Santa Claus talks of “CHRISTMAS MONSTERS” and tells 2 Scary Stories for Kids! #SpookySanta
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There'll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and care out in the snow. There'll be scary ghost stories.

I'm dreaming of a fright Christmas. Hello, children. It's Santa, here for another episode of Spooky Santa. I have some scary stories to share with you once again, but be sure to ask your parents before you listen. I know if you've been bad or good, so don't listen before talking to your parents, for goodness sake. Oh.

Coming up in today's episode, a friend of mine, Patrick Hewler, he wrote a story a few years ago called North Pole Coal. And well, ever since he wrote it, it's been one of my favorite scary Christmas stories to tell ever since. I also have a special story that was emailed to me from one of the ladies on my good list.

Izzy is 11 years old. She lives in Kensington, England, and she wrote a story called Ruby's Revenge, and she says that it came from a dream that she had, or maybe it was a nightmare. And remember, if you want to write a scary story of your own, you can email it to letters at spookysanta.com, and I might read your story in an upcoming episode. But first, Christmas isn't celebrated the same way around the world.

In some places, they not only get a visit from me, but also from Christmas monsters. I'll tell you some of the most notorious and dangerous Christmas monsters to be wary of during the holidays. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, pour a mug of hot cocoa. It's magic, you know. And come with Spooky Santa for another holiday chiller. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.

These are some of the scariest Christmas monsters from around the world.

Every country has different customs during their Christmas season. Some of these customs have their roots in ancient pagan beliefs. Different monsters live in different parts of the world, and parents will often tell their children about them to encourage children to behave. Or not only will they not get presents and gifts from me, but a Christmas monster might come and kidnap them.

First is Krampus. You've probably heard of Krampus. He's fairly popular right now. He is an evil demon anti-Santa. Or maybe even my evil twin, some say. He's used as a tool to encourage good behavior in children.

Krampus night is actually celebrated on December 5th, the eve of St. Nicholas Day, my day, in Austria and other parts of Europe. And of course there's Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for others. But I get a special day just for me December 6th and Krampus gets a special day for him December 5th. Public celebrations on December 5th have many Krampuses walking the streets looking for people to beat up.

Krampus may look like a devil or like a wild alpine beast. Up next is Jolikaturin. Jolikaturin is an Icelandic Yule Cat or Christmas Cat, and he is not a nice cat at all. In fact, he might eat you.

He's tied to an Icelandic tradition in which those who finish all of their work on time receive new clothes for Christmas, while those who were lazy did not. Although that's mainly a threat.

To encourage children to work hard, parents will tell the tale of the Yule Cat, saying that Jolikaturin could tell who the lazy children were because they did not have at least one new item of clothing for Christmas, and these children would be sacrificed to the Yule Cat.

Frau Perchte is in Germany and Austria. Frau Perchte is sometimes seen as a witch who hands out both rewards and punishments during the 12 days of Christmas. She's best known for her gruesome punishment of the sinful: she will rip out your internal organs and replace them with garbage. The ugly image of Frau Perchte might show up at Christmas processions and parades in Austria, kind of like what Krampus does.

Hans Trapp I told you about yesterday, but just in case you missed it, Hans is another anti-Santa who hands out punishment to bad children in the Alsace and Lorraine regions of France. The legend says that Hans Trapp used to be a real man, a rich, greedy, evil man who worshipped Satan and was excommunicated from the Catholic Church.

He was exiled into the forest where he preyed upon children, disguised as a scarecrow with straw jutting out from his clothing. He was about to eat one boy he captured when he was struck by lightning and killed, a punishment of his own from God. Still, he visits young children before Christmas, dressed as a scarecrow, to scare them into good behavior.

Jolapukki is in Finland, and they have Jolapukki who is similar to Krampus. He has horns and hooves like some kind of demonic goat, and he loves to beat naughty children with a tree branch until their backsides are bleeding. He comes to your house and he asks, "Are there any good children here?" He doesn't bother giving out presents. Instead, you have to give him presents or he will beat you.

No worries, I don't do that. And then there are the Yule Lads. There are 13 Icelandic trolls, and each one has a name and a distinct personality. In ancient times, the Yule Lads stole things and caused trouble around Christmas time, so they were used to scare children into behaving, much like the Yule Cat. However, in the 20th century, I came on the scene.

And the traditions mingled until the formerly devilish Yule Lads became kind enough to leave gifts in shoes that children left out, if they were good boys and girls. So the Yule Lads used to be very angry and scary and evil. Nowadays, they actually help me, which is nice.

And then finally, there is Gryla. All the Yule Lads answer to Gryla, who is their mother. She predates the Yule Lads in Icelandic legend as the ogreess who kidnaps, cooks, and eats children who don't obey their parents. She only became associated with Christmas in the 17th century when she was assigned to be the mother of the Yule Lads.

According to legend, Gryla had three different husbands and 72 children, all who caused trouble ranging from harmless mischief to murder. Needless to say, none of those 72 children ever made it onto my good list.

Up next, I'll share a very special story that one of my good children emailed to me just the other day. You hear that? That's another $100 down the drain just to fill up your gas tank. But me? I made the switch to electric, and it only cost me a few bucks to charge up. Just plug it in overnight and I'm good to go.

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Welcome back to Spooky Santa! Have you ever had a dream that you thought would make a really good story? Maybe a really scary story if you had a nightmare? Well, Izzy lives in Kensington, England. She's 11 years old and that's exactly what happened to her. She had a very disturbing dream and she decided to write the story down.

It's called Ruby's Revenge. Here's the story. This is my story, a story that has to be told even if it's never believed. My name is Taylor Carter and I'm 17 years old. Something terrible happened to me two years ago. It all began when my mother died and my father insisted that we move away to a new home and a new life. And this is where the story begins.

We had been a happy, chaotic family living in a busy London street. My father was a banker, and my mother and I spent every spare moment together with my older brother Jason.

Everyone used to say that my mom and I were more like sisters, but to me she was my mother and my best friend. She had always been there for me. When times were hard at school or dad was very strict, dad and I had never been as close as I was to my mother, but Jason and my father have always been very close. I loved my brother and my dad very much, but life was never the same without mom.

I'll never forget the day my mother died. It was so sudden and so horrific. She had a terrible car crash, but there were no other cars involved. The police said that it was one of the worst crashes they had ever seen, and they couldn't understand how it happened. My friends tried to help me, but even they couldn't reach me and they couldn't be there like my mother was.

I liked living in London. I enjoyed shopping on Saturday mornings with my mum. I liked going for pizza on Sundays with my family and playing ball with my brother Jason and just doing normal things. Dad sitting at the kitchen table with a paper, Jason strumming on his guitar, me playing with my rabbits, and mum just being mum. She was helping or cooking or smiling or just being there.

Now she was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Dad packed us up and moved us out quickly. He had a great big broken heart and he was pretending to be strong. He wanted us to like the new house so much, and it was beautiful. It wasn't a house at all, but a dear little cottage tucked in the woods with roses and ivy, just how you might imagine a cottage to be.

But from the moment we moved in, it was as if I could feel something watching me. And it wasn't something nice. I felt cold. I had shivers and sometimes I thought I saw a flash of light, but then it was gone. At night I couldn't sleep. I heard bumps and mumbles, and I started to sleep with a light on every night. Then I put my chair against the door.

One night, I ran to Jason's room. I had heard talking and laughing, and I was very afraid. I woke Jason up, but he told me to go away and told me that I was being a stupid baby. He locked me out of his room. I returned to my room. It still smelled of new paint. I could see that Dad's light was off, and he was probably still asleep. I couldn't stand the thought of yet another night lying in that bed, hearing those strange voices.

I found the panic rising in my throat and I knew I had to go get a drink of water so I crept downstairs. The voices were getting louder and there was a strange scrunching noise like paper being screwed up into a tiny ball.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up as I entered the kitchen. It was cold, and there they were, two old ladies taking tea in my kitchen at 1:30 a.m. with this terrible child sitting beside them. She looked about 10, maybe older. She was so thin you could see her bones, and she was wearing a white nightie stained with blood. It was her eyes that were the most terrible.

I have never seen such eyes. She kept her head down, and her long dark hair hung in clumps around her face, which was covered in sores. Who were they? The two old ladies were so warm and homely looking wearing old-fashioned nightgowns. Their hair, slightly graying, was falling from their nightcaps. They had rosy red cheeks and looked so real I felt safe with them. I wanted them to hold me in their arms.

But the child, she was hunched over so that I could barely see her face. She was cutting and pasting and cutting and pasting and rocking and mumbling. I think she was humming a nursery rhyme over and over, faster and faster. I couldn't even look, but I caught her eyes once, and they were black to the core. I have never seen such sadness as I did in those eyes.

The old ladies tried to get me to sit down, and I wanted to join them, truly I did, but I was too afraid, and I was finding it hard to breathe. I stumbled back up to bed, was this a good omen or a bad one, every night. For the next two weeks I went downstairs, and there they were. It was always the same. I would sit for a while with the two old ladies feeling safe and peaceful.

But the child would always be there, twitching and cutting and mumbling. Always the same nursery rhyme, never looking up, always cutting from the newspapers that she kept on the table, sticking into her little notebook over and over again. When last Thursday I went down there and instead of having tea, the old ladies were pointing to the window as if they were trying to tell me something. I was scared.

The next morning, Dad suggested I went to the village hall where some of the village children were meeting up. I was excited and feeling happier that day. I was keen to make some new friends, but when I got there, it was the complete opposite. Everyone ignored me. It was as though I wasn't even there. I was just about to leave when a girl with freckles and a nice smile asked me, "Hey, why are you leaving so fast?" I sat down and we started to chat.

Her name was Amelia, and she was very lovely. Her dad lived in the manor house, and he knew all the history of the village from the days of the Romans. I wanted to open up to her and tell her everything that had happened in the past year, but then I didn't need to. She took me up to her dad and told him to tell me the story of the Vandervaliers who had lived in our house, and this is what he told me.

In 1815, the manor was owned by Lord van der Leveers, John, and his charming wife, Celia. They were so happy, and he was tall and handsome. She was petite, with blonde hair and beautiful curls. She had huge blue eyes and was known for her kindness and her twinkly smiles.

They'd been happily married for six months when she became pregnant, and nothing could spoil their happiness. They had great expectations for their child — a boy, they hoped — and they had painted the nursery and chosen the nanny. The tutor was lined up and the house was happy with a butler, the chambermaid, the cook and the groom all humming and laughing. A big, happy house. And then she died.

Celia died giving birth to Ruby. Not a boy, but a girl. And John never forgave Ruby. She, in his mind, had killed his wife, his beloved, and he hated that baby with all his heart. He couldn't even look at her, and had her sent from the house in the dead of night to a terrible poorhouse in London. The baby was never heard from again.

Lord John stripped the house bare. He burned the curtains and pulled the wallpaper from the walls with his bare hands. Any memory of Celia was wiped away. Lord John eventually remarried. She was a lovely country girl named Clementine. The house was redecorated from head to toe, and nothing of Celia remained. Clementine never asked of Celia and didn't even know of the baby that had been sent away.

for she would not have allowed it if she had known. She was kind, her heart was pure. She gave birth to twins, the sweetest, loveliest little girls you could ever wish for. Lulu and Tilly. Lord Vandevillear's life was complete. Until the day he received a telegram. Ruby had passed away of consumption. She was only 12 years old. "Where was the body to be delivered?" the telegram asked.

Lord John felt no shame or pity, just relief. Her body was delivered in the dead of night in a little wooden crate with no name, and he took it with his head gardener by candlelight down to the cottage in the woods. They dug a deep, lonely grave and threw her carelessly into it. Lord John walked away, and he never looked back. The gardener, however, liked a pint of beer at his local pub.

He drank a lot and talked a lot, maybe a bit too much. The story got out, but no one really knew if the story was true, but they never crossed Lord John. Many years later, Lulu and Tilly, the two lovely sisters, moved into that cottage. They had married and had children long before. They were old and widowed, and Lord John had left them the cottage in the woods in his will.

The twins were jolly and warm and everybody loved them. They sat by their fire drinking cups of tea and they had cake and lots of people came to visit. They fed the poor. They were good, kind people. The sisters died in that cottage, peacefully in their sleep, one month apart and the cottage sat empty for many years until a long-lost nephew of Lord John inherited it and needed a place to stay and quick.

That person, of course, was my father. I was in total shock. I said I had to go and I ran home as fast as I could. I wanted to see my brother and to make sure that he was okay. Where was this child, Ruby, buried? I had to know. But Jason was out with Dad, and I was all alone. I knew I had to do it. The pressure was unbearable. I had to

I went down to the deepest part of the garden, just where the forest begins. I looked around. The forest was empty, but then I saw it. A mound of grass and earth where nothing grew. It was like a bare desert landscape, and I just knew that it was there. I had found Ruby's grave. I could feel it in my bones. I felt cold to my very core.

I start to run, then the tears start to fall for a little girl nobody loved. For of course I knew it was her, that terrible creature who sat there night after night with her stepsisters. But what was she doing? Why was she there and what did this mean for me? That night I went downstairs. I knew I had to see her.

She was again cutting and pasting, as always. The dear old ladies smiled. I smiled back, but I could see now they were worried. I think they knew that I knew, and then I saw that they were pushing a little pad that she kept all her cuttings in over to me, and they wanted me to read it.

I was afraid, but I took it and hid it in my hoodie. I crept upstairs and what I read filled me with horror. It was full of pictures and clippings from the newspapers. Terrible deaths. Freak accidents. My mother's accident. They were all in there. First the picture of the person and then the clipping from the newspaper. My mother's death was in there. She, Ruby, had killed my mother.

I felt myself slipping to the floor. The puzzle had come together. The ghosts of these three sisters were living in this house. Every person that had died in that book had somehow been related to a member of the Vandervilliers, including my mother. And as I turned the page, I knew what I would find. There it was. My picture. I was to be next.

I ran into my father's room and woke him up, sobbing and crying. I told him my story, and he was wonderful. I tried to find the book to show him, but it had disappeared.

But he listened and he held me close. "All I know, Taylor," he said, "is that this little family has been through a lot and this isn't the right place for us. We need bright lights and the big city. We're going back to London. I can't say that I believe your story, but I love you and something here is not right." I tried to show him the little notebook, but it was gone and he just hushed me back to sleep.

I slept with him all the rest of that night, and the next morning we were on a train to London. I've never loved him more. I knew how much you had to appreciate the people you have and love, because one day they could just disappear. Dad called a priest who went in and blessed the cottage. He laughed when I asked him to do so, but he did it all the same. He said he would leave it to me and Jason in his will, but I told him I never want to set foot in that cottage again.

Two years later, I was enjoying a happy life in London. Amelia and I kept in touch, and she told me that a really lovely couple had moved into the cottage with their daughter Millie. She had brought a little Shetland with her, and they were really happy. I tried not to worry for them. One Sunday morning, I saw my father's face go pale as he read the Sunday newspaper. His hands began to shake, and I saw him trying to hide what he was reading. Jason asked him what was wrong.

His face was strained. "Nothing," he said. I grabbed the paper and ran to my room. And there it was. Horrendous accident in sleepy Gloucestershire village. Talented junior champion rider Millie Thornton killed in freak riding accident when pony trampled owner and broke her back.

Jason snatched the paper from me. "It's a coincidence!" he kept saying. "Calm down, it's your imagination." "Dad!" I screamed. "Who were they?" "The family that moved into the cottage. They must have been related to you. Why didn't you listen?" "They were distantly related. This is madness!" he cried. "Madness!" All this happened two years ago, and the cottage has been knocked down.

We own a little plot of land, and Dad says that he will sell it someday, but I know that he knows better. He ripped up the deeds and he burnt the papers. That little grave has found its resting place. And God rest Ruby's soul." It's hard to believe that story was written by an 11-year-old! Very well written, Izzy! Thank you so much for sharing, and if you have another dream, you need to write it down. You have a future as an author!

Up next, I'll share one of my favorite holiday stories. It's called North Pole Coal. That story is up next.

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It's electric.

Brought to you by Rural Arizona Action. Are you ready for my final story? This is a favorite of mine. I read it for the first time several years ago, and I like to read it every year. It's one of my personal favorites, and I believe it'll be one of yours once you hear it. It's written by Patrick Kuehler. It's called North Pole Coal. Here's the story.

"I don't understand," Caleb tilted his Christmas stocking so his parents could see. "What is this?" His parents didn't answer right away, and then his mother said, "Coal." Yes, his father quickly agreed that's what it is, coal. They sat stiffly on the couch. He stared at the strange dust. "I don't understand," Caleb repeated. He was only six years old,

There was a lot he didn't understand. "Why did Santa put coal in my stocking?" "Because you were naughty this year," his father said. "Mark, that's a little harsh, don't you think?" his mother said. "No, Lisa, I don't." This was something Caleb did understand. He called his mother and father "Mom and Dad," but they called each other "Lisa and Mark." "When you're naughty," his dad said, "Santa puts coal in your stocking."

"How was I naughty?" Caleb asked. His parents thought about that for a while. "Well, there was the time you didn't take turns on the swing set at daycare," his father said. "Or in front of the TV," his mother said. "Mrs. Julie said you had a tantrum when someone tried to watch a different show." Mrs. Julie took care of Caleb during the day. "She said you didn't say thank you during snack time," Caleb's father reminded him.

"Or say anything nice to Leo when he was hurt," his mother added. "I don't understand," Caleb said. That was his favorite sentence. Just by saying it, "I don't understand," people would explain the world to him. It wasn't always easy. It took time, but eventually he ended up learning something brand new about the world, just by saying, "I don't understand." "When you did those things, you weren't being a nice boy," his father explained.

"Is this really necessary?" his mother said. "Yes, it is," his father said. "He needs to know that naughty is the opposite of nice." Caleb already understood that. What he didn't understand was why his parents' faces were wet with tears or why his mother had started to whisper. "He needs to realize," his father said, "that there are consequences to being naughty." Caleb thought of the charcoal his parents used when they barbecued during the summer

Little black nuggets poured and piled in the grill. Wasn't that the same stuff that was in his stocking? "Why is this coal white?" Caleb asked. When his parents didn't answer right away, Caleb said, "Isn't coal black?" "Most coal is," his mother assured him. Her eyes were tearing up again. "But this is North Pole coal."

"Exactly," his father agreed. "North Pole coal is special. It's white." "Like the snow," his mother added. Caleb was glad he'd asked the question. It felt good knowing something that he didn't know before. "But really," his mother said to his father, "is this fair?" She was whispering again. "Fair has nothing to do with it," his father said. "Still, Caleb's only six," his mother said. "He's almost seven," his father said.

That was true, Caleb couldn't wait to turn seven. Then he'd be old enough and have all the answers. "But getting coal for not sharing?" his mother said. "Not sharing is bad," his father said. "I guess so," his mother whispered. "I mean, it's not good, but he's just a boy. He's old enough to understand right from wrong, Lisa. And it isn't just the not sharing, it's the other stuff, too."

Not saying thank you during snack time? Is that really so unusual? Miss Julie was very clear on her expectations, his father said. But this is just normal kid behavior, his mother said. Shh!

He'll hear you. Do you want to get on his naughty list too? He's even less lenient with adults, you know that. Sorry, it's not like Caleb hurt anyone. It was the Pettinger boy who hit Leo. Let's not talk about that, his father said. Imagine what the Pettinger boy's parents are dealing with right now. It's a lot worse than coal in a stocking.

They were both whispering now. And shivering. The house was warm, so why were they shivering?

Before Caleb had a chance to ask, his parents started talking again. "It's terrible," his mother whispered. "Leo was pretty beat up," his father reminded her. "That doesn't mean…" Her voice trailed off. "There have to be consequences to actions, Lisa." "I know, but to lose their son… It's always been this way. Naughty behavior means cool. Really nasty behavior means…" His voice trailed off as well.

"I don't understand," Caleb said. "Are you talking about Jimmy?" Caleb was pretty sure Jimmy's last name was Pettinger. "His parents lost him? Where do you think he went?" He waited for his parents to respond, but they didn't. They looked at him for a while in silence, tears streaming down their faces. Then they looked down, avoiding his gaze. Caleb looked down, too, into his stocking, and that is when he saw it.

An object, no, just a fragment of an object. He reached into the stocking and pulled it out. It wasn't quite as white as the dust. It was more gray. It was, uh, why is there a bone in my stocking, Caleb said. Once again, they didn't answer or even look at him. Caleb wasn't looking at them either. He was thinking about where bones come from.

They were in the turkey his family had eaten on Thanksgiving. They were in the fish he caught last summer. Yes, that's where bones were. In things. Dead things. They were in alive things too, but you couldn't really see them then. His eyes wandered to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Where the urn was. Where she was. His great-grandmother. His parents had explained to him a few months ago.

Right after his great-grandmother had died, right after they'd put the urn on the mantelpiece, they'd explained what was in the urn. Who was in the urn? Caleb stared at it for a few moments and then peered into his stocking again. A chill lanced up his spine. "What happened to Jimmy?" he asked his parents. "What happens to really nasty children?" They still didn't answer him. But he didn't need them to.

He already knew. He understood exactly what was going on. And for the first time in his life, he wished he didn't. Oh, that is a creepy story.

By the way, don't worry. That's not how things actually work. If you are on my naughty list, I would never do something that horrid. You might get coal, but that's all. If you're going to be punished in any way, that would be for your parents to decide, not Santa. My job is delivering presents and gifts to all the good children in the world.

Well, did you like the stories I told? If so, do Santa Claus a favor. Tell your friends and family members about Spooky Santa so they can listen too. And remember, you can write your own scary story and email it to me at letters at spookysanta.com. If you want to learn more about the stories that I've told or the authors who wrote them, you can find links in this episode's show notes. Spooky Santa

Spooky Santa is a registered trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright Marlar House Productions 2019. And now, be a good little girl or boy and join me next time for more creepy tales from Spooky Santa. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.

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