Title: Of Terror and Tuna: A Yule Cat Tale - By Mikel J Chavez | Cat# 122525
Once, winter had a court.
Not a gentle one.
Grýla ruled it.
She was a witch older than bells, older than mercy. Her magic was hunger, cold, and waiting. Mountains bent around her will. When she called, storms answered. Children were not scared of her because she was loud. They were scared because she was inevitable.
Krampus was her enforcer.
Fire and iron and horns. Chains sang when he moved. He loved the chase, the snap of fear breaking into panic. Snow hissed and melted beneath his hooves.
And beside them walked the Yule Cat.
Silent.
Massive.
Judgment.
Every twelve years, the Yule Cat spirit shed its failing body and found a new one. Always a cat. Always feral. Always hungry enough to recognize purpose. There was never resistance. The spirit entered, the cat surrendered, and terror was reborn. For two centuries, the cycle never failed.
The Yule Cat was Christmas fear made flesh.
Not metaphor. Not lesson.
Flesh.
She liked the screams best. She liked the moment a child realized the dark had noticed them. She appeared in windows. On rooftops. Red eyes glowing. Stillness before the panic. Even Krampus respected her silence. Even Grýla trusted her hunger.
Then the last body aged out.
The spirit loosened its grip and slipped free as it always did.
It sought a new host.
And woke up on a heated velvet pillow.
The warmth was obscene.
The fur was magnificent, yes. Thick, heavy, worthy of terror. Maine Coon stock. Acceptable.
But it was brushed.
Daily.
There was a collar.
Pink.
The spirit surged upright in fury and promptly slid off the couch.
“Oh my god,” another voice said. “Do not do that on my furniture.”
The Yule Cat froze.
There was resistance.
There had never been resistance.
“Identify yourself,” the spirit commanded, voice echoing with centuries of screams.
“Princess,” the other voice replied. “And you are disrupting my nap.”
The internal battle began immediately.
The Yule Cat surged, filling the mind with blizzards and screaming winds. It showed Princess memories of rooftops bending under its weight, of red eyes in windows, of children realizing too late that Christmas was watching.
Princess yawned.
“Inside voice,” she said. “It’s nap time.”
The spirit roared, forcing the bones to stretch, claws to lengthen. Terror pressed outward, demanding obedience.
Princess curled up.
“You are being extremely disruptive,” she said. “I just ate.”
The Yule Cat screamed, a sound that once cracked courage in half.
Princess twitched one ear.
“If you keep that up,” she warned, “we will not be friends.”
And somehow, impossibly, the spirit stalled.
The body did not grow.
The eyes did not burn.
Princess slept.
Princess lived a life the spirit did not understand.
Meals arrived on schedule. Tuna. Beef broth. Chicken. Sometimes warmed. Sometimes presented twice because the first serving had been wrong.
Water flowed endlessly from a fountain.
Sunbeams were tracked with military precision.
Her litter box was immaculate beyond reason. Not merely clean, but anticipated. The moment Princess finished, a human appeared as if summoned by ritual, murmuring apologies while producing a warmed jasmine scented wipe.
The spirit recoiled.
It had stalked children through blizzards.
It had devoured fear.
Now it was being gently dabbed with florals.
“I do not like the cool ones,” Princess informed the spirit. “If they are cool, we scream.”
That was when Grýla noticed.
Her magic arrived like an avalanche.
The room filled with freezing light. Runes burned in the air. The walls creaked under ancient power. The witch’s voice boomed from everywhere at once, sharp enough to split stone.
WHERE IS MY CAT.
Princess opened one eye.
She yawned.
“I am very sleepy,” she announced.
Grýla’s magic faltered.
For the first time in centuries, Grýla hesitated.
The Yule Cat spirit trembled. Grýla angry was worse than starvation, worse than fire.
Princess rolled over.
The magic collapsed like snow in spring.
The room went quiet.
From that moment on, the reign ended.
The Yule Cat tried again. Later. When children laughed outside. When terror would have been easy.
Princess had routines.
Routines were sacred.
Brush time. Food time. Sunbeam time. Sleep time.
When a routine was interrupted, Princess threw fits of legendary proportion.
Terror was rescheduled indefinitely.
Years passed.
The spirit softened. Not redeemed. Not forgotten. Simply occupied.
The pillow was perfect.
The brush was divine.
The tuna was excellent.
Grýla sent fewer messages. Krampus burned things out of boredom. Winter moved on.
For the first time in two hundred years, the possession failed.
The spirit did not leave.
It stayed.
It purred.
And the most terrifying creature Christmas ever knew was tamed by naps, jasmine wipes, and a spoiled Maine Coon who simply refused to be inconvenienced.
© 2025 Mike Chavez. All rights reserved.