“Today’s prompt is pretty simple really… write a horror story. It could also be a spooky story that you would tell around a campfire with the flashlight pointed up towards your face for visual spooky effects.”

Author’s note: I’m not really one for reading, writing or watching horror. However, a few years ago whilst researching Scandinavian folklore for a different story, I came across the Icelandic legend of the Yule Cat: a huge and vicious cat who lurks about the snowy countryside during Christmas time and eats people who have not received any new clothes to wear for the Christmas festivities. You can read about the Yule Cat and the figures associated with it here: Icelandic Christmas folklore – Wikipedia

The Children Who Had No New Clothes For Christmas Eve

“Beware the Yule Cat, my little ones, when the snow is cold and the moon is fat…”               

Ömmu’s voice is soft and lilting within the cosy darkness of the winter evening, but the firelight casts strange shadows upon her face as she speaks so that Gunnar and his siblings are not sure whether this is really their grandmother or the giantess Grýla hunting for naughty children to devour.               

Inside the little house, everything is cosy and warm. The four children sit beneath a fur blanket, sipping hot chocolate and listening, wide eyed, to the twilight tale.               

“Tell us again about the Yule Lads,” eight-year-old Helga begs.               

Every year, Ömmu recounts the story of Grýla and her gigantic children. Their father says it is made-up nonsense used to frighten children into good behaviour, but Helga and her brothers know this is not true: Ömmu saw Pottaskefill when she was a girl, and even though her face is now wrinkled and her hair is white, she still remembers the outrage she felt when she crept downstairs one snowy December morning and found the hulking lout finishing up the leftover kjötsúpa from the night before.              

“Of course, half of them stole food of one kind or another,” Ömmu says, her tone reflective. Her eyes mist over as she revisits the past, and Helga and Gunnar and the four year old twins, İsak and Anna, are dragged into the story with her – running past the smokehouse and spying Bjúgnakrækir in the act of swiping sausages, or tiptoeing into the kitchen to catch Þvörusleikir licking all the wooden spoons. So thrilling are Ömmu’s recollections that Gunnar can feel the smoke tickling his nostrils as he hides in the rafters of the reykhús, his mouth watering at the aroma of birch-smoked hangikjöt and kindabjúgu.              Meanwhile, Helga is caught up in the wild romping of Hurðaskellir and Gluggagægir as the former runs through door after door, slamming each one loudly, and his brother stops to peep in every window, looking for things to steal. In Ömmu’s homespun fantasies, Helga is as naughty as the thirteen brothers, but Gunnar knows she was first in her class this week.            

“The Jólakötturinn,” İsak and Anna chorus. “Tell us more about the Yule Cat, Ömmu.”            

“The Yule Cat is as tall as a house.” Ömmu lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. “His legs are tree trunks and his eyes are dinner plates. When he growls, it is the sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks and his mouth is a cavern wide enough to swallow you whole.”              

İsak shrieks and Anna giggles. Gunnar pretends he is not listening, but everyone knows the Yule Cat story is his favourite folk tale.              

“And if you listen very carefully…” –  Ömmu’s voice is now so quiet the children have to strain to hear it – “you will hear the sound of his tail swishing through the snow as he prowls the streets, looking for the naughty children who have no new clothes for Christmas Eve.”

Helga and Gunnar exchange worrid looks. They have no new clothes for Christmas, but Mamma said it was because Pabbi had bought a new car and there were no króna left to spend on socks and sweaters.           

“The Jólakötturinn prowls the streets of Iceland,” Ömmu continues, “peering into windows to see which children have no new clothes. First, he eats their supper…” ­– İsak squeaks with outrage – “and then he eats the children!”              

Her skinny arms grab her younger grandson and she pretends to bite off his head. Helga and Anna scream.              

“Shame on you, Móðir!” Mamma scolds, bustling into the room and depositing a heap of knitted scarves and hats onto the fur covered couch. Then, turning to her children, she adds, “Put your new clothes on now – before the Jólakötturinn arrives.”               

And with a sigh of relief, Gunnar and Helga do as she asks.