A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 2

 Day 2: Naughty List

If there was one place Holly Winters hated more than the bank, it was the Tinsel Bluff Elementary School Office — specifically, the hallway chair outside Principal Wainwright’s door. It was the kind of chair designed for humiliation: too small for adults, too squeaky for composure, and always sticky for reasons best left a mystery.

Max sat beside her, swinging his legs and pretending not to notice her silent fuming. His parka still smelled faintly of laundry detergent and poor impulse control. Across the hall, the janitor was still mopping up what looked like a foam crime scene. The faint scent of “Mountain Fresh” clung to everything.

Principal Wainwright’s voice came through the office door, muffled but sharp. “Yes, Mrs. Perkins, I understand your son slipped near the gym. Yes, we’re handling it. No, he’s not injured, just very wet and smelling springtime fresh. Perhaps you should bring a change of clothes.”

The door opened. Principal Wainwright appeared. A man in his mid-fifties, perpetually flustered, wearing a sweater vest patterned like an ugly Christmas miracle, Tom Wainwright had been in the public education long enough to long for retirement but not long enough to actually retire. “Mrs. Winters,” he said with a strained smile. “Max.”

“Hi, Principal Wainwright,” Max said, all innocence and dimples.

The principal gestured for them to sit. His desk was covered in incident reports, two ceramic snowmen, and a half-eaten gingerbread man that looked like it had been through a war.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Wainwright said. “Max, do you want to explain what happened in the gym this morning?”

Max perked up. “I was conducting a weather experiment! You see, real snow is just frozen water crystals, but I thought, what if we could make snow that doesn’t melt? So, I borrowed the janitor’s leaf blower—”

“Without permission,” Holly interjected.

“—and I mixed detergent with water, because detergent has surfactants, and surfactants create bubbles, and bubbles look like snow if you make a lot of them,” he finished proudly. “Science!”

Wainwright pinched the bridge of his nose. “And how much detergent did you use?”

“Two bottles,” Max said. “Maybe three. Whatever was in the janitor closet.”

“The lock of which you picked,” Wainwright added.

Holly closed her eyes. “Max.”

“In my defense,” he said, “it worked. The gym looked amazing.”

“Yes,” Wainwright said flatly, “until the cheerleaders slid into the bleachers like penguins on a death wish.”

The principal sighed, opened a very thick manila folder, and flipped through several color-coded tabs. “Now, Max… this isn’t our first meeting, is it?”

Holly groaned. “Oh no.”

Wainwright adjusted his glasses and retrieved a thick file folder stuffed with pages and pages of documentation from his drawer. He plopped on the desk with the thud of a dead body. After clearing his throat for unnecessary dramatic effect, Wainwright opened the folder and began to read its contents.

“Max covered the main hallway with cafeteria trays, “borrowed” wax from the janitor's closet, and converted it into a 200-foot luge run. Three substitute teachers went down like bowling pins.

“He modified two box fans and a craft-room vacuum bag to create a ‘glitter tornado.’
Unfortunately, glitter is eternal. You can still spot it in the hallways.

“Max liberated all three classroom hamsters because he believed they were ‘yearning for adventure.’”

“But they were!” Max protested. He would’ve continued were it not for Holly’s cautionary hand on his arm.

Tom Wainwright proceeded with the list of grievances.

“What else do we have? Ah, yes. Borrowing the school bus. Max didn’t drive it. He just turned on the lights and rolled it six feet forward to—and I quote— ‘see if it would work.’”
It did, stopping only when it gently crashed into the bike rack.

“This one is my personal favorite. The one that nearly broke me. He patched the school’s outdoor Christmas lights into the scoreboard control panel so pressing the “HOME TEAM POINT” button made the lights flicker in Morse code. Someone eventually figured the code spelled BOOBIES.”

This provoked a snicker from Max and a chiding look from his mother. Holly then couldn’t help herself. An embarrassed snicker escaped from her and sheepishly looked at the disapproving principal.

“I get it,” Holly said. “Max is…boisterous, at times.” Max’s ears turned pink. “They all sound worse when you list them.”

“Puppies are boisterous,” he countered. “We’re watching a villain’s origin story unfold.”

“Hey, take it easy.” Holly edges forward in her chair, ready to pounce. “He’s a little boy. A smart, adventurous boy with a very active and creative brain.”

“I understand your son has a curious mind,” the principal said, turning to Holly, “but perhaps we can redirect that curiosity into safer channels. Maybe… reading? Whittling? Wait, that puts in a knife in his hands. Anything that doesn’t require power tools or chemicals.”

“I’ll have a talk with him,” Holly said, her polite smile stretched thin.

As they left the office, the secretary whispered, “At least it smelled nice,” before returning to her candy cane bowl.

Outside, the snow had started again. Max trudged beside his mother, kicking at the slush.

“I didn’t mean for it to be bad,” he said quietly. “Everyone just says I’m naughty. But I was trying to do something fun. School is boring.”

Holly sighed, her anger cooling as fast as the wind bit her face. “I know, sweetheart. But fun and public safety violations are not the same thing.”

He kicked harder. “Maybe if I was really bad, Krampus would come take me, and you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.”

She stopped walking. “Hey. Don’t ever say that.”

He looked down, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Look,” she said, kneeling so they were eye to eye. “You’re not bad, Max. You’re just… creative. The world doesn’t always know what to do with creative people. You have a beautiful brain. Let’s just use those powers for good, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, let’s go home. I need cocoa, and you need a long talk with Santa about lab safety.”

The storm hit by dinner.

Thick snow swallowed the ridge, turning the tree farm into a quiet, glittering maze of white. Holly ladled cocoa into mugs while Max sat at the kitchen table, sketching circles and symbols in his notebook like a pint-sized occult scientist.

“Mom,” he said, “do you think Krampus really comes for naughty kids?”

Holly frowned. “Is this about the foam incident again?”

He shrugged. “Mayor Garland said Krampus punishes kids who make trouble. Mrs. Pringle said she saw his shadow once. I think if I could catch him, I could prove I’m not bad. I’d be, like, the kid who outsmarted Christmas Evil.”

“Sweetheart,” Holly said, “if Krampus ever showed up in Tinsel Bluff, I'm sure he'd not be bothered by you."

But Max was undeterred. He gathered supplies: a cookie, a flashlight, and a loop of twine. “I’m making a Krampus Trap.”

“Of course you are,” Holly said. 

By the time she tucked him in, the wind was howling. The farmhouse creaked like an old ship, and the tree lot lights flickered outside the window.

She checked on Max one last time. He was fast asleep, flashlight in hand, a crude peppermint circle glowing faintly on his desk. She smiled despite herself. “Sweet dreams, troublemaker,” she whispered, turning out the light.

For a while, the storm drowned out everything.

Then came the thump.

Not a branch-against-the-window thump, but a deep, resonant sound from the barn. Followed by a metallic jingle.

Holly hesitated, then grabbed her coat and flashlight. The cold hit her like a slap as she stepped outside, wind driving needles of snow against her face. The barn door was swinging open.

Inside, the goats stirred restlessly. The flashlight beam wavered, catching motes of straw in the air. Something moved in the shadows. Too tall to be an animal, too still to be a person.

“Hello?” she whispered.

Silence. Then, the faintest low, rumbling chuckle, almost swallowed by the storm. When the flashlight flickered back on, the only trace of movement was a line of hoofprints leading from the back door to the snow beyond. Back in the house, the cookie in Max’s trap crumbled to dust. And outside, through the roar of the wind, came a whisper so low it could’ve been the trees bending in the storm, or something older, amused, and far less human.

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