In a lone cottage in the Icelandic wilderness, a young boy named Alexander pulled his

threadbare blanket tight around his shoulders on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve.

Outside, the wind howled over a blanket of snow as it rattled against the wooden shutters.

His eyes were fixed on the small window glazed with frost.

He hadn't received a single piece of new clothing that year, and he feared what that may mean.

His friend's words echoed in his mind.

If you don't have new clothes by Christmas, the Yule Cat will come.

The oil lamp on the table sputtered, its light running low.

In the darkness beyond the window, something moved.

Two glowing yellow eyes appeared, towering as high as the rooftop.

Alexander's breath caught in his throat.

Through a thin pane of glass, he could see something.

It was the enormous silhouette of a cat,

fur as black as the winter night,

prowling around the cottage.

Its claws scraped against the door, and a deep, rumbling

brow, vibrated through the floorboards. Alexander clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a

whimper. He silently prayed it would pass by. But suddenly a heavy thump shook

the door. His candle extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. In the faint moonlight,

he watched as a latch began to lift, inch by agonizing inch.

A massive paw tipped with razor-sharp claws slipped inside the doorframe.

He could not even scream. Terror had frozen him in place. The last thing he saw

...