Fearie Tales

by Fearie Tales- Stories of the Grimm

  It said—

  I have designs upon you, too

  No, I didn’t call the police. I could have. Probably should have. I could have told them that both lines of the message had been visible when I found the piece of paper, and I didn’t have to tell them it had been left in my bread bin. I didn’t have to say that I was convinced someone had somehow etched a faint and intricate design on an old piece of jewelry so that it looked as though it had always been there.

  The problem was if I wasn’t truthful about these things, I wouldn’t be conveying the reality of the situation. They’d assume some local miscreant was making a habit of breaking in, and I already knew that wasn’t what was going on. I’d known this, or at least suspected it—and now I must finally start to be honest—since the beginning. Since I told my fib.

  It was a small fib, but significant.

  When I came home the night I had dinner with my boss, and first had the intuition that someone had been in my house, and checked the back door, it was unlocked. That’s what I told you, anyhow.

  But it wasn’t true.

  The back door was locked.

  It was locked, from the inside. So were all the windows, on all the floors. So had the front door been too until I unlocked it on my way in. Nobody could have got into the house from outside to find my note in the box in the hallway and then the brooch in the kitchen.

  Whoever did these things had already been inside.

  I don’t know for how long. Perhaps always. That’s what I’ve come to suspect. At least since the house was built, upon land that had once been a garden meadow on a little hill, near woodland and a pretty stream now trammeled far underground.

  Before the day went pear-shaped—after my coworker went sweeping out of the office and saddled me with all her work—I’d spent an hour covertly using the Internet, doing some digging I probably should have done long before. I’d always assumed that the missing word on the stone plaque on the wall in my garden was MEMORIAL—the sign put there to cordon off a patch of garden where people came to remember those now dead.

  I could find no reference to such a thing in the area, however, even though the records for this part of London are pretty good, and I’d never understood why the plaque was positioned so low, as if for the eyes of people well below normal height.

  I did find a single mention of an “Offering Garden.” An uncited reference on a rather amateur-looking local history site, claiming that the old stretch of open countryside belonging to St. John’s College had featured an example of the long-forgotten practice of securely walling off a portion of any meadow or hillside or forest that had a reputation for being home or playground to wood-nixies or elementals, coinhabitants of our world that could not be seen, the idea being, apparently, that any such creatures would remain within such walls. Forever.

  The people who eventually developed the area, several hundred years later, would not have known this. The practices and the beliefs supporting it had long ago died out. They could not have been expected to notice, either, or to care, that the weathering on the plaque was very uneven, almost as if someone had chipped away at the first word in order to obscure the wall’s original purpose.

  Just before my ex-colleague had her meltdown and I had to stop looking, I finally tracked down a website with a very old map of this part of Kentish Town. It had been badly reproduced and was hard to make out, but seemed to show a small, boundaried portion within a fifty-acre parcel belonging to a Cambridge college. The circumscribed area was not named or labeled, but by superimposing it upon a modern-day Ordnance Survey map of my street, I was able to establish both that the plaque must have been placed on the inside of the wall, and that the area it had encompassed had not been very large.

  Just big enough to include my house.

  I eventually microwaved my dinner and ate it in front of the television, turning it up loud. The frozen curry tasted a lot better than I expected. The ice cream was really good too, and I finished the entire pack of biscuits. My appetite was greater than usual, despite an odd tickle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach.

  I had a bath. As I dried myself afterward I thought I noticed some very fine lines on the skin of my shoulders, not quite random, and when I went up to bed I discovered the room smelled faintly of new bread.

  Not quite of bread, in fact. Though the odor was reminiscent of a fresh-baked loaf, now that it was divorced from the bread bin in the kitchen I realized it was actually closer to the smell of healthy grass, warmed by a summer sun. Warm grass or recently opened flowers, perhaps. Something vital, but secret.

  Something very old.

  I saw that the cover on my bed had been folded back. Neatly, as if in hopeful invitation. A piece of paper lay in the area that had been revealed—

  Soon, pretty one

  —was all it said at first.

  As I watched, however, another line revealed itself. It was delivered to me slowly, as if brought to life by the moonlight coming in through the window.

  All I need is a little more blood

  It was then that I heard the first faint creaks, like small feet on very old floorboards, coming from the little attic room above.

  Though it turns out he’s not so small.

  If you know what I mean.

  MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH was born in Knutsford, Cheshire, and grew up in the United States, South Africa, and Australia. He currently lives in Santa Cruz, California, with his wife and son. Smith’s short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies and, under his full name, he has published the modern SF novels Only Forward, Spares, and One of Us. He is the only person to have won the British Fantasy Award for Best Short Story four times—along with the August Derleth, International Horror Guild, and Philip K. Dick awards. Writing as Michael Marshal, he has published six international bestselling novels of suspense, including The Straw Men and The Intruders, currently in development with the BBC. His most recent novels are Killer Move and The Forgotten.

  The Story of a Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was

  A certain father had two sons, the elder of whom was smart and sensible, and could do everything, but the younger was stupid and could neither learn nor understand anything. And when people saw him they said, “There’s a fellow who will give his father some trouble.”

  When anything had to be done, it was always the elder who was forced to do it, but if his father bade him fetch anything when it was late, or in the nighttime, and the way led through the churchyard, or any other dismal place, he answered, “Oh, no, Father, I’ll not go there, it makes me shudder.” For he was afraid.

  Or when stories were told by the fire at night which made the flesh creep, the listeners sometimes said, “Oh, it makes us shudder.” The younger sat in a corner and listened with the rest of them, and could not imagine what they could mean.

  “They are always saying ‘It makes me shudder, it makes me shudder’; it does not make me shudder,” thought he. “That, too, must be an art of which I understand nothing.”

  Now it came to pass that his father said to him one day, “Hearken to me, you fellow in the corner there, you are growing tall and strong, and you too must learn something by which you can earn your bread. Look how your brother works, but you do not even earn your salt.”

  “Well, Father,” he replied, “I am quite willing to learn something—indeed, if it could but be managed, I should like to learn how to shudder. I don’t understand that at all yet.”

  The elder brother smiled when he heard that, and thought to himself, “Good God, what a blockhead that brother of mine is. He will never be good for anything as long as he lives. He who wants to be a sickle must bend himself betimes.”

  The father sighed, and answered him, “You shall soon learn what it is to shudder, but you will not earn your bread by that.”

  Soon after this the Sexton came to the house on a visit, and the father bewailed his trouble, and told him how his younger son was so backward in every respect that
he knew nothing and learned nothing. “Just think, said he, ‘when I asked him how he was going to earn his bread, he actually wanted to learn to shudder.’”

  “If that be all,” replied the Sexton, “he can learn that with me. Send him to me, and I will soon polish him.”

  The father was glad to do it, for he thought, It will train the boy a little.

  The Sexton therefore took him into his house, and he had to ring the church bell. After a day or two, the Sexton awoke him at midnight, and bade him arise and go up into the church tower and ring the bell. You shall soon learn what shuddering is, thought he, and secretly went there before him, and when the boy was at the top of the tower and turned around, and was just going to take hold of the bell rope, he saw a white figure standing on the stairs opposite the sounding hole.

  “Who is there?” cried he, but the figure made no reply, and did not move or stir. “Give an answer,” cried the boy, “or take yourself off, you have no business here at night.”

  The Sexton, however, remained standing motionless that the boy might think he was a ghost. The boy cried a second time: “What do you want here? Speak if you are an honest fellow, or I will throw you down the steps.”

  The Sexton thought, He can’t mean to be as bad as his words, uttered no sound and stood as if he were made of stone.

  Then the boy called to him for the third time and, as that was also to no purpose, he ran against him and pushed the ghost down the stairs, so that it fell down ten steps and remained lying there in a corner.

  Thereupon he rang the bell, went home, and without saying a word went to bed, and fell asleep.

  The Sexton’s wife waited a long time for her husband, but he did not come back. At length she became uneasy, and wakened the boy, and asked, “Do you not know where my husband is? He climbed up the tower before you did.”

  “No, I don’t know,” replied the boy, “but someone was standing by the sounding hole on the other side of the steps, and as he would neither give an answer nor go away, I took him for a scoundrel, and threw him downstairs. Just go there and you will see if it was he. I should be sorry if it were.”

  The woman ran away and found her husband, who was lying moaning in the corner, and had broken his leg.

  She carried him down, and then with loud screams she hastened to the boy’s father. “Your boy,” cried she, “has been the cause of a great misfortune. He has thrown my husband down the steps so that he broke his leg. Take the good-for-nothing fellow out of our house.”

  The father was terrified, and ran thither and scolded the boy. “What wicked tricks are these?” said he. “The Devil must have put them into your head.”

  “Father,” he replied, “do listen to me. I am quite innocent. He was standing there by night like one intent on doing evil. I did not know who it was, and I entreated him three times either to speak or to go away.”

  “Ah,” said the father, “I have nothing but unhappiness with you. Go out of my sight. I will see you no more.”

  “Yes, Father, right willingly. Wait only until it is day. Then will I go forth and learn how to shudder, and then I shall, at any rate, understand one art which will support me.”

  “Learn what you will,” spoke the father, “it is all the same to me. Here are fifty talers for you. Take these and go into the wide world, and tell no one from whence you come, and who is your father, for I have reason to be ashamed of you.”

  “Yes, Father, it shall be as you will. If you desire nothing more than that, I can easily keep it in mind.”

  When day dawned, therefore, the boy put his fifty talers into his pocket, and went forth on the great highway, and continually said to himself, “If I could but shudder. If I could but shudder.”

  Then a man approached who heard this conversation which the youth was holding with himself, and when they had walked a little farther to where they could see the gallows, the man said to him, “Look, there is the tree where seven men have married the rope-maker’s daughter, and are now learning how to fly. Sit down beneath it, and wait till night comes, and you will soon learn how to shudder.”

  “If that is all that is wanted,” answered the youth, “it is easily done. But if I learn how to shudder as fast as that, you shall have my fifty talers. Just come back to me early in the morning.”

  Then the youth went to the gallows, sat down beneath it, and waited till evening came. And as he was cold, he lighted himself a fire. But at midnight the wind blew so sharply that, in spite of his fire, he could not get warm. And as the wind knocked the hanged men against each other, and they moved backward and forward, he thought to himself, If you shiver below by the fire, how those up above must freeze and suffer.

  And as he felt pity for them, he raised the ladder, and climbed up, unbound one of them after the other, and brought down all seven. Then he stoked the fire, blew it, and set them all round it to warm themselves. But they sat there and did not stir, and the fire caught their clothes.

  So he said, “Take care, or I will hang you up again.” The dead men, however, did not hear, but were quite silent, and let their rags go on burning. At this he grew angry, and said, “If you will not take care, I cannot help you. I will not be burned with you,” and he hung them up again each in his turn. Then he sat down by his fire and fell asleep.

  And the next morning the man came to him and wanted to have the fifty talers, and said, “Well, do you know how to shudder?”

  “No,” answered he, “how should I know? Those fellows up there did not open their mouths, and were so stupid that they let the few old rags which they had on their bodies get burned.”

  Then the man saw that he would not get the fifty talers that day, and went away saying, “Such a youth has never come my way before.”

  The youth likewise went his way, and once more began to mutter to himself, “Ah, if I could but shudder. Ah, if I could but shudder.”

  A wagoner who was striding behind him heard this and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the youth.

  Then the wagoner asked, “From whence do you come?”

  “I know not.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “That I may not tell you.”

  “What is it that you are always muttering between your teeth?”

  “Ah,” replied the youth, “I do so wish I could shudder, but no one can teach me how.”

  “Enough of your foolish chatter,” said the wagoner. “Come, go with me, I will see about a place for you.”

  The youth went with the wagoner, and in the evening they arrived at an inn where they wished to pass the night. Then at the entrance of the parlor the youth again said quite loudly, “If I could but shudder. If I could but shudder.”

  The host who heard this, laughed and said, “If that is your desire, there ought to be a good opportunity for you here.”

  “Ah, be silent,” said the hostess. “So many prying persons have already lost their lives, it would be a pity and a shame if such beautiful eyes as these should never see the daylight again.”

  But the youth said, “However difficult it may be, I will learn it. For this purpose indeed have I journeyed forth.”

  He let the host have no rest, until the latter told him that, not far from thence, stood a haunted castle where anyone could very easily learn what shuddering was, if he would but watch in it for three nights. The King had promised that he who would venture there should have his daughter to wife, and she was the most beautiful maiden the sun shone on. Likewise in the castle lay great treasures, which were guarded by evil spirits, and these treasures would then be freed, and would make a poor man rich enough. Already many men had gone into the castle, but as yet none had come out again.

  Then the youth went next morning to the King and said, “If it be allowed, I will willingly watch three nights in the haunted castle.”

  The King looked at him, and as the youth pleased him, he said, “You may ask for three things to take into the castle with you, but they m
ust be things without life.”

  Then he answered, “Then I ask for a fire, a turning-lathe, and a cutting-board with the knife.”

  The King had these things carried into the castle for him during the day.

  When night was drawing near, the youth went up and made himself a bright fire in one of the rooms, placed the cutting-board and knife beside it, and seated himself by the turning-lathe. “Ah, if I could but shudder,” said he, “but I shall not learn it here either.”

  Toward midnight he was about to poke his fire, and as he was blowing it, something cried suddenly from one corner, “Au, miau! How cold we are.”

  “You fools,” cried he, “what are you crying about? If you are cold, come take a seat by the fire and warm yourselves.”

  And when he had said that, two great black cats came with one tremendous leap and sat down on each side of him, and looked savagely at him with their fiery eyes. After a short time, when they had warmed themselves, they said, “Comrade, shall we have a game of cards?”

  “Why not,” he replied, “but just show me your paws.”

  Then they stretched out their claws. “Oh,” said he, “what long nails you have. Wait, I must first cut them for you.”

  Thereupon he seized them by the throats, put them on the cutting-board and screwed their feet fast. “I have looked at your fingers,” said he, “and my fancy for card-playing has gone.” And he struck them dead and threw them out into the water.

  But when he had made away with these two, and was about to sit down again by his fire, out from every hole and corner came black cats and black dogs with red-hot chains. And more and more of them came until he could no longer move, and they yelled horribly, and got on his fire, pulled it to pieces, and tried to put it out.

  He watched them for a while quietly, but at last when they were going too far, he seized his cutting-knife, and cried, “Away with you, vermin!” and began to cut them down. Some of them ran away, the others he killed, and threw out into the fish-pond.