Teresa saw Marini across the road. They nodded at each other as the church bell began to toll. Suddenly, at the eighth chime, the village lights went off, and a murmur of wonder—tinged with fear—rose from the crowd.

Teresa swore and radioed Parisi.

“Find out who did this!” she told him. “I don’t care how you do it, just get those damn lights back on! Now!”

She put the radio away. In the shimmer of torches and candles, Travenì glistened, a stirring tableau in the heart of the Alps, irresistible for a killer on the lookout for fresh prey.

Teresa was joined by Marini.

“Now what?” he asked her.

“Now we wait.” She didn’t know what else to say. She kept her eyes on the crowd—families, lovers, gangs of teenagers, and tour groups. The killer had to be there somewhere. He was probably watching them right now.

They saw a procession of nuns making its way through the crush. They each carried a taper, heads lowered so that only their chins were visible beneath their black veils. They wound their silent, orderly way into the church and out of sight.

“Where did they come from?” Teresa radioed.

“They’re nuns from the convent in Rail,” Knauss replied. “They’ve come to pray together and keep the demons at bay. Are you going to check them out, too?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m thinking about it. Maybe I’ll send you to do it.”

The sound of a horn echoed through the valley.

“They’re coming,” said Marini.

A slice of starry darkness ensconced between two hills behind the cathedral lit up in a reddish haze, growing increasingly brighter until its source was finally revealed: a line of torches held aloft by dark, stooping figures. The column of demons advanced until it was clearly visible, and then broke up, with the devotees spreading out across the natural amphitheatre.

The hill was set ablaze with primitive bonfires rising and falling in a pagan dance. A line of flames kindled along the length of the horizon, separating the black clouds of smoke that rose to the sky from the compacted snow beneath. The demons were marching into the village, ash raining upon them as cameras flashed all around.

These were the Krampus. Teresa had heard that the word meant “claws.” It seemed appropriate, somehow, considering the blood that had recently tainted the valley.

The masks were truly terrifying. Every detail was so realistic that you really did end up thinking you’d wandered into hell—a rural inferno of primordial allure. The goat-demons of Travenì wore thick wool trousers and tunics, with fur cloaks on top that reached all the way down to their feet. Bells tied to their waists announced their approach. They carried staffs and rods with which they lashed out at the audience. Their faces, crowned with sharp, curving horns, were fearsome, eyes glinting in the dark, fangs ready to tear into human flesh.