In Focus

In the blink of an eye, Christmas is here. The past few weeks have been a blur—busy schedules, endless errands, and the familiar realization that I’m still shopping for gifts. This time of year always makes me think about where our traditions come from and how they change over time. When that curiosity mixes with my love of mythology, folklore, and the paranormal, it leads me to stories far older—and far darker—than the holiday season we know today.

Long before Santa’s sleigh bells jingled across the sky, winter arrived with something else entirely: the Wild Hunt—a ghostly procession racing through the coldest nights of the year, led by a god, a king, or death itself. To our ancestors, winter was not cozy. It was alive. It watched. And sometimes, it rode.

Across Northern Europe, people believed the Wild Hunt swept through the skies during Yule, carried on storm winds. To hear it was a warning. To see it was dangerous. The Hunt was said to gather restless spirits, fallen warriors, and wandering souls—reminding the living that winter belonged as much to the dead.

Many versions of the myth tell of Odin, the Norse All-Father, cloaked and bearded, leading the Hunt on his eight-legged horse. Children once left food in their boots for Odin’s mount, hoping for gifts in return. Over the centuries, that fearsome sky-rider softened. Judgment became generosity. The storm god became Santa Claus. The Wild Hunt didn’t disappear—it was rewritten.

But the ghosts never fully left.

The darkest days of the year were believed to thin the veil between worlds. Spirits wandered. Ancestors returned. Fires were kept burning not just for warmth, but for protection. Even today, the tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas lingers.

Modern fantasy hasn’t forgotten the Wild Hunt either. It appears in books, games, and films as spectral riders of fate—unstoppable, ancient, and indifferent. The message is always the same: some forces cannot be outrun. Some seasons must be endured. The Wild Hunt reminds us of what winter once meant. It wasn’t just a season—it was a reckoning. A passage. A test of survival.

I find this myth just fascinating. Because beneath the cheer, the bright lights and the decorations, winter still reminds us to slow down, stay inside, honor what came before—and listen carefully when the wind begins to howl.

Somewhere in the cold night sky, the Hunt may still be riding.