Silent Night, Unholy Night

 Four folktales for an unnerving Advent 

If you didn’t already know, Icelandic Christmas folklore is about as dark as Iceland at Christmastime. Surely you already know the season’s cast of characters. These range from the fairly light-hearted Yule Lads, who bring both presents and mischief to their darker counterparts. These are their baby-eating mother Grýla, her baby-eating consort Leppalúði, and her baby-eating Christmas Cat. Okay, okay, we get it already! They eat babies! It’s not like we need a panorama next to the giant Christmas Cat in Lækjartorg with baby-eating mannequins cooking up a pile of baby mannequins… Okay, too late. Been there, done that.  

Any normal person would’ve smacked those little shits back into their mother’s womb, but this lady is nice. She even breaks her candle into pieces to give one to each of them.   

In fact, been done to death. It’s so mainstream these days, it’s like the Billboard Hot 100 of Eating Babies. So this year, let’s dig a little deeper. We want the deep cuts of eating babies or – dare I say? – something entirely baby-free. So here are four freaky folktales for the horrible holiday season. That’s one for each candle you light for Jesus or whatever. 

The deacon of Myrká  

I’m usually loath to translate Icelandic place names, but this one is so spooky it works perfectly for this story: The Deacon of Dark River. Don’t tell me that’s not spooky. First, I have to admit that this isn’t really a deep cut as it’s actually extremely well known in Iceland, but it could use a little more love.  

So it starts with this deacon. I don’t really know or care what that is exactly, but I guess it’s something church-y. And despite this lifestyle, he still manages to have a girlfriend named Guðrún who lives on the other side of a river. They meet at her place to make plans for Christmas and on his way back home, he falls off his horse, hits his head and dies in the river. His body is found and buried, but no one thinks to tell his girlfriend because, let’s be honest here, Icelanders are not known for their communication skills.  When the elf-woman comes, she takes the other woman by the hand and asks, “Is this the hand you used to beat my children and jack off my husband?” Plot twist: it was.  

But guess what? He still shows up on Christmas Eve to pick her up like the gentleman that he is (or was). Get you a man who is willing to commit, amirite? Even though she hasn’t even finished getting dressed, she gets on the horse to ride back to his place with one sleeve hanging off. Apparently, he’s had his face hidden by his hat, which is totally not weird at all. It slips off as they cross the river and she sees his fucked-up head. He waxes poetic about the moon, asking her if she sees the white spot on his gaping wound and she’s like, “Uh, yep.” He also calls her “Garún” because the “Guð” in Guðrún means god and apparently dead folks aren’t allowed to say that anymore. Political correctness has truly gone too far! 

When they arrive at the church, she sees his open grave and finally susses out the situation. I mean, maybe it was hard to see the red flags hidden in his bloody, mangled corpse? He tries to drag her into the grave with him, but she holds onto the church bell rope and rings it. He grabs her loose sleeve and tears off part of her dress as he falls into the grave, and the ground closes up over him. Always a gentleman until the “no means no” moment! Even after this, poor Guðrún is haunted by the deacon every night until she asks a sorcerer for a 17th-century restraining order. So he pins the ghoul down and smashes him with a big rock.   

Elves on Christmas 

Elves are not generally considered as scary as ghosts, but if there’s anything to learned from Icelandic folktales, it’s definitely not to fuck with them. Often known around here by a much more eerie name, the Hidden People, they pull all kinds of shenanigans ranging from kooky to spooky. In the old days, Icelanders would go to church every single night during the winter holidays and weird stuff would happen to anyone who wouldn’t go, usually ending up with them insane, maimed, or dead. Sounds like a threat, but okay.   

There are so many variations of this story that it doesn’t really have a name because it isn’t tied to just one person. But basically, a woman decides to tempt fate and stay home from church on Christmas. The nerve! She’s just minding her own damn business reading a book when three kids appear and start climbing all over her bed. Any normal person would’ve smacked those little shits back into their mother’s womb, but this lady is nice. She even breaks her candle into pieces to give one to each of them. They run off happily, probably screaming. 

Then a guy appears and climbs into her bed. He tries to get it on with her but she’s like, “Nah, man. Hard pass. I don’t even know you!” So he leaves. Later a mysterious lady appears in the house because apparently a non-church-going woman cannot just get some damn peace and quiet around here. The elf-woman thanks the other lady for being nice to her children and not fucking her husband by giving her some beautiful clothes but warns her to keep them secret until next Christmas. Doesn’t it defeat the purpose of having nice clothes if no one else can see them? 

One day, the woman hangs them out to dry and a neighbour lady sees them. She suspects their origins, so the next year, she decides to stay home. But apparently she’s mean and slutty because she beats the elf-children and fucks their elf-father. When the elf-woman comes, she takes the other woman by the hand and asks, “Is this the hand you used to beat my children and jack off my husband?” Plot twist: it was. So she curses the woman’s hand. It withers away and the woman soon dies. Meanwhile, the other girl finally gets to show off her elf-clothes and lives glamorously ever after.  

Kasthvammur and Einar of Háhól 

Those first two folktales set a very unrealistic standard for all rest. Size isn’t everything, but it does make space to add a little flair that is missing from other folktales. Most of those recorded in Iceland are basically like, “My great-grandmother said she drank elf-milk once and it gave her diarrhea!” or something along those lines, so I’m gonna throw in a couple quick little ditties to spice things up.   

Spooky? Yes. But I’ll admit that this one could possibly use just a tiny dash of baby-eating.   

There’s one about a farm called Hvammur. It starts with — you guessed it — a guy who stays home on Christmas. He starts to hear all kinds of ghostly noises in the empty house: clattering and voices and things moving around. He slips behind a partition and watches through a crack as the Hidden People set up a glorious Christmas feast. He jumps out right in the middle and scares them shitless. Do you think the hidden people think the regular folk are the ghosts? They all run screaming into the hills and disappear, but not before he manages to rip a piece of cloth from one of their dresses which they later put on the altar in the church. Hvammur is known as Kasthvammur after that, “kast” being loosely translated in today’s terms as “gtfo.”  

The last one has to do with a guy called Einar. On New Year’s Eve, he goes to the cemetery to see the ghosts of still-living people laying down, and he’s able to predict who will die in the coming year. He does this every year, until, one year, he sees a man he doesn’t recognise. Then he dies. That’s it. That’s the tale. Spooky? Yes. But I’ll admit that this one could possibly use just a tiny dash of baby-eating. I mean, isn’t that kind of the one thing everyone can agree on in the otherwise miserable holiday season: to eat, drink, and be merry?  

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