Attention! This story is based solely on Ukrainian mythology.

Cold, harsh, and mercilessly searing, the wind that night was accompanied by piercing and biting snowflakes, likely transformed into tiny shards of ice aiming to prick anyone's face. It heartlessly blew into the massive house built of impenetrable clay and unyielding stone. Its ominous “Woo-oo-oo” sounded to the other children of the village, where little Taras lived, like something to be avoided at all costs — something that could maim, devour, or take them away from their parents, even kill them! To the other children, perhaps, but not to him.

His delicate fingers clung to the frost-covered glass, where intricate cracks in the ice, resembling tiny lightning bolts, created strange patterns. Taras loved studying these peculiar designs in the evenings when the candles extinguished, silence enveloped the household, and the cold, oppressive, and foreboding quiet of the night reigned. He liked it that way.

Just before his mother forcibly dragged him away from the window and seated him on the warm stove, bypassing the grand table laden with all sorts of dishes exuding delicious aromas, Taras caught sight of a pattern resembling a white, almost gray, ox. He imagined the mighty ox stomping its hoof on the frozen ground, sending shards of ice and snowflakes flying, making everything around howl and groan under the frost. Under the Frost, which Taras adored.

***

A large, rugged man, the head of the family, rose from the table, picking up a beautifully carved wooden plate and ladle adorned with various symbolic designs. He walked the length and breadth of the intricately carved table, bypassing the children and his wife, who sat quietly like mice on massive high-backed chairs, their heads lowered. Only one place, besides his own, was currently empty — Taras’s.

Scooping a single ladleful of each Christmas Eve dish, Ivan — his father — glanced at his son, who sat by the frozen window, gazing at the winter landscape, peering into the gaps between the tall trees of the vast forest directly across from their house, waiting for what was to come.

The head of the family placed a goblet of honey and another of water on the plate. Everyone in the village called Taras “the odd one,” while his grandmother considered him special, saying, “The boy’s not of this world.” She said so because he loved and eagerly awaited the onset of frost, especially winter holidays — not for the festivities, rituals, and celebrations but for the arrival of Frost, or as they called him, Zyuza.

Ordinary children feared him, and adults every Christmas Eve would “invite the guest to dinner,” praying he wouldn’t appear on the horizon. But Taras… he was different. From birth, his skin was much paler than that of his siblings, and his health was remarkably robust. In all his six years, he had never fallen ill, whether in winter or any other season. Whenever this was brought up in family discussions, his grandfather explained it was because he “befriended Zyuza,” respecting and awaiting him every year. As the ancestors said: “If you curse winter, grumble about the cold, or disrespect Frost, he will grow angrier and turn you into an icicle at the first opportunity.” Thus, no one disturbed Taras when he sat by the window, even as others prayed. They simply feared him.

Ivan walked further, placed an apple on the plate, cut a piece from a freshly baked warm loaf, added some nuts, and surveyed the family feast. He stopped his gaze on his wife, whose eyes reflected determination mixed with overwhelming fear. She nodded, rose from the oak table, and followed him to the door. Ivan stopped by the doorway, glanced at the icon hanging in the center of the sacred corner, crossed himself, and looked at his wife again.

“May the Lord protect you,” she whispered, crossing Ivan three times. She handed him the flail staff and locked the door behind him with a sturdy latch.

Ivan stood in the bitter cold, his head held high with pride. In his left hand, he carried treats for the “guest,” while his right held the wooden flail staff. Descending the last step from the house, he swung the flail three times, bellowing in a hoarse bass voice:

“Frost, Frost, come to us for kutia!”

His call echoed through the forest, slipping into burrows where tiny creatures hid and soaring into the sky where no birds could be found. When the echoes finally faded, Ivan smirked. He swung the flail harder and roared:

“If you won’t come, then stay away from our wheat and rye, and all our crops. Go to the seas, the forests, and the steep mountains, but do us no harm!”

He began to invite the gray wolf, black storms, and fierce winds. For a few seconds, Ivan stood sternly on the threshold. Turning his back to the forest, he knocked three times on the door. An irrational fear coursed through him until the door opened, letting him back into the house. Without turning, he shut it firmly behind him.

But he couldn’t speak of what he had seen just before turning away from the horizon: a hunched figure darting between the trees, its white eyes flashing for a fleeting moment.

Looking at Taras, Ivan knew the boy already understood.

Christmas. Since childhood, he had always loved this holiday, though he never truly understood why. Sure, he was drawn to winter — not so much because he’d spend the day with family or head off to evening gatherings with friends — but because he loved gazing at the snowy landscape, soaking in the serene atmosphere, and imagining that time itself had stopped. Only the snow, drifting gently to the ground, had the right to move, blanketing the world in its soft, plush cover.

Still, that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the festive gatherings. On this night, January 6th, he’d join his friends at the “big house,” where they’d drink, laugh, and revel in games and traditional competitions. Most of all, the thought that she — his Anya —would be there warmed his heart.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice how quickly evening crept in. It was time to dash to the other end of the village.

“Mom, I’m off, or I’ll be late!” he called out, barely pausing to say goodbye before bolting out the door.

The door shut with a bang right in front of his mother’s face. She sighed anxiously and glanced at her husband, who shook his head with a frown and muttered:

“I’ll never understand these kids. Holidays are meant to be spent with family.”

“I just hope they don’t forget…” she murmured, worried.

“He won’t forget. That’s one thing you don’t need to worry about.”

***

Taras raced toward the gathering, his hat nearly flying off his head as he ran, propelled by the thrill of youth, love, and adventure. The frozen ground crunched beneath his boots, the sounds of nature whispering as if to bless the occasion. The moonshine in his flask sloshed in time with his hurried steps.

He was greeted warmly. His friends eagerly accepted the bottle and led him to the main room, where the festivities were in full swing. There she was, his Anya, sitting amidst her girlfriends, who were braiding her hair. Their eyes met briefly, a subtle nod of understanding passing between them before they each stayed in their circles of friends.

The evening’s hostess, or panimatka, wasn’t present this time. She trusted the group, knowing the boys and girls would follow traditions, handle any fortune-telling rituals with care, and keep their singing to an acceptable volume. This time, she allowed them to celebrate without her supervision, saying, “I’m too old for all this noise. Let me sleep and spend Christmas with my grandchildren.”

Before leaving, she pulled Taras aside, appointing him as the evening’s unofficial leader.

“Son, we all know you’re no ordinary child. You’ll do just fine. For Frost, you’re like a son already. Remember what to do?”

“Yes, Olha, I’ll take care of everything and make sure no one steps outside afterward,” Taras replied, helping her put on her fur coat.

***

The night grew rowdy. Taras’s head spun from his father’s strong moonshine. Someone was singing a familiar song right in his ear, others were awkwardly trying to dance or flirt with the girls. Yet somehow, Taras found himself in an unexpected position: Anya, once too shy to approach him, now rested her head on his shoulder, peacefully dozing.

He blinked, his cheeks burning as a dozen thoughts swirled in his mind. Finally, one broke through.

“What… what time is it, guys?” he slurred, struggling to move his tongue.

“About half-past two in the morning!” someone called out from across the room.

His heart dropped. He leapt up so suddenly that he almost fell back down if not for a group of girls who steadied him. Anya, startled awake, looked up in confusion.

“What’s gotten into you, Taras?” she asked, watching him dart around the room, piling leftover food onto a clean plate.

“Guys! Does anyone have apples? Or nuts?”

“Apples? Nuts? Where do you think we’d get that, Taras?”

“Are you serious?” another chimed in: “You still believe in Frost? What are you, a kid?”

The room erupted in laughter.

“I do believe!” Taras shot back, indignant. “I’m practically his son!”

More laughter followed, and with his pride wounded, Taras stormed outside with his makeshift offering. He ordered everyone to sit quietly, blow out the candles, and turn off the lamps.

“T-Taras, maybe you should just drop it?” Anya peeked through the doorway, smiling sweetly.

“I’ll be quick,” he reassured her, shutting the door. For a moment, he was alone with nature’s forces.

The cold hit him like a slap, sobering him up. His trembling hands clutched the small plate of scraps — unworthy of any real offering, but he’d made a promise.

Muttering the ritual words, Taras turned back toward the house — only to feel a biting chill unlike any he’d known. Turning slightly toward the forest, he saw it: a massive, silvery ox with piercing white eyes. Its breath came in icy clouds, its hoof stomping against the frozen ground. Taras froze, captivated.

Before he could react, his friends, ignoring his warnings, burst outside, interrupting the ritual.

“Get back inside! Now!” Taras shouted, but before he could shove them back, a tremendous force hurled them all into the house.

***

Inside, chaos reigned. Ice crept across the floor, freezing everything and everyone in its path. Girls screamed as their hair and skin stuck painfully to the freezing ground. The boys were frozen in place like statues, their last expressions etched into the icy air.

Standing in the doorway was him. Frost himself, an imposing figure clad in a white fur cloak, his beard and icy eyes glowing with a spectral light. In his hand, he held a spiked mace, which he slammed onto the floor, splitting the wood and sending icy tendrils racing outward.

The figure turned its gaze to Taras, who alone remained unharmed. It spoke, its voice a chilling roar that carried the weight of an arctic storm:

“You’ve grown arrogant, boy. You thought I’d forgive this?” Frost gestured to the pitiful offering now frozen into dust.

“I-I’m sorry, Frost! Please forgive me! I’ll never—”

The old man, whose silhouette bore no resemblance to the frail and hunched figure he had once seen years ago through the frost-covered window of his childhood home, now seemed more powerful than any warrior he could imagine. And this warrior was furious! Moroz pointed his mace, covered in icy spikes, toward Taras and began to speak. His voice was deep and thunderous, accompanied by the same “Woo-oo-oo” sound that strong winds make when blowing through the cracks of a house.

“You no longer fear... You've grown arrogant, boy. Did you think I would spare you just because you offered me this?!” he shifted the mace toward the scattered offering, which had also turned into icy ash: “Do you think too highly of yourself?”

“Forgive me, Frost! I swear, year after year, for the rest of my life, such a mistake will never happen again!”

“Of course, it won't,” he sneered, revealing sharp, pointed teeth as he turned his head toward the frozen statues, once lively friends who had been laughing and celebrating mere minutes ago: “They will serve as a great lesson for you, boy. The entire village... no, every village you wander into, know this: I will always be near, always your shadow. Everyone will turn their backs on you; every death will be blamed on you, and they will be right. Live in fear, knowing that every Christmas may be your last!”

Frost transformed into an ox, stomped his hooves, and galloped into the depths of the forest, leaving the boy alone amidst his brutally slain friends. Frostbite scars covering Taras's body would forever remind him of that night and the promise Moroz had made. From that moment until his death, Taras felt an intense cold radiating from his heart through his entire body, regardless of the season. And then there were the eyes — those white, icy eyes that haunted him wherever he went...

Taras Otamanenko (1880–1918) — Found frozen to death in his home by fellow villagers, sitting at a large table with almost nothing on it. He had failed to appear at the local tavern to repay a significant debt for the bottles of vodka he had consumed on the night of January 6-7. Icicles were found growing directly from his body. His eyes were wide open when he was discovered, as if he had gone outside, seen something he was never meant to see, and his heart had stopped. He had fallen into the snow and lay there long enough to be covered in frost. Someone had dragged him back home, seated him at the table, and left. Tracks were found leading away from the house, resembling those of bare feet with ice and icicles sprouting from them. Near the house, an old woman noticed hoofprints, like those of oxen — though no one in the village had ever owned such animals.