The old, bent woman was so close to her now, she could see the flecks of white cloudiness in her eyes. She smiled and set a hand on Elsebeth’s. Her touch was warm and gentle.
“You must be hungry. So, so hungry.”
Elsebeth’s stomach growled as if in reply. The smell of freshly baking bread filled the air. Elsebeth dared to look toward the oven. One of the long paddles lay within, several little cinnamon rolls nestled on the plank.
“Y-yes,” Elsebeth whispered, the smell overwhelming the last shred of focus and fixation she had.
The old woman smiled again. She removed Elsebeth’s hand from the door and led her past the sweet-smelling rolls in the oven, past the counter filled with ingredients, and toward a wide hallway.
She didn’t know if she should be afraid. She didn’t know if she could trust the woman. Her mind whirred with so many thoughts, it couldn’t land on just one. She was dizzy from hunger and exhaustion, and her body ached in ways she never imagined. But the old woman held Elsebeth’s hand with a sweet tenderness she had not felt in so long.
The woman opened a bright blue door. Inside was a bed piled high with beautiful white linens that smelled of sugar and lavender. She gestured toward the room, and Elsebeth entered cautiously. She ran her hand along the pillows and the smell of sugar intensified.
The woman closed the door but stopped before it latched. Elsebeth heard her shuffle back up the hall. Hanging on the back of the door was dress as white as winter and trimmed in delicate lace. Elsebeth quickly discarded her old clothes, casting off the woman that Eisenwald had tried to break. She found the washroom and scrubbed away the blood between her legs, no longer remembering where it had come from. She found a powder that smelled of sage and cinnamon. She dusted this over herself and pulled her ragged hair into a tight braid.
When she emerged, the old woman waited in the sitting room. The click of her knitting needles seemed to keep time with an all-too-familiar tune.
“Forest light and forest green, forest in a world between, alight on me your loving breath, and ward away the blackened death.”
“What did you say?” Elsebeth asked. “How do you know that song?”
The woman stopped her knitting. She turned and smiled up at Elsebeth. “Hungry dear?” she asked again. She rose from the chair, and the sweet smell of vanilla followed her. With delicate, spindly fingers, she pulled the cinnamon rolls from the oven and stirred a pot on the stove. She filled several plates and bowls with more food than Elsebeth had seen in weeks. Despite the cloudiness that blinded her vision, she deliberately set them on the table and pulled the chair out for Elsebeth.
The young woman sat, hesitating for a moment, though she knew not why. She jabbed at the mound of sweet potatoes and lifted the fork to her lips. The sweetness made her mouth tingle. She closed her eyes and felt a shudder go through her body. She shoveled in another mouthful before she had swallowed the first. Beside her, the old woman smiled, and watched her eat every last bite.
That night, Elsebeth climbed beneath the sweet-smelling linens, the pillows and mattress soft and cradling beneath her. The sounds of the night echoed in the darkness outside. Crickets chirped and frogs sang, bats chittered and owls cried out, lulling her into sleep. She dreamed of green meadows and blossoming trees, of chocolate cakes and braided breads. She dreamed of little children dancing and playing at the edge of the forest, and a small bundle wrapped in a blanket, held tight in the arms of a stranger.
Spring turned to Summer. Elsebeth followed the old woman for several weeks, watching as she spread seeds and fruits out her front door for the animals that stayed there. She sang the familiar forest song, but this time it was bright and filled with love. She watched the woman cook and bake. The jars on the counters replenished themselves overnight, and the pots on the stove would fill with whatever stews or soups Elsebeth yearned for that day.
She didn’t understand how. It didn’t make any sense. It was magic, but unlike any magic Elsebeth had ever understood. When her mind grew sharp and disbelieving, the smell of vanilla or lavender or cinnamon would overcome her, lulling her back to the blissful happiness she had finally come to know.
As the summer grew warmer, Elsebeth’s waist grew larger. She baked every day, playing with new ingredients, new seasonings, and flavors. Her little glass bottles now joined the jars and shakers in the cupboard. She baked so much and grew so large, the old woman sewed her a new dress, this one just as white and trimmed with lace like the first.
There were so many cakes and cookies, candies and breads, that Elsebeth began scattering them around the little cottage for the animals. She left braided breads along the windowsills for the deer, and candied fruits on the roof for the birds. The old woman just smiled.
At first, Elsebeth didn’t understand why the old woman never ate, at least not that she saw. She was quick to ensure Elsebeth was well-fed, but never touched a morsel herself. She stood beside Elsebeth at the table as she ate, smiling and refilling her bowl with a raspy, “Still hungry, dear?” She would take the young woman’s hands in her own, squeezing and massaging them and humming the song of the forest. The mystery that tried to settle in Elsebeth’s mind was immediately whisked away, replaced with dreamy oblivion.
It was as Summer turned to Autumn that Elsebeth found herself at the edge of the green glade. She stared out into the blackness beyond. The putrid smell of the black curse hung in the air, taking with it any trace of the sweet-smelling magic that clouded Elsebeth’s mind. The ravens jumped from limb to limb in the black boughs above, cawing and snapping their beaks. She stepped away from the glade and back into the silence of the forest.
The hairs on her neck stood on end, and the ravens cawed and clicked louder. She turned slowly on the path, staring back at the green glade. She gasped, and her hands began to shake. What she once thought were stones leading toward the cottage, she now saw were skulls – human skulls. The frames of the windows were an array of leg and arm bones, and the gable was comprised of four human rib cages.
Elsebeth fell to the ground, and the ravens cawed frantically. The door opened, and the old woman stood framed there, holding a tray of cookies.
“Hungry, dear?” she asked.
“What have you done?” Elsebeth screamed. “What is this?”
She pushed herself to her feet against her newfound bulk and took off into the forest. She was out of breath before she was out of sight of the green glade. She saw the cloudy eyes of the old woman staring at her. She leaned against one of the blackened trees, holding a stitch in her side.
You must be hungry, dear. The voice drifted on the breeze, and had Elsebeth not kept her eyes on the woman at the edge of the glade, she would have sworn the witch stood beside her. As the words filled her mind, her stomach lurched and grumbled, screaming in protest as though it hadn’t eaten in days. Elsebeth swallowed the bile rising up in her throat. She took a breath, steadying her nerves, and marched back toward the cottage.
She felt the old woman’s eyes on her the whole way. As she drew near, she saw a smile spread across her face, and she fought the spell of sugar and lavender that threatened to overpower her will.
“Who are you?” Elsebeth demanded. “What have you done to me?”
The old woman only smiled. She held out one of the sugar frosted cookies to her. Elsebeth pushed it away.
“You must be hungry, dear,” she said and turned back to the cottage as Elsebeth’s stomach grumbled again.
She could smell the rich, luscious scent of stew simmering from inside. She almost let it overtake her, almost let her mind slip back into that blissful stupor. The image of a red-haired woman walking away from the forest, away from her outstretched arms with a small bundle hugged tight to her chest. She remembered that night, that girl. Anna. Her baby.
“No!” Elsebeth said, shaking her head. She bit into the side of her cheek until she tasted blood. She had to hold onto reality, hold on to the hope of returning to her child.
She stor
med after the old woman, past the skull-strewn path, up the steps, avoiding the bone-handrail. She squeezed through the doorway, still following the woman through the house and into the kitchen.
She stood over the pot on the stove, stirring and sprinkling in Elsebeth’s own herbs and spices.
“What is going on? Why are there bones everywhere?”
The old woman moved toward her, a bowl of the steaming stew in hand. Elsebeth’s stomach growled and stung with hunger pains. Her arms began to move, her hands reaching for the bowl. She felt the spoon touch the edge of her lips, smelled the salt and spice and earthiness of the vegetables.
With an effort unlike any she had ever known, she lowered the spoon back to the bowl.
“No,” she said. “No, you first.” She held the spoon out for the old woman.
With delicate fingers, the old woman took the spoon from Elsebeth. She lifted it, her familiar smile growing wider, growing unnaturally wide and curling. She placed the food in her mouth, and Elsebeth saw it immediately turn black and sticky, long tendrils clinging at the corners of her mouth as it grew wider and wider.
Elsebeth dropped the bowl, backing away toward the door. It slammed shut, and the old woman began to laugh. Elsebeth looked around the cottage, praying for any kind of escape. The woman’s laugh grew louder. The cawing of the ravens shouting outside the window rang in her ears.
“Witch. Witch. The witch of Eisenwald Forest comes to take her place.”
She heard scratching on the counter and watched as long, spindly legs dug their way through the flour and sugar and chocolate. Spiders and beetles tapped at the glass, looking for an escape. Her stomach growled again.
The old woman’s laughter filled the cottage, and her cloudy eyes turned as black as the Eisenwald forest. She lunged at Elsebeth and wrapped her hands around her throat. Elsebeth tried to push her off, but the old woman was too strong. She backed Elsebeth toward the oven, and Elsebeth felt the fire roar to life at her touch, the flames threatening to lick the back of her perfectly white dress and cover it in a line of black soot.
The old woman’s laughter turned to a blood-curdling scream, her mouth opened wide, so wide, so unnaturally wide. The black globs that filled her mouth dripped down her chin, sending the putrid smell of death toward Elsebeth.
Elsebeth fought. She pried the old woman’s fingers off and saw the beetles and spiders frantically digging in their jars behind her. The old woman came at her again, and Elsebeth ducked. She grabbed a jar of sugar and hurled it at the witch’s head. It broke, sending a cascade of sugar that turned to a thousand spiders and cascaded down the old woman’s hair and arms. She raised her arms again, coming toward Elsebeth.
“So hungry, dear,” she said.
Elsebeth ran at her and slammed into the witch’s frail form. She kept going, kept stepping. The witch’s hands wrapped around her throat again, but Elsebeth gave one last heave and pushed the witch into the oven.
The flames immediately grew and engulfed the old woman. Elsebeth slammed the oven door shut, watching the body within char and blacken until the scream had died away.
The ravens settled in the treetops again, and the spiders and beetles disappeared in the flour and sugar. Elsebeth sat on the cottage floor, staring at the oven door until dusk fell. When the candles and lamps around the house lit themselves, she pushed herself to her feet and bolted for the door. But why? She paused, her hand poised above the doorknob as it had the first day she came to the green glade. There was no one here. No one to know. She lowered her hand and walked back to the kitchen.
She was hungry. So, so hungry.
Carefully, she dipped a spoon into the stew that still sat on the stove. She rested it on her tongue, letting the taste roam over her mouth until -
Elsebeth wretched and spat. It tasted just like the tree bark of the black forest all those months ago. She lifted the handle of the water pump and rinsed her mouth. At least the water was fresh.
When the last of the sick had been washed away, she leaned against the counter. She looked at the cupboard and her row of herbs and spices. She pulled a single bay leaf from the jar and touched the tip of her tongue to it. It slowly disintegrated and turned into black, sticky goo in her hand.
Her stomach grumbled again, and the fire in the oven glowed pale behind the glass. She pushed the nausea away, pushed away the hunger pains. She gathered clean towels and sweet lavender soap and headed to her personal washroom. She removed the soot-covered dress and scrubbed every inch of herself. She scrubbed away the black beneath her fingernails and the blood around the edges of her mouth from where she bit her cheek. She washed away every last bit of the black soot from the oven that clung to her pale skin. Then, she crawled beneath her pretty white linens that once smelled of sugar and sage. They were rough and scratched her skin, and they smelled like the same rotting decay of the black forest.
Her stomach gave another grumble. She was still so hungry. She raised her hand to extinguish the lamp, and it faded into black of its own accord.
Her dreams were filled with thoughts of children, dancing in circles along the streets of Eisenwald. Children that watched their father leave each day, ax in hand, and ran to hug him each night upon his return. She watched their chubby little arms encircle the man’s neck, and she felt her mouth begin to water.
The next morning, the birds sang sweetly to her, willing her to awaken and greet them. She yawned and stretched, a smile spreading across her face until she remembered what had happened, what lay behind the oven door.
She rose from the bed, wrapping a bed sheet around her, and crept cautiously into the house. Everything was as she had left it. The jars upon the counter filled with flour and sugar and chocolate, the stew sitting cold on the stove. And the witch’s crooked and cooked body lying in the oven.
She opened the oven door, staring at the withered body. Her stomach growled and grumbled. She did not have the strength to carry the woman outside and bury her.
And she was hungry, dear. So, very hungry.
THE END
About the Author
When she’s not rescuing orphan kittens or doing voice acting for villainous purple mermaids, Cassandra can be found creating worlds of magic, suspense and friendship. A lover of doughnuts and a self-proclaimed Coffee Connoisseur, Cassandra Morgan hails from a family of writers, authors and journalists. Writing is literally in her German-English-Belgian blood (though we’re not sure which one to blame). She lives in NW Ohio with her hubby, five fabulous felines, and any number of foster kittens. Cassandra also writes paranormal cozy mystery under C.P. Morgan.
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https://www.amazon.com/Cassandra-Morgan/e/B01KKK9618%3Fref
Girls Like Me
by D.L. Pitchford
Chapter One
My feet stumble over the cobblestone street.
A wolf howls.
My hand catches on the side of a building.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be out this late. Mama and Papa never allow me this kind of freedom, but I'm staying with Gran tonight. When I informed her I was going for a walk, she handed me a small blade and said, "You know how to defend yourself, dear?"
My fingers trace the cold stone wall as I catch my breath. I want to overwhelm my senses with this unmistakable freedom—the smells, the sounds, even the smog of the city—but my legs lead the way without so much as me asking them. Somehow, I'm still numb.
At the corner, my thumb curves over a sharp section of the stone, and I pause.
The alley to my left is dark—no gas lamps light the way, and the moon doesn't offer much aid tonight. Even still, silhouettes are pressed against one of the not-so-distant walls. Two people, probably engaging in nightly acts from the way they're entangled.
A sharp gasp.
I bite my lip and force my legs to move again. I have no interest in interrupting their affairs.
Then, a whimper and a stifled scream.
Followed by a growl.
A rather inhuman growl.
I stop partway down the alley and turn back, but it's still too difficult to see. "Hello?" I call, but my voice is quieter than it needs to be. "You alright?"
As I approach, the silhouettes grow clearer.
The girl—for she can't be more than fifteen—has her back against the wall. Tousled auburn hair is matted behind her head, and tears glisten on her cheeks in the little moonlight that reaches through the fog. Her head is pressed back, her neck exposed, the dress torn, one breast exposed.
Dreams of Darkness: An Anthology of Dark Fairytales Page 4