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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Resident_Tooth_8892 on 2025-01-30 01:53:30+00:00.

December [Redacted] 

“Alright, everyone, it’s time for ‘On This Day 10 Years Ago,’” our editor announced, kicking off our Monday meeting.

This was our weekly ritual: revisiting notable events from a decade prior and assigning stories. A niche concept, but people loved digging up the past, especially the dark stuff. Think of us as a “Whatever Happened To…” for those obsessed with reliving human misery.

December 21 – Winter Solstice – gave us plenty of material: darkness, survival, winter madness (The Shining, anyone?), and other morbid tales. After a rundown, we claimed our pieces.

“Jimmy, you’re on the [Redacted] Junior High Band Fire,’” Roger assigned.

I grimaced. “Can I hear the other options? Reporting on grieving families and band-aides isn’t my vibe today.”

“Too late,” Roger shot back. “Besides, you’ve got all year. Nothing says Christmas like Krampus.”

“Krampus is overdone.”

“You’re not the editor,” Roger said, dismissing the argument with a belly-cupping lean.

I spent the morning researching—refreshing myself on the band story and tumbling into the eerie rabbit hole of Krampus folklore. Later, I packed up to attend my daughter Erica’s holiday band concert.

The event was classic: dressed-up kids, proud families, and squeaky renditions of festive songs. With winter break officially underway, I promised my wife, Rowan, and Erica I’d take a week off work. I mostly stuck to it, though reading up on Krampus didn’t feel entirely like cheating.

By January 1, I was ready to dive back in.

The [Redacted]  Junior High Band Disaster occurred on December 21, 2014, in [Redacted] , [Redacted] , a town known for its location between the North Pole and equator, music festivals, and a devastating fire at the school. The fire during a band concert claimed 56 students, 110 family members, and 8 staff members, trapping them inside an auditorium where the doors locked automatically. Despite footage being removed from the school’s website, it still exists online.

The band's last song, “Krampus Comes to Christmas,” included eerie narration before things went horribly wrong. Survivors’ accounts are unclear, but one person, Kel, the sound guy, filmed the disaster. His footage reportedly shows a giant flaming ball and Krampus appearing, followed by chaos and screams. Kel, now in a psychiatric hospital, accidentally knocked the camera, capturing only screams and a dark scene.

The official story was that faulty doors and an electrical fire caused the tragedy. Since then, the school’s band program has been canceled, and the auditorium remains untouched. I’m now heading to [Redacted]  to investigate further, with a list of two people to speak to: Shelly [Redacted] , the band director’s widow and Liesel [Redacted] , the principal. There are a few more randoms I might be able to meet – not too many, but a few people responded to the Facebook Post we put out looking for leads.

The North Woods in the winter are bleak. It is dark for much of the day – the sun usually doesn’t rise until 8:00, and it begins to set around 4:00. It’s also cold – the cold that drives people in – either to their homes or to bars. Snow blankets the ground and the buildings, and won’t melt until March. This insular quality can be charming if you’re up there for something like snowshoeing or cross country skiing. But, when you’re turning up stories about a mass child casualty, it can seal you like a tomb.

I got into town after the long drive, much of which was on two-lane country roads. I settled into my room in the town motel, and took the front desk clerk’s advice to have dinner at [Redacted]  – the local bar and grill. The building creaked, as the wind battered the old windows; ice was building inside the rooms. I’ll tell you, the entire time I was there, I don’t think I took off my coat. Obviously, I was an outsider. 

While this town had its share of visitors during the summer months and in the wake of the tragedy, my outsider vibe stood out like a banner. In a back booth, I sipped my Spotted Cow, and dug into my burger, while I read over some notes. 

“You busy?” a gruff voice asked from behind.

I looked up to see a middle aged man, full beard, a lot of camo, standing at my table with three other men, who could be related, or could have just adopted the same [Redacted]  winter look. 

“No, not really,” I said quickly. “What’s up?”

“We heard you’re hear to talk about what happened at [Redacted] . That Krampus stuff.”

He said it as a statement – which was slightly accusatory. 

“Well, yeah. I got assigned the story for my job. I wanted to see it, and talk to a few people.”

“No one’s left, you know. That wiped out our kids – most of our friends. Anyone who did live, we drove away. Don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong, you read me? We let those others leave because they’re one of ours. I don’t think we’d treat you so kindly, if you catch my drift.”

With that, they strode away, and returned to their seats at the bar, turning back frequently, for effect – or to see if what they said was enough to make me leave. 

It was. I quickly finished, left some money on the table, and returned to my room. When i got to my door, I saw a piece of paper folded into the door jamb. I took it, and quickly brought it inside, double latching the door behind me. Taking a breath, I opened it. It was a faded postcard. A grotesque creature with horns and chains loomed over a terrified child. “Season’s Beatings!” it read. Beneath the cheap humor, the image stirred an unease I couldn’t shake. Probably those guys – punctuating the message.

I learned that Shelly and Liesel no longer lived in [Redacted] , likely because they weren’t welcome after the fire. My plan to get reactions from the townsfolk was now off the table. Instead, I'd visit the site the next day for photos, then head north to find Shelly and Liesel. 

That night, I barely slept, worried the men from the bar might come after me. The wind howled against the window, and the sound of a loose shutter kept waking me, making me think they were at my door.  My mind also kept drifting to Krampus. The terrifying images of him—half-goat, half-demon, leading a procession with flaming torches, chains, bells, and a bundle of birch branches—haunted me. The unsettling sound of his bells and the thought of the sack he used for capturing misbehaving children made the nightmares worse.

Groggy, I woke up, thankful for surviving the night. It was early yet, no later than 6. I stopped at a gas station, got some coffee, and headed to the site of the junior high. The building stood – the area where the auditorium had been was changed into a memorial. Though it was still dark out, the memorial was lit brightly. All the names of the children, towns members, and staff were listed – except for Director Karl [Redacted] . This was intentional, I found out. As I stood, taking pictures, I heard a light clicking behind me. I paused and listened, and heard the clicking magnified. Afraid I had been founded, I turned quickly.

Behind me, a herd of deer had gathered, their glassy eyes fixed on me. They stood motionless, save for the occasional flick of an ear. My breath caught—the stillness wasn’t natural. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a snippet of folklore surfaced: animals sense what humans can’t. Suddenly, they all began to slowly shake their heads, left and right. Motionless, I watched. I heeded their warning, and moved towards my car, avoiding the herd. As I drove away, they continued to watch me, in disdain, as I headed into the darkness. 

On the way, I had to see more than 40 deer. Many were mangy, fur coming off in patches. I couldn’t drive more than 40 miles an hour, straining my eyes as I watched the sides of the road. Each one did the same thing – shaking it’s head, as if telling me this was not a good idea. I was already 7 hours from home, and I was close, I could feel it. I’d talk to Shelly. Find a place to stay, head up to Liesel’s and see if I could at least get a “No Comment” in person. And, then I’d drive the 9 hours home and be done with this. 

Shelly had returned my emails. As the widow of the band director, she had lost her husband in the fire – and should have been there. Her son was sick, so she stayed home with him, viewing the concert on TV. Shelly was well-liked – she was a secretary at the elementary school, and had grown up in [Redacted] . Some expressed their sympathies – it wasn’t her fault. But most expressed a persistent, persuasive controlled isolation that gave her the message she was no longer welcome in town. Her parents had died in the fire – they had gone to the Christmas Concert for as long as she could remember. With no one left but David, she moved an hour North, changed her last name, and took a job at the Walmart.

She had settled in [Redacted] , [Redacted] . The name was fitting as I worked my way through the narrow main road. Snow removal was a creative endeavor in small towns like this – mounds of white were pushed in the center of the road, and filled large parking lots, creating mountains among the squat building. Shelly’s home was on a side street, and I parked somewhat in the middle of the road. I had not seen another car the whole way up from [Redacted] , and there were no cars out this morning, either. Shelly was waiting by the window, expectantly, as I walked up, and met me at the door. 

“Quick, come ...

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