Fear the Hunter

It was supposed to be a simple visit to my grandmother’s house – I have done it so often in the past, I’d come to stop thinking of them as special. Truth be told, I’d come to think of them as mostly a chore.

Grandma lives outside of town, deep in the woods. She’s far from the only person around here that does it – what we call the “town” is little more than the two roads crossing and the houses that line them. But it was far enough out of the way to be an annoyance, and Grandma is too old to make the trip herself.

So I, as her eldest grandchild, have to carry food for her from the town, listen to her stories, and make sure she hasn’t gone and died on us while we weren’t watching. Mama always says she should move into town, in case there’s ever any trouble. But she hasn’t offered our house to her mother-in-law, and Grandma doesn’t see any reason to leave the woods her husband had worked. Besides, there’s still enough men cutting wood or hunting each day in the forest that she’s never really alone.

It was the wolf that first told me today was not a simple day. Mama told me often enough never to leave the trail while walking through the woods, since night happens almost before you know it here in the mountains, and to be lost in the woods is to die. But I didn’t leave the trail – I didn’t have to. The wolf was there, plain as day, waiting for me.

I’ve seen wolves before, of course. Furs for the things you use furs for. A snarling head one winter to pleasantly frighten children. Some dead bodies, legs tied, hanging off the backs of horses as the hunters went to the tavern to celebrate. A few eyes in the darkness of the woods, once, to hurry me home to the light. But never one like this.

Never one that had been massacred so – utterly.

Its head was the first thing I really noticed. Twisted up and to the side so I saw it in profile against the trail, eyes rolled slightly inside the sockets, tongue dangling out of the open mouth. It didn’t look anything like a dog, but neither did it look dangerous.

The fur was matted, unhealthy. I guessed it hadn’t eaten, or at least eaten properly, in quite some time. What was there was a reddish brown, sickly. No hunter would seek it out to make a rug or a blanket, let alone a cloak and hood for a sweetheart.

Its stomach, though – it took a while, even for me, to look at it properly. Its body was slit, throat to crotch, and everything was pouring out. Blood. Lungs. Intestines. And the stomach itself, split as neatly as the chest – which is to say, not at all – and almost pulled out of the body.

I felt I was going to be sick; I honestly wanted to throw up. But even though I’m grown – I’m almost 12, no child – and had helped my Mama prepare animals for food before, part of me was frightened that if I did throw up, what would come out would be what was in the wolf’s stomach. There, in the blood and the bile, were three stones, bulging the stomach into an awful shape. I distinctly remember thinking that if I’d throw up, I’d die, because the stones would cut my throat on the way up, and maybe break my mouth, they were so big. There was no way the wolf itself could have swallowed them, but there they were, inside the stomach, peeking out of the hole. It didn’t occur to me at the time that they had been put in, that the hole had been made for them – they were so covered in blood. I was sure they had to have been in there while the wolf was still alive.

And the wolf hadn’t been dead long. Its tongue was still damp, the blood still glistened around the wound and on the ground, bugs hadn’t started eating the carcass yet.

It was just there, violated, on the trail to my grandmother’s house, waiting for me.

I don’t know when it occurred to me to be frightened for Grandma. I was in shock, first, then the fear came. And besides, her house was much closer than the town, and I promised myself that the body wouldn’t seem so frightening within the warm walls and close to the cozy fire. Maybe it wasn’t even real, and I could forget about it, there.

I ran the rest of the way – I lost a lot of the food in the basket. I had to step over the body first, though. Please remember, I was in shock, and my Mama’s warnings about leaving the trail seemed as important as the question of what could have done this to a wolf. Part of me must have been scared that if I stepped off the safety of the trail, the monster would leap out of the trees and kill me, too. So I had to step over the body, and the wolf was large. The edge of my cloak got sticky with blood, still red, like roses. I almost imagined it seeping into the wool, dying the entire cloak red to the hood, until it wrapped around my face, smelling of dead wolf.

So much thoughts, for such a little time. It felt like forever. Then I was running, basket knocking against my side, my lungs ready to burst. Part of me wanted to drop the cloak, get rid of the bloody thing, but part of me was also scared of the chill in the almost-winter air.

When I got to Grandma’s house, the open door didn’t frighten me at first – it comforted me. I felt like I was being welcomed. And it meant that I didn’t have to stop running to get into the one room cabin. Which meant there was no time at all before I saw my grandmother on the down-stuffed bed.

There was no question it was her – her face was whole, like the wolf’s. Whole, eyes rolled back in fear, tongue dangling slightly from a screaming mouth. Her hands were curled into helpless claws by her face. I will never know why.

The death of the wolf was clean, though, compared to her. The blanket had been pulled up to her chin, but then torn through, to the frail body beneath. Blood was everywhere, and flesh, and organs – I didn’t take time to identify them all. All I could see was her stomach, lying almost beside her, and the bite wounds on it.

I screamed, of course. That’s how he found me, standing staring at my dead grandmother, wine pouring from the broken bottle and the dropped basket at my feet, screaming wordlessly. I heard a sound, and turned around, and there he was, in the door way, a silhouette of shoulders and chest and a large axe.

I cannot tell you what he said, just that he gruffly apologized, stating that he had found my grandmother, much as I had, and the wolf responsible. He said he killed the wolf, just down the trail, and had gone to get more help. But he was alone, so there must not have been any to find.

I nodded, thankful to see him. Thankful for an explanation to everything that had happened. But as he stepped into the cabin, I could see the blood staining the black beard around his mouth. And the blood covering my grandmother was even fresher than the blood of the wolf. And while his axe was covered stained a messy red, in the blood was not just red fur, but soft down feathers as well.

I could see in my mind my gray cloak dyed red, and wondered why I had started screaming again…

- Mary-Melissa Wilzewski

Blood Dreams

I lie here in my castle, asleep, dreaming. Outside the stone walls a bramble of thorns and vines encase my home like the embrace of a jealous and vengeful lover. Flowers, the colour of fresh-spilt blood, bloom full and voluptuously from the vines, turning their faces to the sun. But their real beauty comes at night, when they are stained silver by the moonlight, when their petals open to their limit, their intoxicating fragrance filling the air. The scent calls out for brave young men to come free me, so that the vines and thorns may feed.

When the perfume or the legend surrounding my castle and myself plants itself into the heart of a man like a seed, it may take years, or it may take days, but it will grow and consume him until he can think of nothing else but me. And then he comes, to face the endless maze of vine and thorn. Though logic states that it is impossible to pass, and indeed none that try have ever returned, he will brave the tangle, until he reaches so far that the sun no longer touches him. There, the vines have full power. They wrap the hapless man, thorns piercing his skin, drawing out the rich blood within.

I dream of them, these would-be rescuers, when the sun sets and all light fades. I dream I come to each like a ghost, embrace them, as they speak of their undying love for me. I touch their lips and wounds, feeling and tasting their life blood, as the vines feed off of it to build their roots and grow their blooms.

By sunrise, all that remains is the dry husk that was once a vital man, who was loved and loved others, now gone forever more. Inside my castle, I sleep, smiling in remembrance of their spirit and strength, and the feel of it coiled within me like the weight of a warm, delicious supper.

The brambles were once my protection against the world, a close friend that thought only to care for me as I lived and ruled behind their impenetrable walls. But it is impossible to live completely closed off from the world, as I have discovered, and the store of supplies and people within my realm grew steadily less.

Now, I am dreaming of another man, who as come to free me of my home. There is something of a dark magic around him, a magic that resonates against the power of my vines. Maybe this is the reason he has come to my kingdom at night, under a new, empty moon and starless sky. The thorns hold still, only quivering slightly as he passes, dormant in their own sleep as I draw the energy I need to survive from them. In this way he reaches the heavy door of my castle, pulled ajar by a hundred years of my pet trying to come closer to a master that, for no reason it can comprehend, has fallen silent.

He passes my servants, fallen as though asleep under a powerful sleep where they worked, not seeing in the faint light that they are dried mummies, preserved because there is nothing left in their bodies to rot. Each served me faithfully until I had need of a greater service from them, and none complained, held by my magic. But after a while, there were too few of them left to carry away the bodies of their companions, and only then did I realize the depth of my mistake.

He has found me now, in my high tower room, with the heavy velvet curtains pulled tight against the windows, allowing no light to enter my bower save the soothing rays of the moon. Overcome by my beauty, which has held in crystal perfection through my years of endless slumber, he pulls in a breath, then bends down to brush my lips with his own.

I may be too weak to awaken, kept alive and sane only by the feedings of my vines that they gladly give me, but the warmth he radiates is enough to give me the strength to move the tiny bit I need. I pull back my lips, caressing his as though returning his kiss, and then fasten my teeth to his tender skin, feeling the searing warmth, coppery taste of his blood fill my mouth. He may have cried out, but I do not hear, intent upon fulfilling my need for his life.

When I am recovered enough, I rise and fasten myself to his throat, where I can draw out his blood more easily, quenching a hunger that has existed too long. As his body falls to the floor, I go to the window, and draw back the curtain to gaze again at my domain.

My pet, feeling my return, awakes as well, flowers tipped towards me in delight. I hold out my wrist, and a tendril wraps around it like a bracelet, thorns biting in to feed off of my blood and the blood of my savior as I had fed off the energy of its own kills. The rest of the bramble fades into dust, satisfied that its purpose has been completed.

I lovingly stroke the flower blooming from the vine around my wrist as I turn again to the man who has freed me of my hunger and sleep. He had courage, and strength; I will allow him to arise, and be my mate for a while. He should interest me for half a century, at least, and it would do good for the citizens of the lands around my castle to see us together, so they believe everything is good with their world.

I have slept long enough. Never again shall I hide myself away against those that would kill me.

It is time for me to spread my roots throughout my kingdom again, and feed from the life that has grown up in my absence.

- Mary-Melissa Wilzewski

[size=4][b]Sugar and Spice,/b][/font]

I wait for them to leave, hidden in the trees. It’s almost too easy, as much time as I’ve spent watching them. They go out walking, every day, the three of them – father, mother, and little boy. Aping humanity, despite the forms of bears.

The door is locked, but the lock itself is flimsy and easy to open, and I am inside. All is as I was expecting, porridge cooling, chairs arranged neatly around the small table, a curtain creating a small sleeping area. They have so little.

And now, here I am.

I take a spoonful from the largest bowl, crudely carved from wood, but quickly spit out the mouthful of porridge. Too hot by half, and bland, little more than boiled oats in water. The second bowl, rimmed with clumsily painted flowers, is lumpy and cold. There is a little sugar mixed into the cereal, but it is still no where near appetizing.

It is the smallest bowl that is of interest. Clearly the finest made of the three, its contents include a touch of cinnamon as well as sugar mixed into the oatmeal and milk. Kept at the perfect temperature, it’s a matter of moments to finish the meal off.

I judge the chairs next, having few other options. As the bowls – already broken on the table, did I forget to mention that? – the quality varies greatly between the three. A large, rough-hewn one I ignore as being beneath my notice. A dainty one carefully, if poorly, weaved out of slender branches. I put my foot through that one, climbing up to reach the table, almost an accident, really.

And the smallest; I believe they traded for this one, although what they could have bartered with, I have no idea. The wood is smooth, the curves simple but clean, and the size likely fitting the young cub perfectly.

I am larger than the cub, and traded or not, the joints are not in the best of shape. The chair finally sits on the floor in pieces.

On to what passes for a bedroom. Three beds as alike to the chairs I shall not waste time describing them. I just jump on the mattresses, dirtying the sheets and tossing feathers in the air. My work almost done, I pull across the curtain to allow for a more satisfying reveal, and collapse on the smallest, most comfortable bed.

I don’t have to wait long for either the family’s return nor their reaction to my presents. The father is in a rage, howling at the top of his considerable lungs, demanding blood payment for the damage. The mother weeps, begging her husband to be calm even as she mourns the lost of what little they had.

The little son, hardly more than a baby, is silent, likely stunned.

They finally think to look in the back, where I am waiting. The curtain is drawn away, and the room is filled with giant, angry bear. I’m tempted to smirk at him, but I put on my best innocent face.

More raging, as I do my best “lost waif” routine, accented by big blue eyes and shiny gold curls. When it’s clear he’s about to eat me, though, I drop the glamour, and let him know exactly who he’s dealing with.

The fairy that had cursed them from a normal, human family to this parody in fur for vaguely described crimes. The one, supposedly, that had come to visit them again as a test their worthiness to be forgiveness.

A game, of course. What family would accept anyone, no matter how lost or scared they appeared, that had performed such malice and destruction on them? I had taken everything they had, everything they had held dear, and ruined it.

I sweep out, leaving the small family stunned. I had destroyed their world before, and now they had even less than before, including less hope for redemption.

Now, who should I visit next?

- Mary-Melissa Wilzewski