Beanstalker and Other Hilarious Scarytales

by Kiersten White

“I’m going to visit my grandmother.”

  The wolf’s eyes widened and his tongue lolled out, long and delicately pink. He was a very lean wolf, as I had mentioned. And he was hungry. Very, very hungry. For some reason all the little animals in the forest had been missing lately. And he kept finding odd tracks on the ground, like something … slithering around. He had never eaten people before, but he was getting desperate. One little girl would make a fine meal, but one little girl and one grandmother would make a better one, don’t you think?

  Well, I hope you don’t think so. You shouldn’t be eating little girls or grandmothers. It was a rhetorical question the wolf was asking himself, so you shouldn’t answer it. But he definitely did think so.

  “And where does your grandmother live?” he asked.

  Red Riding Hood gestured irritably down the path. “That way.” Her stomach felt very bad now, and it was starting to radiate outward. She thought she might throw up, but she didn’t want to do it with an audience. Especially a wolf audience.

  “Listen,” she said, annoyed and in pain. “Are you going to eat me? Because I think I’m going to be sick and I don’t want to sit around chatting.” She took out the glass lemonade bottle and smashed the bottom off against the rock. It left a jagged edge, and she held it between herself and the wolf’s teeth. Her mother would have said it was too aggressive.

  The wolf considered it. He could almost certainly still win. He was a monster, after all, and she was just a little girl.

  But it wasn’t ideal. If he ate Little Red Riding Hood now, he’d have a very full stomach. That would make the run to her grandmother’s house decidedly uncomfortable. And she might succeed in injuring him, which was something predators avoid at all costs. He really wished she were just a little girl like she was supposed to be, instead of too much more.

  But the old woman was in a nice, comfy house, and she was expecting a visitor. So she would be very likely to open the door without a fuss. He could eat her at his leisure, and then have a cushy resting place while he awaited Little Red Riding Hood.

  And Little Red Riding Hood certainly wouldn’t be armed when she went into her beloved grandmother’s house.

  The wolf sat on his haunches and scratched innocently at his ear with his back paw. “Oh, no, I would never eat such an ill-mannered little girl. You’re much too feisty for me.”

  “I like being too,” Red Riding Hood grumbled.

  “Have a lovely day.” The wolf swept his head low like he was bowing to her, and then trotted off into the trees. As soon as Little Red Riding Hood could no longer see him, he changed direction.

  You know where he’s going and what he’ll do when he gets there, so let’s stay to keep poor, sick Red Riding Hood company.

  Red Riding Hood leaned over and threw up, splattering the stone that had been such a charming picnic table.

  Well, gross. On second thought, let’s skip forward a bit.

  Hmm. She’s still throwing up.

  Still … wait, no, I think she’s done now!

  Oh dear, I spoke too soon.

  Skipping forward a bit more, Little Red Riding Hood was back on the path where she should have been all along. She stumbled instead of skipped now. Her sour stomach had turned to a sort of icy numbness that was spreading through her whole body. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead beneath her cloak, and she shivered.

  It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. She had even forgotten the picnic basket, left behind in the clearing. Her thoughts were sluggish and unfocused. Grandma’s house, she repeated to herself over and over. She knew she needed to get to Grandma’s house, and then things would be okay.

  She was too tired, and too sick, and too woozy to think of anything else. She didn’t like these toos at all.

  She had been shambling along without paying attention to where she was, and her grandmother’s house appeared in front of her so quickly that she bumped into the door. But now that she was here, she remembered she wanted to go inside.

  She knocked.

  “Come in,” a rough voice called. Something about it was wrong, but in her hazy, sick brain she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. So she opened the door and went inside.

  The house was dim, all the shutters closed. The fire was out, too. If Red Riding Hood weren’t so sick, she would know that meant something was wrong. Her grandmother liked to keep the cottage a few degrees below roasting. Once, a chicken wandered in from the yard, and by the time it walked to the table, it was almost fully cooked.

  But Red Riding Hood was cold. Very cold. She kept her cloak on.

  “Come here, my child,” a voice crooned from her grandmother’s bed, which took up the whole center of the cottage.

  It was so dark, and her eyes weren’t working quite right. But Red Riding Hood knew, deep in the part of her brain that was still functioning, that something was … different. Grandmother had always been thin and tiny, but now her body stretched too far beneath the cover of her quilt. Her knit cap fit strangely, with two large ears sticking out. And she held the blanket up over her nose and mouth.

  But it wasn’t the way her grandmother looked that was so troubling. It was that tantalizing smell …

  “Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, her voice low and creaking like old rotting wood crunching beneath a foot, “what big eyes you have.”

  “The better to see you with, my dear.”

  “Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, her mouth beginning to water for some reason, “what big ears you have.” She shuffled forward until she hit the edge of the bed.

  “The better to hear you with, my dear.” Her “grandmother” let out that garbage-disposal laugh, then covered it up by pretending to cough. Very soon the wolf knew Red Riding Hood would comment on his teeth, and then he’d get to be clever and well-fed. This was the best day of his life.

  “Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, leaning much too close over the bed, “what delicious brains you have.”

  “The better to—wait, what?” The wolf sat up, dropping the blanket. “No, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to notice my teeth, and then I’m going to say, ‘The better to eat you with,’ and then you’ll scream that delightful little-girl scream, and I’ll gobble you up.”

  “Gobble,” Red Riding Hood said, a thin stream of drool escaping her mouth.

  “Yes, that’s right, I’m going to eat you, but first I’d like—”

  “Eat you,” Red Riding Hood said.

  “Yes, I know, you can stop repeating everything I say, it’s getting annoying.”

  “Eat you,” Red Riding Hood said again. Her hood fell back and a shiver went down the wolf’s spine.

  He swallowed nervously. “My, little girl, what red eyes you have.”

  Red Riding Hood said nothing.

  “My, little girl, what gray skin you have.”

  Red Riding Hood said nothing.

  “My, little girl, what sharp nails you have.”

  Red Riding Hood said nothing.

  “My, little girl, what strong teeth you have!”

  The better to eat you with, my dear, I say as we turn away from the horrific scene of gore and gorging that followed. But you can still hear a wolfish scream cut short, bones crunched, and finally, the particular squelching sound a brain makes when it is being eaten.

  The front door burst open. A tall, strong woodsman stood, framed in the light, with an ax at his side. “I’m here to save you!” he shouted.

  He rushed to the bedside and grabbed Little Red Riding Hood, carrying her out of the house and setting her on the ground. “You shouldn’t be in the woods! Little girls don’t belong out here.” He posed, hands on hips, the sunlight behind him lighting his lustrous hair in shining chestnut shades. He looked like an advertisement for paper towels. She didn’t seem to appreciate it, and he frowned, annoyed. “And you should smile when I talk to you, and say ‘thank you.’ I saved you.”

  It was then that he
noticed she had bitten him. He scrambled away from her, looking in horror at the no-longer-secret monster she was. “But you’re just a little girl!” he shouted. “This can’t be happening!”

  People are always underestimating little girls in the woods. He ran back in to pick up the ax, but his steps got slow and heavy as the bite mark throbbed and turned cold.

  It was already too late.

  Little Dead Riding Hood still loved too.

  Back at the castle, Jack had left in such disgrace, the king and queen were in a quandary. A quandary is sort of like a quarry, if instead of rocks you mined problems and troubles. And there was no way out. And it was slowly filling with water. Or, worse, pease porridge.

  They had no servants left. Everyone was either in the dungeons thanks to the last princess, or had called in sick and then never come back. (They didn’t have phones, of course, but they had messenger pigeons. The last few notes they had gotten were “too sick,” “really too sick,” and, most puzzling of all, “arrrrrrgggggghhhhhh.”)

  The queen sat on her throne. Her hair, normally teased and curled and primped for several hours each morning, hung limply. Her face, normally teased and curled and primped for several hours each morning, also hung limply. She couldn’t figure out how to dress herself. She’d never done it before! She didn’t know how to tie a knot or a bow, so this morning she was wrapped in a golden tablecloth. She couldn’t even move her arms, which were pinned to her sides.

  The king was far worse off. He couldn’t stand up. Every time he tried, his velvet pants fell all the way to the floor. And though his underwear was expensive, he still didn’t want everyone to see it. (It had miniature knights riding pink unicorns. He really loved unicorns. It’s the only thing I can agree with him on.)

  All this was bad enough. But with no servants, there was no one to take care of the prince. The king and queen both looked with dread toward the door to the tower where they kept him.

  “We have to do something,” the queen said.

  “We do,” the king agreed.

  “Have you heard back from the stepmother I wanted to hire?”

  The king sighed. “She was interested, until she found out that you were still alive. Apparently that disqualifies us from needing a stepmother.”

  “It’s not my fault I’m still alive!”

  The king patted her hand. “I know, my dear. She was being very unreasonable.”

  The queen slumped in her chair. She had always considered herself an exclamation mark, but now she knew it was because her corsets had been so tight she had no other choice. Without a corset, she was like a comma. She hated commas! They dragged everything out, linking one thought to the next, making sentences longer, and longer, and longer, until you didn’t even know where the sentence started or why you were still reading it, because the stupid writer kept putting in commas instead of ending the sentence like a sane, normal, pleasant person would, and now she was a comma instead of an exclamation point, the forceful end of a sentence, which made her feel like her life was nothing but a pause, followed by a pause, with no end in

  Well. You get what she felt like.

  “We need a princess,” the king said.

  “There are no princesses!”

  “Maybe if we were less picky? I could … handle some singing. A little. Now and then.” He grimaced, looking like a toad. That look was helped by the fact that he was wearing several green cushions glued to his waist instead of a shirt.

  “I would take a singing princess, too, but we can’t! The last princess meant it when she said our whole kingdom is grounded. She built a wall of magic vines around everything. No one can get in. And we can’t get out.” The queen was very bitter about this. It was brilliant and mean. She should have thought of it herself as punishment for someone else! Oh, that horrible, wonderful princess. She was going to make the best queen ever someday. (Actually, the princess would assume the title of Supreme Mother Principal Dictator. We were right about her!)

  “Forget princesses, then!” the king said. “We just need a wife for him. Any wife.”

  “Preferably someone with cleaning skills.” The queen eyed several dust bunnies in the corner that were growing to be more like dust wildebeests.

  “How will we choose?”

  “Throw a party!” she said. Her stomach growled angrily. “A potluck party.” Even Jack, that horrible idiot who had ruined everything, had left them. Not that she would have eaten anything he cooked, but still. “We should make it a ball. All those long dresses will sweep the floor. And if we invite everyone in the whole kingdom, surely there will be someone willing to marry our son.”

  The king made a strangled noise of disapproval. Think of the noise your mom makes when she picks up the socks you’ve been wearing for the last week without washing them. Sort of like that.

  The queen bit her lip. Normally her lips were painted red, but she didn’t know how to use her own makeup. Today she had put mascara on them, and her lips did look very full and long! And also black. “You’re right. We can’t have a normal courtship. They’ll figure out the truth. I know! We’ll let him pick. And whoever he picks has to marry him. Immediately.”

  “It will work,” the king said, looking nervously at the locked door that led to the tower that led to their son.

  “It has to work,” the queen whispered.

  Meanwhile, in that same kingdom, it was a dark and stormy night.

  Other than the fact that it was the middle of a bright and sunny day. Cinderella just wished it were a dark and stormy night. Then they would have to light a fire.

  Mmm, a fire …

  She hummed happily to herself, combing through the ashes in the fireplace. Maybe this time there would be an ember left. Even a single spark. She could do so much with a single spark.

  “Ella!” her stepmother said with a voice like a bucket of water being dumped on her head.

  “It’s Cinderella,” one of her two stepsisters said. She had a very small face on a very large head. It was the opposite of how baby animals look. It was also the opposite of how cute baby animals are. This stepsister always followed Cinderella around, bossing her, telling her what to do and not to do.

  “If Ella,” her stepmother said, glaring, “has time to poke around in the ashes, she obviously needs more to do. Go make lunch, Ella. Then you can polish the floors.”

  When Cinderella’s father had been alive, she had never been treated like this. He went away on his trips and came back with the most wondrous gifts. New clothes and jewelry, magnifying glasses, and, best of all, books! Books with their pages of dry paper. So much paper …

  She was never allowed to have books now.

  Singing a soft, sad song to herself, Cinderella made lunch. Cold cucumber sandwiches, cold tea, cold pudding. She longed for something toasty and comforting. But her stepmother wouldn’t allow anything warm.

  When they were finished eating, she cleaned. Then she cleaned. Then she cleaned some more. It didn’t matter how clean the house was, her stepmother always found another task. Today, she was polishing the backs of the tiles in the kitchen floor. First, she had to pry up the tile. Then she polished the back. Then she re-glued it onto the floor.

  Does anyone ever see the backs of tiles? No. But at least this wasn’t as bad as the time her stepmother had her take inventory of the feathers on each chicken out in the coop. At least tiles didn’t peck or scratch. Or poo.

  At the end of every day, when Cinderella was too tired to see straight, her stepmother walked her up to the tower. (As you have noticed, there were a lot of towers in this kingdom. It all started a long time ago with the very first king. He was terrified of rain. So he had towers built everywhere, and then found all the tallest people in the kingdom. He made them stand at the tops of the towers. That way, they’d know the second it started raining, and could send a messenger pigeon with a warning. But by the time the pigeon got to the king, the rain had already hit the ground. Kings aren’t kings because they’re smart
. But it explains why the zoning laws allow such high towers. You can write the kingdom council to have them revise the rules, but it’ll take three years for them to write back.)

  “Goodnight, Ella,” the stepmother said every night, after checking every corner of the room to make sure Cinderella hadn’t managed to hide anything precious. No books. No jewels. She wasn’t even allowed a real window, just a metal shutter over a gaping hole. And she couldn’t sneak out. The tower was too high to climb out the window. And the endless steps were so noisy that by the time she got to the bottom someone would have heard her.

  (At least everyone was in great shape from clomping up and down all those winding tower stairs. In the future, an enterprising person would invent winding escalators. And then, when people were out of shape from no more exercise, she would invent a workout program to mimic walking up stairs and sell that, too. Eventually she would become so rich she’d buy the entire kingdom and make it into a mall. But that’s a terrible story. Let’s go back to Cinderella.)

  So passed day after day. Sometimes Cinderella’s stepmother was gone, but the stepsisters were always there, watching. They made sure she worked herself to the bone. They complained that their singed hair wasn’t growing back fast enough. They took away anything fun. She had no time to herself. No possessions of her own. No sparks. No joy. Poor Cinderella! Will things ever change?

  Of course they will. Otherwise this story would be even worse than the one about escalators and malls.

  On this day, as Cinderella was in the pantry organizing grains of salt by size, an official knock sounded at the front door. Cinderella was not allowed outside without supervision. All the doors were triple-locked, and her stepmother held the keys. But Cinderella listened at the pantry door with interest as her stepmother spoke in low tones, arguing.

  “Of course we won’t attend. It’s absurd,” she said.

  A man answered, “It’s royal orders. Every girl in the kingdom has to come to the ball.”

  “Why?”

  “So the prince can choose a wife.”

  The stepmother snorted. “Why doesn’t he do it the old-fashioned way?” (This was back before dating on the Internet. It used to be if you wanted to find a wife, you put an ad on the back of the community messenger pigeon. As it delivered notes, everyone saw what you had to offer. “Good hair, decent teeth, all ten fingers and nearly all ten toes. Employed cleaning pigpens. Looking for a wife with no sense of smell.” If someone liked what you had to offer and met your requirements, a meeting would be arranged.)