On the chilly evening of December 5, 2025, Salzburg’s old town transforms into a scene that’s equal parts festive and fearsome. The annual Krampus Run, or Krampuslauf, draws hundreds of participants and curious onlookers, all eager—or at least willing—to come face to face with one of the Alps’ most infamous holiday traditions. With centuries of history behind it, the event continues to captivate, terrify, and entertain, threading together folklore, family memories, and a dash of chaos in this picturesque Austrian city.
As dusk settles over Salzburg, the Max Aicher Stadium becomes a hive of activity. According to NPR, it’s here that members of Krampus clubs from Austria and the German state of Bavaria gather, preparing to don their elaborate costumes. From a distance, the scene might resemble a Chewbacca convention, but up close, it’s unmistakably the realm of Krampus. These costumes, crafted from yak and goat hair, are as authentic as they come—each one a labor of love and a testament to the enduring appeal of this Alpine legend.
Krampus, the monstrous, horned figure who punishes misbehaving children, is the dark counterpart to St. Nicholas, who rewards the well-behaved. As Alexander Hueter, the self-styled Überkrampus of Salzburg’s Krampus Run, puts it, "It’s basically a good cop, bad cop arrangement." While St. Nick brings joy and treats, Krampus injects a healthy dose of tension and excitement into the proceedings. "If St. Nicholas comes to town on his own, it’s nice," Hueter explains to NPR, "but there’s no excitement. No tension. I mean, St. Nick is all well and good, but at the end of the day, people want to see something darker. They want to see Krampus."
The anticipation is palpable as participants slip into character. Roy Huber, who traveled from Bavaria, describes the transformation: "The rest of the year, I feel like a civilian," he says, "but when the winter comes, you have the feeling under your skin. You are ready to act like a Krampus." Huber’s coffee-colored costume, complete with a scarred mask and horns, is a crowd favorite—his monstrous visage even reminiscent of a 1970s baseball star, as NPR reporter Rob Schmitz wryly notes.
But not all Krampuses are created equal. Benny Sieger, whose punk-inspired mask features a red face and a mohawk of horns, admits that his appearance is especially frightening to children. "Very scared," he says, "but if I act like a sensitive Krampus, it can go well. In fact, our hometown Krampus club hosts an event called 'Cuddle a Krampus' to ensure that we are not so scary." Still, Sieger draws the line at young adults, especially young men, whom he claims "are basically asking to be hit" if they come to the Krampus run. He proudly displays his birch switch, which, he warns, stings like a bee when it makes contact.
The procession itself is an unforgettable spectacle. More than 200 Krampuses board city buses, singing soccer songs and psyching themselves up for the chaos to come. Once in Salzburg’s old town, the doors swing open and the costumed horde pours into the streets, cowbells clanging and switches at the ready. The air is thick with excitement—and, for some, a good measure of dread.
At the head of the parade, St. Nicholas stands out in white and gold robes, handing out candy with serene composure. Behind him, the Krampuses unleash pandemonium, lunging at shoppers, swatting daring onlookers, and even smearing tar on faces, according to NPR. The contrast between the benevolent saint and his devilish entourage is striking, embodying the "good cop, bad cop" dynamic that lies at the heart of the tradition.
For families, the Krampus Run is a rite of passage. Salzburg resident Rene Watziker watches the mayhem with his 4 1/2-year-old son, Valentin, perched atop his shoulders. The boy, however, is far from delighted—he buries his head in his father’s neck, oversized mittens covering his eyes in terror. "He’s too scared of the Krampuses," Watziker laughs, recalling his own childhood memories of the event. "This is great, though, because this is my childhood memory, too. I want him to have the same good memories of his childhood. He’s going to look at the video I’m shooting and then he’ll be very proud he came."
Not everyone is so easily convinced. Sabeine Gruber, in town with her 13-year-old daughter, notes that the Krampus Run has mellowed over the years. "When I was a child," she tells NPR, "this was far worse. You were beaten so hard that you woke up the next day with blue welts on your legs. These days the Krampus run is more like a petting zoo." The event has indeed become less aggressive, a change marked by the numbered stickers on the backs of Krampuses—now, if someone feels a Krampus has gone too far, there’s a way to lodge a complaint.
This evolution reflects a broader trend: the tradition, while rooted in Roman, Pagan, and early Christian history, has adapted to modern sensibilities. Where once the Krampus Run was a harrowing ordeal for children, today it’s as much about community, spectacle, and entertainment as it is about instilling discipline. Some clubs even go out of their way to soften the Krampus’s image, hosting "Cuddle a Krampus" events to reassure the youngest participants.
Yet, the core of the tradition remains unchanged. The Krampus Run is a celebration of folklore, a communal embrace of the dark and the light, the naughty and the nice. It’s a chance for participants to step out of their everyday roles, to don a mask and become part of something bigger than themselves. As one young Krampus, Nicklaus Bliemslieder, puts it, "I was never scared of being a Krampus, but I was scared of the Krampus. The first time I put the mask on, I wasn’t scared anymore."
As the night winds down and the last cowbells fade into the distance, Salzburg’s Krampus Run leaves a lasting impression—on those who braved the streets, on the children who clung to their parents, and on the city itself. The tradition endures, evolving with the times but never losing its power to thrill, unsettle, and unite. For the people of Salzburg and the wider Alpine region, Krampus is more than just a monster—it’s a reminder that Christmas, too, has its shadows, and that sometimes, a little fright makes the season all the more magical.
