The Grimm Curse (Once Upon A Time Is Now)

by Stephen Carpenter

  That morning, though, I just sat in the back of the bus, staring out my window at the grimy city dragging by, the words Come home, Jacob still echoing in my ears. I didn’t know then who had really spoken them—all I knew is the words were spoken directly to me, and somehow I knew, deep inside, that I was expected to listen, and to follow.

  The second thing I figured out during that two-hour bus ride was that the words “come home” did not mean “return to the apartment in Van Nuys.” I knew from hacking into my adoption records that I was born in a place called Woodland, Oregon. So when I got to Union Station I found a map of Oregon tucked into a slot in the middle of a long row of maps by the ticket window, and I searched for Woodland. It took a while to find the tiny little dot in the middle of nowhere, almost exactly in the middle of the map. The nearest town of any size was Medford, Oregon.

  I looked up at the train schedule and saw that a train to Portland was leaving in six hours and, after transferring a few times, I figured I could be in Medford in a couple of days. So I went to the ATM machine near the ticket window, took out Heather’s ATM card, and proceeded to withdraw all of the cash I could: $900 bucks in three whacks of $300—three thick wads of twenties, which I crammed into my wallet and shoved into my back pocket. I had lifted Heather’s ATM card earlier that morning, before Heather and Gerald were awake. I may have been only fourteen, and just about to turn fifteen, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew I would need money—as much as I could get—if I was really going to run away successfully. I also knew Heather’s PIN number by heart, from all of the times she had withdrawn money with me standing there with her. Heather would huddle close to the machine, making sure no one could see her enter her PIN number and steal her vast fortune, but she never hid the keyboard from me. I suppose technically this was still stealing, but I justified it because I figured Heather and Gerald had made plenty of money off me by collecting all of those county checks for all of those years—tens of thousands of dollars that Gerald had pissed away at the track, or online poker games. I had pretty much wiped out Heather’s checking account, but, knowing Gerald, he would make sure they kept those checks coming long after I was gone.

  I spent most of the $900 buying my tickets and transfers, then sat down by the ramp to the boarding area and waited for my train.

  Come home, Jacob.

  *

  What I didn’t know then was that, at the very moment I heard those words, my great uncle Eustace, my last remaining real relative, was being tormented to death by a witch. I know this because I saw it in a vision, much later. I’m going to share this vision with you now, just to give you a taste of what I was about to face. When I first had the vision, it was like a dream—like I was living it, right there in the room with my great uncle on that fateful night. Now, as I write this, it’s like a movie I saw a long time ago, but remains burned in my memory forever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Death Of Eustace – A Vision

  Eustace Grimm, my great-uncle, is sitting at his dining room table, writing a letter. Eustace is ninety-one years old—a serious-looking man with deep lines of wisdom and worry on his weathered face. Eustace looks very dignified, wearing a heavy cardigan sweater and gold-rimmed glasses. But Eustace is not a well man. He has a heart condition that has weakened him and worn him down for years. His skin is pale and his hands tremble as he writes.

  Beyond the dining room, through the dark old house, I can see the parlor, which is a cluttered museum of fairy tale objects. Drawings of witches and elves and other creatures cover the faded flocked wallpaper. Rows and rows of shelves are filled with books and curious items: a large stuffed owl, an ancient wooden flute, a gnarled walking stick, a single glass slipper, a crystal ball…

  If you look closely you’ll see that Eustace is writing backwards. And though his hands tremble, they don’t hesitate. He writes backwards expertly, with a practiced hand.

  Eustace pauses; the effort of writing has exhausted him. Then he turns back to the letter and finishes it. As Eustace signs his name, his hands begin to tremble more. Then, as he folds the letter into an envelope and seals it with an ornate wax seal, his hands begin to shake uncontrollably. Eustace grimaces in pain and clutches his chest, but manages to reach back, behind him, to place the letter on a hutch. But the pain overwhelms him and he drops the letter, which falls behind the hutch.

  Eustace grabs a low shelf on the hutch to support himself, then reaches up to a top shelf for a bottle of prescription pills…

  But before Eustace can reach them, a small snake curls around the yellow prescription bottle and snatches it away.

  Eustace turns and sees, across the parlor, a shadowy Figure in the darkness. The Figure moves across the room, staying in shadow, but occasionally silhouetted against the windows, which are glowing faintly blue with the pre-dawn light. The Figure appears female, with eyes that glow green from the shadows. She is a witch, and when she speaks, her voice is female, but more like a growl than a human voice.

  “Looking for these, Eustace?” she says.

  The tiny snake that snatched the pills hovers above Eustace, taunting him, at the witch’s command. Eustace reaches up for the pills, but the snake rises, keeping the pills just out of reach.

  “Jump,” the witch says.

  Eustace tries to lift himself to his feet, but falls to his knees, gasping for breath, his hands clutched to his chest, his face contorted with blinding pain.

  “We’ve waited a long time for this,” the witch says.

  Eustace looks past the witch. Outside, through the large, arched window in the parlor, he can see eyes…dozens of them…glowing in the eerie pre-dawn half-light, moving closer, watching…eyes that belong to creatures—creatures whose features become more clear as they cautiously approach the house. Some are large, hulking forms, some are small, elfin forms, and they are all dominated by a massive Thing that has to lean down to peer with its one eye into the parlor. Swarming all around these beings are hundreds of tiny glowing eyes the size of firefly tails, chattering excitedly in squealing little whispers as they buzz brazenly closer and closer to the windows of the parlor.

  The witch’s eyes glow down at Eustace, who is crawling toward the pantry. She glides closer, wary of Eustace but taunting him from the shadowy parlor.

  “I gotta say, I’m disappointed,” the witch growls. “I always pictured you going out in a blaze of glory, the noble warrior, fighting with his last ounce of whatever. But this is pathetic.”

  Eustace ignores her, crawling closer to the pantry. The witch glides closer.

  “Pathetic,” the witch says. “Crawling on the floor. You just don’t have the same zip you used to have. I’d feel sorry for you if I weren’t so BORED.” Her voice booms out, suddenly loud enough to rattle the rafters.

  “C’mon,” she growls, impatient. “Die so I can go eat.”

  Eustace manages to reach the pantry and open the door and reach for an ornate hand mirror inside. He turns the mirror toward the witch and she flinches, hissing, and backs away into the shadows where she can’t be seen at all.

  Suddenly, a large snake shoots out from the darkness and whips around Eustace’s frail body. The snake raises Eustace up to the ceiling, then throws him to the floor. Eustace lies on his back, fighting to breathe. He looks over at the glowing eyes of the witch, deep in the shadows of the parlor.

  “You’ll burn yet,” Eustace says.

  “Not on your watch,” the witch replies.

  Eustace makes one last, wrenching effort to move toward the hand mirror, but he stops, shudders, then falls back to the floor.

  “Jacob,” he whispers, barely audible. “Come home.”

  Eustace turns and looks out of the dining room window. He can see the swelling pink glow in the eastern sky—the sun is about to rise.

  “Come home, Jacob!” he cries out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” the witch says. “Just die already.”

  Eustace lies back, closes his eyes, and becomes still. The
rise and fall of his breathing stops.

  The witch turns toward the creatures watching from the parlor window.

  “Ding-dong, the Huntsman’s dead!” she cries out in a sing-song voice, and the shadowy creatures scatter in the half-light, in every direction, to the four winds.

  Then the witch retreats soundlessly into the shadows and is gone.

  BEFORE WE GET TO CHAPTER FIVE

  An Explanation Of The Telling Of The First Tale

  What follows is a recounting of the events that began when I arrived in Woodland on that first day. I have decided to write everything down for two reasons:

  1) The only chance I have to survive is by keeping a detailed log of all of my experiences—knowledge is power.

  2) If I don’t survive, these journals will be the only guide for the next poor soul who has to pick up the sword that was thrust into my hands.

  Some of the things you are about to read are things I experienced directly. Some events have been pieced together from witness reports, lots of investigation, “reasoned speculation,” as the police would say, and more than a little magic.

  But it all began when I reached Woodland.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I Reach Woodland And Nearly Get Run Over By A Witch In A Range Rover

  It was a lot easier to travel the 622 miles from Los Angeles to Medford, Oregon than it was to travel the final 160 miles from Medford to Woodland. That last leg of the journey took two full days. At the train station in Medford I found a bus that could take me as far as Beedleton, a tiny logging town halfway between Medford and Woodland. But there was no bus from Beedleton to Woodland. I did find a taxi at the Beedleton bus station—a beat-up old Chevy, driven by a guy who looked like a troll. But when I told the taxi troll I wanted a ride to Woodland he turned and stared at me like I was crazy. He didn’t say a word, just shook his head, rolled up his window, and drove off in a hurry.

  Finally, after spending the night curled up in a bench at the bus station, I caught a ride the next morning with a logger—a burly, bearded guy who was willing to detour through Woodland on his way to a lumber mill in Lone Pine, across the state. I paid him $30 bucks, the last of Heather’s $900, and we rode in silence through the dense forest that seemed endless. As I rode along in the logging truck, I thought about my situation: I had no idea what I would do for money, now that my last dollar was spent. I didn’t know anyone or anything about Woodland, and no one else seemed to have anything to say about it, either. I had one change of clothes in my backpack and I had finished my last meal—a Power bar—the night before, curled up on the bus station bench. I was beginning to wonder if I had made a very big mistake by running off the way I did, when the truck crested a hill and the town where I was born spread before me.

  Woodland.

  I had two very different feelings when I first saw the little town nestled deep in the woods. First, it was a weird feeling, knowing that I had been born in this place but not recognizing anything about it at all. I was four when I was sent away.

  But the other feeling was completely different, and harder to explain. Even though it was an unfamiliar place, there was something familiar about it—Heather’s groovy friend would have said I was having a very powerful déjà vu. All I know is, the moment I saw the little town I suddenly didn’t feel alone or uncertain about running away anymore. It was like something had clicked into place and I was right where I was supposed to be. You would think that would be a comforting feeling, but it wasn’t. Along with the sense of belonging came a sense of something inevitable that was not good—something bad that was bound to happen, going to happen, no matter what I did. How messed up is it when you feel like you belong in a place that fills you with a sense of dread?

  We rolled up to a weathered wooden sign that read “WELCOME TO WOODLAND.” Suddenly, the logger hit the air brakes. He stopped the truck, staring ahead, silent. I was about to say something when he spoke for the first time on the whole drive.

  “Far as I go, kid,” he said, staring ahead at the town.

  “Okay,” I said, and gathered up my backpack and opened my door. “Thanks.”

  I got out and started walking into town as the logger turned the truck around on a fire road and headed back to the highway that led to Lone Pine.

  Woodland was a blend of old and new. I walked past a suburban neighborhood that could have been anywhere, USA—nice, regular-looking modern homes with neat lawns. But then I would turn a corner and there would be a two hundred year-old Gothic building with huge, arched windows and turrets and gargoyles poised at the edge of the roof. The whole place felt like the collision point between the 19th century and the 21st.

  It only took me about twenty minutes to reach the town square, which had a large bandstand in the center lawn, and was surrounded by stores and shops and small office buildings, some new and some very old; some were both at the same time—like the creepy red brick library that looked like something from an old west ghost town, but had a Starbucks built into the front.

  I went into the library and walked around through the musty shelves of books until I found the reference section. I found a Woodland phone directory, which was barely a quarter of an inch thick, and looked up the name “Grimm.” There was only one listing: “E. Grimm, 742 Wroughtwood Place.” I took the phone book over to the reference desk and showed the address to the librarian, an ancient woman with a thick plaid shawl over her narrow shoulders.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and showed her the address. “Can you tell me how to get to this address?”

  She adjusted her rimless spectacles and looked down at the listing. Then she peered over her glasses at me.

  “The Grimm house?” she asked, her eyebrows arching up. “Why do you want to be going there?”

  My first thought was that’s none of your business. What was it about me that librarians didn’t like?

  “I just…would like to know, that’s all,” I said.

  “And who might you be?” she said.

  “I’m, ah, a friend of the family,” I replied.

  “Oh,” she said. “I see.” This seemed to make sense to her, so she drew a quick little map and handed it to me with an odd look. I thanked her and turned to go.

  “My condolences,” she said, looking at me curiously.

  What does that mean? I though to myself. But I just nodded and headed for the door with the little map in my hand. Just before I walked out, I noticed a flyer on a bulletin board by the door. At the top of the flyer was the word “MISSING” in big, bold letters. Underneath were two photographs, a boy and a girl, both sixteen. According to the flyer they were Beth and Gregory Peyton, twin brother and sister, last seen two days earlier. There were little tabs with a phone number on each one, hanging off at the bottom of the flyer. It sent a little shiver through me but I didn’t want to hang around there any longer. I turned away and headed out the door.

  I walked out of the library and back onto the sidewalk. Autumn leaves skittered around ahead of me as a cool wind stirred up. I was staring at the map, not watching where I was going, as I stepped off of the curb to cross the street—

  SCREECH! A white Range Rover skidded to a stop, inches from me. I looked up at the driver, a pretty blonde woman. She glared at me angrily at first, then, as I crossed in front of her, her eyes narrowed and followed me. She was still watching me as I turned the corner and walked out of her sight.

  What I didn’t know then was that the pretty blonde woman was at least six centuries old, and she went by the human name of Rachel Eaton. And she was a witch.

  She was, in fact, the witch who had tormented my great uncle Eustace as he lay dying. And I would meet her again, very, very soon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rachel Eaton

  Rachel Eaton pulled her white Range Rover into the wide driveway that led to her sprawling modern home at the edge of Woodland, where the homes ended and the forest began. She got out of the Range Rover and opened the back and leaned in and grabbed three
grocery bags that were stowed neatly there. She lifted a limber leg and closed the back door with her foot. She was dressed in her yoga gear—black tights and a white Spandex tank top—having just taught a yoga class that morning before stopping at the market. She headed up the walk toward the house, carrying the groceries. Rachel was lovely, with long, straight blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and perfect skin. She had the lean, willowy body and perfect, centered posture of a yogi, but as she entered her home, her mind was racing with dark, twisted thoughts.

  The boy, the boy…he had the hatefulness in him. Could he be…?

  Rachel forced the thoughts from her mind and closed the door with her foot, then crossed her spacious home to her enormous, gleaming, gourmet kitchen, and began unloading the groceries. The house was spectacular—ultra modern, with lots of open space, and enormous skylights everywhere that filled the house with sunlight and warmth, even on this chilly autumn day.

  Rachel turned on the small flat-screen TV in the kitchen and listened to the news as she took out the groceries and began to prepare the feast.

  Two hours later, Rachel opened the oven door and checked on a roasting rack of lamb. She closed the oven, then added a few brushes of honey glaze to a glistening ham which was cooling on the counter. She opened a second oven door and basted a turkey inside, then lifted the gleaming copper lids on the cookware covering the stove. She checked on a casserole, then looked in on a pot full of steaming stuffing, then stirred another, larger pot with simmering seafood bisque, and yet another containing potatoes au gratin—enough rich food to feed a small platoon, and feed them well.

  “This is channel six breaking news…” the sound from the TV made Rachel stop in mid-stir. She looked at the TV as the local news anchorman appeared on the screen. “An Amber alert has been issued for two local Woodland teens,” the newsman said, as the photographs of Beth and Gregory Peyton appeared on the television.