Hans Trapp: Excommunicated, Exiled, and Insane. Now He Hunts Naughty Children at Christmas

In the 15th century, a wealthy man was excommunicated by the Pope, driven mad in exile, and killed by a bolt of lightning just as he was about to taste human flesh — now he rides with Santa every Christmas, drooling over the naughty children on the list.

Ho ho ho, kids! If you like the stories Santa is telling, tell your friends and family about the Spooky Santa podcast so they can listen too! 

STORY AND MUSIC CREDITS/SOURCES…
“Remembering Death” by Lydia, age 14 of Cromford, England
“Night of the Snowmen” by Laura Pauling: https://adbl.co/2PMnQzh
“Hans Trapp, The Christmas Boogeyman”: http://bit.ly/2PjBevA
All music used with permission of the artists. Spooky Santa theme by Midnight Syndicate (http://amzn.to/2BYCoXZ). All other music by Nicolas Gasparini (http://bit.ly/2LykK0g).
***I always make sure to give authors credit for the material I use. If I somehow overlooked doing that for a story, or if a credit is incorrect, please let me know and I’ll rectify it the show notes as quickly as possible.
***Spooky Santa™ and Weird Darkness® are creations and trademarks of Marlar House Productions and Weird Darkness, LLC. Copyright © Weird Darkness, 2023
"I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46
https://weirddarkness.com/HansTrapp
#WeirdDarkness #HansTrapp #EvilSanta #ChristmasMonster #DarkChristmas #ScaryChristmas #HolidayHorror #CreepyChristmas #ChristmasDemon #EuropeanFolklore

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:18):
Well, I don't care what you make for dinner. Pot
roast is fine. Deer, I'll make deer for dinner. No, no,
I don't mean cook deer. I meant yes, dear, pot
roast is fine. I understand that answers yes to having dear.
You're you're not understanding me. I do not want any
deer for supper. No, no venison, all right, it upsets

(00:41):
the rein deer. Just make pot roast, beef pot roast
by snookems. You want shops for dinner too? No? No,
not snapps, I said, schnook ems. Oh oh, never mind,
you don't. Come to think of it, peppermint schnaps and
the egg dog might actually be pretty tasty, but I'll
have to wait until after I get back. Of course,
why I can't drink and ride? You know about? What

(01:05):
do you mean? What do I want for dessert? It's
always cookies and milk? Oop, gotta go. Hope the kids
are here, Emma, Hello, children, Just on the phone here
with missus Claws, making dinner plans for Christmas Eve before
I head out for the big night. But today I'm

(01:26):
excited to bring you more spooky Santa stories, so be
sure to ask your parents' permission before you begin to listen.
And I'll know if you ask them, because I can
see you when you're sleeping, and I know when you're awake.
Coming up in today's episode, a spooky story by Laura
Paulling is called Knight of the Snowman. One of the

(01:48):
young ladies on My Good List Lydia. She's fourteen years
old and she lives in Cromford, England, and she emailed
a story to me called Remembering Death. Hell. By the way,
if you would like to write a scary story for me,
you can email it to letters at Spookysanta dot com
and I can read your story in an upcoming episode.

(02:08):
But first, do you know the name Hans Trap. HANNS
Trap is a legendary boogeyman from the Assauce and Lorraine
regions of France. He accompanies me to punish naughty children
at Christmas. Now, while I deliver presents and gifts to
the good little girls and boys on my list, Hans
Trap delivers beatings to those who are naughty. I'll tell

(02:30):
you about him as we begin. Now, bult your doors, locked,
your windows, turn off all your lights, and come with
spooky Santa for another holiday chiller. When Christmas approaches, naughty

(03:04):
children in Alsace and Lorraine tremble when their parents utter
the words Hans' Trap is coming. Everyone knows the tale
of Santa's evil counterpart. It all began in the fifteenth century.
There was a rich and powerful man who lived in
the heart of Alsace. His name was Hans Trap. The

(03:25):
people of Alsace knew him to be vain, cutting, heartless,
and cruel. His life was given over to lawlessness and debauchery.
He would most definitely have been on my naughty list.
His only goal was to enrich himself by all means necessary.
It was said that he worshiped Satan and used black

(03:46):
magic and occult rituals to obtain his wealth and hold
on to his power. Now that I really don't know,
but that's what they say. While When the Catholic Church
became aware of these misdeeds, Hans Trap was arrested and
he was brought by for the Pope in Rome. He
was excommunicated from the church for the crime of sacrilege.

(04:06):
For those of you who don't know, excommunicated means he
was kicked out of the Catholic Church for being a
bad boy. When he returned to Alsace, he was ostracized
by the local people. Everyone fled from him as if
he was a wild beast. His money and his land
were confiscated and he was left penniless. He was forced

(04:26):
into exile in the forest, and he isolated himself from
the rest of society. He found shelter on the mountains
of Geisberg in Bavaria, Germany, where he built himself a
makeshift shack made from sticks. The solitude caused him to
lose his mind, and he spent his days brooding and
dreaming of revenge. His anger and resentment were intensified, and

(04:49):
he became more deeply devoted to satanism, descending into madness,
Hans's trap began to dream of eating human flesh. The
evil man was as with a desire to bite into
the flesh of a human arm, leg or thigh. He
wronged the countryside and he disguised himself as a scarecrow

(05:09):
by stuffing his ragged clothes with straw. He spent his
time gathering sticks and hay in the field and lying
in wait, looking for the perfect human victim to consume.
One day, he spotted a young shepherd boy making his
way through the woods. The boy was only ten years
of age, but Hans's Trap was determined to kill and

(05:31):
eat him. As he stared at the young boy, he
began to drool at the mouth, imagining biting into the
delicious and tender flesh. Well before the boy knew what
was happening, Hans's Trap had pounced on him, attacking him
viciously and running him through with a sharpened stick. Then
he dragged the dying child back to his shack, where

(05:54):
he cut the boy into small pieces and roasted them
over an open fire. When his montriss meal was ready,
Hans Trap licked his lips and prepared to taste human
flesh for the first time. However, before a morsel could
enter his mouth, a bolt of lightning came from the
sky and struck Hans dead. You see, God would not

(06:17):
allow the abomination to continue, and God decided to end
the crimes of Hans' Trap once and for all. Ever
since then, Hans' Trap has been cursed to roam the
earth with me. Every Christmas, he goes from house to
house clad in his scarecrow disguise, scaring the life out

(06:37):
of small children and drooling greedily over their tender flesh.
If you've never seen him, be thankful. That means you
are likely on my good list, But be careful if
you end up on my naughty list, you might end
up being eaten by Hans Trap. He is a scary individual.

(07:00):
Even scares me. Sometimes. I have to keep a bag
over his head so the reindeer don't get startled when
he hops onto the sleigh with me, it's true. Up next,
I'll share a great story from one of the girls
on my good list. Lydia is fourteen years old. She
lives in Comfort, England, and she wrote a very creepy

(07:20):
story called Remembering Death. And I'll tell you that story
in just a moment. Thanks for listening to Spooky Santa.
In a moment, I'll share an amazing story with you
that was emailed to me from one of the children
on my good list. I love hearing stories from all

(07:42):
of my good little girls and boys out there. If
you would like to write a scary story for me
to read, you can send it to letters at Spookysanta
dot com. I would love to read your story. That's
letters at Spookysanta dot com. Just email the story to me.
Or ask your parents to help. Now. Here is today's

(08:03):
emailed story. It comes from Lydia. She's in Cromford, England.
She's fourteen years old, and she wrote this disturbing tale
called Remembering Death. Here's the story. I reached peace a
few months after my passing. I was one of the
unfortunate ghosts who were unable to recall life before death.

(08:26):
This is usually because death has been so violent. Also,
if you were a scatter brain in life, you would
probably be a scatter brain in death. Unfortunately, for me,
the only thing I remembered about my life was my death.
I remember being in a house. The oak furniture was old,

(08:47):
grand and somewhat sinister. I could hear my panting breaths
in the darkness. Shadows danced on the walls, and the
moon illuminated my slim silhouette. I ducked underneath an elegant
chase lounge, and I prayed silently to God. Even to me,
my ragged breathing sounded too loud in the unnaturally quiet room.

(09:09):
I stayed lying on my belly for several minutes. After
a while, my breathing began to slow down. I felt
my body relax and I began to press my back
against the wall. I lay there for a few seconds
before reality crashed in and I realized the wall was
soft and it was attempting to wrap arms around me.

(09:30):
As I started to jerk forward, arms tightened around my
waist and yanked me back. Cold, pitiless laughter sounded close
enough to my ear that I felt a breeze blow
softly against my right cheek. I remember struggling, and I
remember the feeling of desolation and isolation as I realized that,
no matter how hard I struggled, my last moments on

(09:53):
Earth were not going to be spent cradled by loved ones,
but in the arms of a merciless, sadistic monk. Whatever
you do, do not believe the stories that tell you
that ghosts are troubled souls seeking justice for their death.
My murderer was discovered to be the next door neighbor's son.

(10:14):
I personally watched him as he was imprisoned for life
in front of a weeping jury. No, I am still
here because I have forgotten what it is to love.
When you die, your feelings die with you. I came
back as a cold and cruel shell of my former self.

(10:34):
Since being dead, I have committed some terrible acts, but
I am searching for the answer to my question. While
in his arms, I was thinking of loved ones. Who
are they? During the day, I would wander around parks
looking for victims. I realized that children were the only
people who could see me. I used this as a

(10:57):
ploy to get close to them. Then I would wallow
in their horror and despair as I finished them off.
The only way I knew I had a shred of
humanity left in my body was that no matter how
many I killed, I could never look them in the eyes.
I knew this was cowardly. I was taking away their life.

(11:18):
The least I could do was give them the courtesy
of eye contact. My killer had looked me in the
eyes and smiled as the life slipped from my eyes.
I never knew why, but I couldn't. At the local park,
I watched an attractive man walking along with two children.
As I don't look into people's eyes, I had learned

(11:39):
to read moods from body language. This man was heartbroken.
His shoulders sagged, his skin was pale, his breathing shallow,
as if all the time he was fighting the urge
to cry. From the way he gripped his girl's hands,
I could tell the only reason he was keeping it
together was because of them. I could see the sweat

(12:01):
glistening between his fingers, and he nervously wiped his hands
on his trousers. The girls could not be more dissimilar.
One was pale and dark haired, the other blonde haired
and blue eyed. These two would do nicely for me.
I already imagined ripping into their flesh with my bare
hands as I heard them scream, just as I had

(12:23):
done beneath me. I stalked behind the trio as they
trudged aimlessly along the path. Usually I tried to draw
the children away from their parents, but not to day.
This man was so close to the breaking point. I
wanted to see his face as his children were ripped apart. Finally,

(12:45):
they turned a corner and reached a deserted patch of grassland.
I was ready. I approached the two girls and was
more than shocked when they ran up and embraced me.
Or when I had arrived. I had many reactions, terror
and amusement, but never joy. They ran screaming and shouting moosey, moosey.

(13:08):
The minute the man heard this, his head snapped to attention.
The minute he lifted his head, I could not help
but look into his eyes. There was a raw loss
that burnt in his beautiful, dark pupils. His pain so
obvious and deep, chased away all thoughts of killing from
my mind. I just wanted to stare into his eyes forever.

(13:31):
But instead of looking at me, he looked through me girls.
He barked, We've spoken about this. The girls slowly started
to follow him from the park, but they could not
stop themselves from turning to stare back at me. I
smiled at them and waved as tears flowed unhut down

(13:51):
my pale, other worldly cheeks. I had finally remembered my
husband and my girls. As I felt this wash of
love pass over me, I felt myself leaving, leaving those
I loved, But it wasn't a bad thing, because I
remembered I could love again. What an amazing story. It

(14:21):
started off so creepy and dark, but in the end
there's actually a happy ending. Very good writing there, Lydia.
Thank you so much for sending your story again. If
you would like to send me a scary story, you
can email it to me anytime at letters at spookysanta
dot com. Up next, it's my final story is from

(14:43):
Laura Palling and it's called Night of the Snowman. Up next,
Are you ready for my final story? It's a good one.
It's called Night to the Snowman. It's written by Laura Pauling.

(15:06):
Christmas Eve, the night air was crisp and clean, almost magical.
Snowflakes drifted through the midnight blue sky, swirling and tumbling.
Jagged flecks of silver pierced the velvet canvas, playful yet majestic.
A boy watched from a window tree lights reflected in

(15:27):
shimmering colors. He wouldn't move, but with his forehead pressed
against the frosty glass, he stared into the darkness. Every
flickering shadow made him jump. Every creek or flash of
white sent fear humming through his body. His younger sister
stood on the bottom step, leading upstairs. I can help,

(15:49):
big brother. I have an idea. He shoot her back upstairs,
wanting to protect her from the horror that was to come,
wanting to protect her childish fantasies of a winter wonderland
and the magic of this night. Earlier that afternoon, the
snowmen had followed the children home, Softly shaped shadows lurking

(16:11):
but not attacking, bodies deformed by days of play, making
them sideshow freaks from some snow ridden circus. The boy
didn't know what would happen next. He just knew they
needed to be prepared. One by one, windows slid open
throughout the small neighborhood. Dark shapes climbed out, landing in

(16:34):
the snow with a crunch. The children hesitated, some reaching
out to catch flakes on their tongues, but sharp looks
and gentle tugs on their sleeves from friends reminded them
of their duty, and they clamped their mouths shut. They
walked carefully, fighting off the chill that crept down their necks,

(16:55):
past scarves and hoods. When twiglike arms creaked alive and
black button eyes blinked, they broke into a run, slipping
and stumbling in the fresh snow. The inky night suffocated,
pressing in on them. Strange sounds clicked and whistled. They
raced the wind, chasing them. When the boy at the

(17:16):
window saw his friends appear, none of them wanting to
straggle behind, he ran to the door. Not a word
was spoken. They communicated with quick nods, forced smiles, and
grim faces. Beyond them in the other room towered the tree.
It was draped with love and memories, blinking lights, strings

(17:39):
of popcorn, even the ornaments the boy and his sister
had made in preschool. Curiously, the snowman ornament had disappeared.
The red ribbon that held it on to the branch
had been snipped and lay on the wood floor. Limp
and lifeless. The children kept their gazes off the tree.
They gathered in the kitchen, weapons in hand. One girl

(18:02):
gripped her dance trophy, her most prized possession. A boy
held his skateboard, the wheels hard and possibly deadly. Still,
another struggled to hold onto a bucket. He trembled and
the water sloshed over the sides onto the floor. Each
child had a weapon of choice, from dolls to water

(18:22):
pistols to video game controllers, the cords wrapped around their wrists. Outside,
the wind blew howling. It ranted and raged and stormed.
It roared through the tree tops and washed down the streets.
Window panes rattled. Mothers and fathers snuggled further under their blankets, shivering.

(18:43):
The snowmen swished across yards and down streets. Ratty's scarves
whipped about their necks, buttons fell off, round bellies and
carrot noses hung limp and shriveled. They called out a high,
whistling noise, piercing. The others joined the sound, growing louder
and louder, like the scream of a kettle to make cocoa.

(19:08):
They wanted something. The group of children shivered inside, their
faces pale, their breath shooting out. It's time, the boy said,
Yet no one moved, seemingly frozen to the floor. The
first ice ball hit the window, cracking the glass and
making a fine spider web, spreading growing. The next hit

(19:30):
and the glass shattered. Frigid air leaped into the room.
A layer of frost spread across the furniture, the floor,
in the walls now but the boy's voice rasped out
his breath, a cloudy mist freezing in mid air. Another
window shattered. The air shot into the room, swirling between

(19:51):
them with its stinging bite. A girl standing in the
back yelled. It fueled the fire of the children, and
they advanced. They stumbled and tripped, their movements already sluggish
and slow. Outside the leading snowman skated up the yard.
One arm had been ripped from his body. Earlier that afternoon,

(20:11):
a child had plucked out his eyes. But even without sight,
he knew where to go. A shiver ran down the
boy's spine. The snowman's followers continued screeching, whistling their demands
and complaints from twisted, narrow mouths made from licorice. A
thin red line slashed across the ghostly faces. The children

(20:33):
burst through the door into the frigid night. Their weapons
gleamed and glinted and glittered, hearts full of fright. They
slashed and sliced. Under the dark skies, They battled the snowmen,
these horrors that once brought such delight. High above, piercing
the misty clouds, a red light twinkled. Santa's sleigh soared

(20:55):
silhouetted against the sky. The true spirit of Christmas was
all but forgotten. Inside, the boy's sister watched from her
bedroom window. A tear trickled down her cheek. The boy
stopped a fight, marching on around him, each child fighting
a snowman. His breath came slower now, and the tips

(21:17):
of his fingers and toes tingled. The cold traveled up
his legs and arms, an icy stream, slow and steady.
A high piercing whistle sounded behind him. His heart shuddered.
The leader of the snowman towered over him, his face
without eyes. The boy remembered making this one, rolling the

(21:37):
snowballs until they formed the bottom middle in head with delight.
He had taken the new range scarf that his aunt
had knitted for him a birthday present, and wrapped it
around the snowman's neck. If only he'd known what would
have happened. Was it something about the snow the scarf?
Was it magical? Perhaps perhaps it was the batch of

(21:58):
carrots they'd used for the noses. The boy jabbed at
this icy horror with his mother's frying pan. The snowman
slid easily away. They danced and poked and ducked, each one,
at times on the brink of winning. With one step,
the boy's foot slipped out from under him. He slammed
onto the ice. His neighbor, the one with the bucket

(22:20):
of water, had tipped it over. As soon as the
water hit the ground, it had started to freeze and
began spreading and crackling, until the yard was all ice.
His plan had backfired. For hours, the battle continued. Heads rolled,
noses crunched and broken. Half bodies were torn apart. Twigs
lay scattered on icy snow. A grave yard of sorts.

(22:44):
Santa came and went as the children slipped and slithered,
their footsteps uncertain. The icy streams reached their hearts, warped
their minds slowly, bit by bit, their limbs turned glassy
in cold. Up in the window, the girl turned away
from the ghastly sight. She remembered her nana and the

(23:06):
twinkle in her eye when she spoke about hot cocoa
and magic. Could it work? Determined, she slipped down to
the kitchen as quick as possible. She placed a mug
of water in the microwave until it boiled. The water
bubbled and splattered. Then she dumped in the cocoa mix,
even though most of it landed on the counter in

(23:27):
a layer of chocolate powder. She stirred with a spoon
and even added many marshmallows. Her hands trembled, sending ripples
across the cocoa. She went to the front door. She
opened it and the air blasted through, freezing her nostrils.
Hardening her tears to her eyelashes. She placed the mug
of cocoa on the first step, and with her foot

(23:50):
nudged the mug further out. Then she slammed the door.
The rest of the night she curled under her covers,
gripping her stuffed button. Outside, steam wafted from the hot cocoa,
lifting into the air. Riding the air, currents happiness and
joy and peace and everything that comes with hot cocoa

(24:12):
and a cold winter's night embraced the snowmen. They remembered love.
They remembered the tiny hands that had formed them. They
remembered smiles and giggles and bright eyes. Slowly, the howling
wind died away, the storm slowed. Hazy streams of golden

(24:33):
light stretched across the neighborhood. It twinkled on icy shards
and glimmered against windows. Christmas morning dawned. The parents of
the boy woke from their slumber and trudged downstairs. Puddles
of water led to the front door. Questioning and confused,
they tugged the door open and gasped. What they saw

(24:56):
in the front yard pierced their hearts. Grief and sorrow
settled on them. Icy statues of children littered the lawn.
Their bodies were somehow frozen right in the middle of action,
a throw, a kick, a tackle, frozen in mid air
on their faces, the outline of a grimace. The horror

(25:19):
of their freezing bodies was captured forever. The mystery was
never solved. They set the girl down and asked her
over and over if she knew what had happened. The
policemen smiled and asked the same questions. What was she
to say that snowmen came to life? No one knew

(25:39):
how or why this frozen fright had occurred, But from
that day forward, the girl never built another snowman. Every
Christmas Eve she and her parents lay out cookies for Santa.
But she also boils the water and makes cocoa before bed,
and long before I take to the skies. Each Christmas Eve,

(26:00):
this little girl places her offering on her front step,
hoping it's enough, hoping it will work its magic. For
it was the kindness of a gift that frigid night
that had warmed the snowmen's impenetrable hearts, that sent them
back sliding and shuffling to their own yards. The girl

(26:21):
would never forget. And that is why not only do
I need cookies this year, but along with that milk,
perhaps leave a cup of hot cuco for me as well.
That magic will protect me on my travels. Well, did

(26:57):
you like the stories I told children? If so, please
do Santa a favor. Tell your friends and family members
about Spooky Santa so that they can listen to my
stories too. And remember, you can write your own scary
story and email it to me at letters at Spookysanta
dot com. If you want to learn more about the

(27:18):
stories I've told or the authors who wrote them, you
can find links in the episode's show notes. Spooky Santa
is a registered trademark of Marler House Productions copyright Marler
House Productions, twenty nineteen. Now be a good little boy
or girl and join me next time for more creepy
tales from Spooky Santa