminal. "Hello?" I called softly. "Little girl?"

The corridor stretched ahead of me, lined with closed shops and empty gates. Most of the stores had metal security gates pulled down, their signs dark. Spencer's Gifts. Hudson News. A Brookstone with gadgets displayed in the window like museum pieces.

I found her red rubber ball first, sitting under a broken fluorescent light that flickered on and off. Then I heard a tiny sniffle from behind a row of empty chairs.

She was crouched there, knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were wide and scared.

"Hey," I whispered, crouching down next to her. "Are you okay?"

She pointed toward the security checkpoint at the far end of the terminal. "There's a monster," she whispered back.

I looked where she was pointing.

Something huge and dark was trying to get through the metal detector. It kept setting off the alarm - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. The thing had massive curved horns and was covered in matted fur. 

The thing (which I know now was Krampus) was getting frustrated with the security checkpoint. He tried to put his chains through the X-ray machine, but they were too long. The conveyor belt ground to a halt. Then he tried to step over the metal detector entirely, but his hooves couldn't get purchase on the smooth metal surface.

Frustrated, he smashed through the whole thing. Sparks flew as metal twisted and electronic components scattered across the floor. The backup alarms started wailing.

"We have to go," I told the little girl. "Right now."

We ran back down the corridor toward the main terminal. Behind us I could hear the scrape of claws on linoleum, the jingle of bells, and a sound like heavy breathing mixed with growling.

We reached the food court and I slammed into Mr. Roberts, who had come to investigate. 

"There's something coming," I panted. "Something bad."

He laughed, but it died in his throat when he saw the terror on our faces. 

"Jesus Christ," Roberts muttered, suddenly looking a lot more sober. "What is that smell?"

The sulfur was overwhelming now, mixed with wet fur and old smoke.

Krampus stepped into the food court.

Up close, he was even more terrifying than I'd imagined. Eight feet tall, with goat legs and cloven hooves, a humanoid torso covered in dark, matted fur. His horns curved back from his skull like a ram's, and his eyes glowed red in the emergency lighting. Chains wrapped around his body, and from them hung rusty bells that chimed softly with each movement. In one massive, clawed hand he carried a bundle of switches. In the other, a large sack.

The little girl squeezed my hand so tight it hurt.

Krampus looked at each of us slowly, sniffing the air. When his gaze fell on me, every bad thing I'd ever done flashed through my mind: talking back to Mom when she told me about this trip, calling her stupid when she was just trying to do something nice. Stealing that Swiss Army knife from Pat Harris’ backpack during the scout meeting because I wanted one so bad and knew Dad wouldn't buy it for me. Being mean to the weird kids at school just because everyone else was.

I was going to be taken. I was going to end up in that sack.

"Pppplease," I whispered.

Krampus stepped past me.

"Now wait just a goddamn minute," Roberts said, backing toward the windows. "I don't know what kind of sick joke this is, but—"

Krampus moved faster than something that size should have been able to move. One moment Roberts was by the window, the next he was lifted off the ground by his shirt collar, dangling in front of the monster's face.

"You've made a mistake!" Roberts screamed, kicking his legs. "I'm a taxpayer! I have rights!"

Krampus tilted his massive head, studying Roberts like a specimen. Then he opened his mouth and spoke, his voice like grinding stones: "Rights?"

"Yes! Rights you moron!" 

Krampus reached into his sack and pulled out a scroll of paper. He unrolled it with his free hand, and I caught a glimpse of writing in a language I didn't recognize.

"Thomas Edward Roberts," Krampus read. "Age forty-three. Divorced. Estranged from children. Currently facing embezzlement charges. Known to associates as..." He paused, squinting at the scroll. "The words are not suitable for children's ears."

"That's not... how could you possibly..." Roberts's face had gone pale.

"You cheat on your taxes. You abandoned your family for women and cocaine." Krampus rolled up the scroll and tucked it back into his sack. "You have made grown men weep."

"That's just business!"

Krampus stuffed Roberts into the sack headfirst. He should not have fit, and there was a sick popping sound as Krampus shoved him roughly past the mouth of the bag.  

Then the monster turned back to us.

The little girl was still holding my hand, but she wasn't crying anymore. She was looking up at Krampus with the kind of fascination kids usually reserved for dinosaurs and fire trucks.

Krampus knelt down. He reached out one massive, clawed finger and gently booped her on the nose.

She giggled.

Then he looked at me. I held my breath.

"Young Thomas," he said. "You have been unkind to your mother."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"And you have stolen from a friend."

Another nod.

"But you came to help this little one when she was frightened. There is hope for you yet.  However, if you do not mend your ways, I will return for you."

From inside the sack, Roberts's voice rose to a shriek: "This is illegal! This is kidnapping! I know important people!"

Krampus sighed and slung the sack over his shoulder. "They always say that."

He walked back toward the security checkpoint, then paused and looked back at us.

"The airport will reopen tomorrow, your flights will depart on schedule. And young Thomas?"  Call your mother when you get to Paris. Tell her you love her."

Then he stepped through the shattered security checkpoint and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

The little girl and I sat in the gate area until morning, sharing my scratchy blanket in silence. When Jennifer woke up around six, she found us there and asked where Mr. Roberts had gone.

"He left," I said, which was technically true.

The airport reopened at noon. My flight to Paris departed on time. The little girl's grandmother came to pick her up.

I never saw Jennifer again, but I hoped she found a better job. One where she didn't have to deal with people like Mr. Roberts.

And I did call my mother when I got to Paris. I told her I loved her, and I meant it. I also told her I was sorry for being such a brat about the trip, and I meant that too.

I kept the Swiss Army knife, but I never used it. Every time I looked at it, I remembered those glowing red eyes and the sound of bells in the darkness. Some mistakes you live with. Others you learn from.

The official report said Mr. Roberts missed his connection due to the weather delays. His body was never found, but I don’t think anyone looked very hard.