“Here goes nothing,” Beauty said.
Black iron ribbons stretched across the dark wooden doors. Red tried to push them open, but they didn’t budge. Muffled voices muttered from the other side of the doors. Red reached into her cloak pocket, ready to draw her throwing knives. Then the doors swung open.
“Welcome! Welcome!”
Red stared into the dark castle, and in the middle of the entryway stood an antique vanity painted white with a red rose pattern decorating the sides of an oval mirror.
“Hi there!” the voice said. The mirror, which reflected Red and Beauty’s faces, made their mouths appear to speak, as if they were the ones greeting themselves, although the voice that came out was unquestionably masculine. “I presume you two are here to court the Prince?”
“Uh . . .” Red looked at Beauty, surprised at her unfazed expression.
“Yes, yes. I am here to court the Prince,” Beauty said.
“Very well then,” the mirror said. “Please come in. We haven’t had visitors in a long time. I presume this is your servant.”
“She’s my friend,” Beauty said. “Her name is Red.”
“Red, how lovely to make your acquaintances. We are already preparing you some fine dining.” The vanity shifted its weight from side to side. Each step took a full second, signified by the rattling of jewelry sliding in its drawers. It turned away from them and shuffled slowly through the hall. Red and Beauty looked at each other in disbelief. Then Beauty took Red’s hand, and together they followed the vanity.
Even though the house appeared abandoned, inside there was no sense of musk or dusty air. In fact, the entire place smelled like it was freshly cleaned. From within resounded a clamor, and when they turned the corner to find the main dining hall, they saw why.
Everything was in motion. Plates, chairs, silverware, cups, cookware, and brooms all moved around fervently preparing the table with a grand banquet. Red touched the daggers inside her cloak.
“Come sit, you two,” the vanity said.
“Hello, mademoiselle,” said a passing plate to Beauty.
Two chairs slid beneath the legs of Beauty and Red, buckling their knees so they fell back into the seats. The furniture carried them to their respective places at the table. Beauty sat at the head, with Red on her right-hand side. Within seconds, all the furniture ceased, as if it had never moved to begin with.
The vanity announced the foods presented on the table. “We have Nicoise salad, mushroom bisque, tourin, bottles of both muscadet and pinot noir, and of course our delicious meats for you to enjoy.” As the vanity spoke, the platters and bowls tossed some of their food onto two plates, which then slid in front of Red and Beauty. All the foods looked magnificent, especially the mouth-watering cuts of meat.
“Bon appétit. The Prince will be down in a few minutes. Sorry to keep you waiting,” the vanity said, its mirror showing them eating the food. Then it waddled up the stairs. Each step still took exactly one second, even though Red was certain it would fall backwards into ruin, but it trudged up the steps without fault.
Red and Beauty grabbed the utensils and were astonished at how easily they could pick up their food. They started with the salad and soup, drank some wine, and then finally cut pieces of the meat to chew on. It was juicy, tender, and tasted a little sweet.
Satisfied, Red left her seat to walk around the room.
“What are you doing?” Beauty asked.
“Just checking out the castle,” Red said. “What did you mean when you said you’re courting the Prince?”
“That’s the tale,” Beauty whispered. “The Beast is the son of a forgotten king who was cursed to live this way until he finds true love and breaks the spell.”
“Sounds awful.”
Red ambled around the room, surveying her surroundings. The architecture of the castle was disorienting, as if the floors were slanted and the walls leaned inward. The longer she stared at the ceiling, the more it seemed to bow at the center. Did any inanimate objects exist within the castle at all, or could the curtains, the rugs, or even the walls move as well?
One side of the room featured windows overlooking a courtyard. Opposite the windows was a grand marble staircase with a descending purple carpet. It split at the top into each wing of the castle; the hallways faded into darkness as if they never ended at all.
If Beauty’s father was truly concealed in the castle, Red wondered if they would ever find him in the labyrinth of rooms. Red made her way back to the table, sat down, and put her hand on Beauty’s.
Above them, a door slammed violently, and footsteps rumbled behind the castle walls. Red tucked her hand into her cloak, and none other than the Beast himself rounded the top of the steps. She seethed with hatred at the sight of him, recalling how he roared in her grandma’s cottage. The light shone off his tusks, a bright white haze hovering in front of a husky silhouette. As the rest of his body stepped into the illumination, he flaunted a long purple robe with gold accents, although his bulging feet were bare.
Red wanted nothing more than to carve the Beast into a thousand pieces. To pry the horns out of his head and stick them into his heart.
“What are you doing here?” the Beast’s voice echoed. He was larger than Red remembered—built like a bull and tall as a tree.
“To switch places with my father,” Beauty said.
“Your father?”
“Yes. The man you abducted from my village.”
The Beast scratched the scab on his snout from where Red’s knife had stabbed him days earlier. Then he burst into laughter, the furniture following suit.
“What’s so funny?” Beauty asked.
“Well, you’ll have to crawl onto that serving platter to replace him.” The Beast’s cackles grew so loud the floor shook like the castle was rocking on its foundation.
Beauty stared at the slab of meat, her eyes growing wide in horror. Red heaved forward and spewed bile onto the rug. Broken from her trance, Beauty joined Red by coating the table, her food, and her father’s flesh with vomit and gobbets of half-digested food. Both their stomachs churned as if to devour themselves until pain cramped down deep inside. Red glanced at Beauty, who bawled, spilling tears into the remains of her father, her mouth muttering a tragic, inaudible eulogy.
Red pushed herself up from the chair, her face flushed with fury. The Beast was now at the bottom of the stairs, still cackling hysterically. Red grabbed her knives and jumped onto the table, spilling the pinot noir. With one swift motion, she threw both the knives. The Beast dodged one of them, but the second stuck into his right shoulder.
A booming roar ceased the laughter, the furniture falling dead silent. Red was already retrieving another knife when the Beast charged her. She tossed the knife and heard it thump into the Beast’s hide before he rammed into her. As the table snapped under the Beast’s weight, Red skittered across the room until she slammed into a wall. Beauty’s chair veered back from the table, but she remained seated, her face glazed over and wet with tears.
The Beast roared again, then turned to Beauty. Red stood from her position, drawing another throwing knife, but when she looked back, Beast was holding Beauty between the both of them, his claws nearly puncturing Beauty’s neck.
“I will kill her,” the Beast said.
“Please, don’t. I’ll love you. I’ll break the curse,” Beauty said.
“Fuck the curse,” the Beast said. “I have everything I need now.”
Red held a throwing knife in each hand as she stepped closer. Blood poured from the crimson-stained knife that jutted out from the Beast’s left arm, coating his fur and dripping to the granite floor. Her other knife handle stood like a short black horn on top of his head. He seemed not to mind their presence in his body, or was too distracted to do anything about them.
“You stop right there, you little shit,” the Beast said.
Red complied.
Out of the corner of her eye, Red saw Beauty’s wrist flick quickly, and a gli
nt of metal flashed beneath her sleeve. Beauty stabbed wildly while reaching behind her, jutting the blade into the Beast’s leg over and over.
The Beast yelped as he dropped her, and she collapsed to the floor. He groaned as he crouched down to grip his wound. Red rushed forward, but the Beast moved quickly. He swiped at Beauty with his claws and tore into her shoulder. Beauty screeched in pain. Red slid across the floor as the Beast opened his mouth to bite Beauty. His yellow fangs loomed large from his mouth. Saliva dripped from them, landing on Beauty’s dress.
Red envisioned her grandma hanging limp in the Beast’s claws. Except it wasn’t her grandma this time. It was Beauty, with her red hair falling to the floor and her hazel eyes locked in a death stare with Red. Crimson liquid drained from her neck and chest. Red erased the vision from her mind and focused on the Beast’s open mouth.
She threw the knives in a swift motion, and they missed, only slicing his right cheek before skidding across the floor. The Beast stumbled backwards, groaning, the skin on his right cheek now flapping below his jaw. Red gripped her last two throwing knives and hopped over Beauty. The Beast pounced. Red leapt upward and planted her feet upon the Beast’s arms before jumping and flipping over his head. As her cloak arched over him with a swirl of red, she pegged her knives downward.
The throwing knives split the air before impaling the Beast through both his eyes with one resounding schlunk. The Beast’s head snapped backward, his feet launching out from beneath him. With a loud thud, his body walloped on the granite. Red landed graciously on the balls of her feet.
Wasting no time, Red pulled the long dagger from her belt, jumped onto the Beast, and burrowed it between his tusks. The skull cracked beneath her blade, and she leaned down, listening to the sticky movement of the metal sinking deep into his brain.
After several violent shudders, the Beast lay motionless on the stone floor. For a moment, the entire room was silent. Then, in a raucous clatter, all the furniture howled in mourning. They clattered in their places, making the entire castle tremble with their grief. Sensing hostility, Red quickly bounced to her feet.
“Come on.”
Red grabbed Beauty, and together they ran out of the dining hall. After a moment, the furniture piled behind them, filling the halls with blustering noise. It was deafening. Red feared the walls themselves were caving in. A flash of pain seared her calf as something sharp slashed at her skin. She stumbled, pushing Beauty forward, close to the door. Red glanced behind her. There, a tidal wave of ceramic, wood, metal, and glass rushed towards her. Red sprang forward, doing her best to ignore the throbbing in her leg. A knife slashed past her ear, missing and lodging itself into one of the doors.
Beauty heaved the same door open slightly as plates shattered around them. She reached out to Red, but Red tackled her, and they tumbled through the door into the rose garden. The furniture scratched at the doors behind them, unwilling, or unable, to leave.
“You have brought torment upon us all!” The vanity berated them. Then it slammed the door shut. Wails of anguish bellowed from inside the castle walls.
Red and Beauty gazed at the doors in disbelief, then simultaneously lay back in the grass.
“I’m sorry,” Red said, “about what happened in there to your . . . your . . .”
“I know,” Beauty said shortly. She breathed deeply. Her skin, Red noticed, which previously shone, was now drained of all color. Beauty closed her eyes, and in that moment, she appeared dead. The only sound in the air was the furniture scratching, snapping, and shattering ruthlessly behind the door. Then Beauty rolled over and looked back at Red. She attempted a smile, but it was weak.
“Let me see your wound,” Beauty said.
Red rolled to her side so Beauty could examine the back of her leg. Beauty bent down to look closely. Her fingers pressed into Red’s skin on both sides of the wound, causing Red to wince.
“It isn’t too deep. You’ll be fine.”
“What about yours?” Red asked.
“Tell me how bad it is.”
Red sat up and examined Beauty. She pulled the fabric over Beauty’s shoulder and saw three gashes across the skin, but the blood had stopped leaking from the lacerations. Subconsciously guiding her hand down Beauty’s back, she looked up and saw Beauty, head turned, staring into her eyes. Red inhaled, suddenly aware of her hand and how close they were to one another.
“It looks fine. It’s stopped bleeding,” Red said, taking her hand off Beauty’s back and shifting her gaze to the castle.
Beauty slid over and hugged her. They held each other tightly, both possessing immense grief, both too shocked to cry, both accepting the only comfort available in the aftermath of such chaos.
After a long time there in the dirt, Beauty rose to her feet. She held her hand out to Red, who winced as she stood, her leg still in pain. Beauty supported Red with an arm around her side, and they limped down the pathway to their horse.
“Can you stand?” Beauty asked.
“I think I can. It just hurts.” Red pressed her hand into the horse’s side, and Beauty let her go. She tested her weight on her injured leg, and while it still hurt, she could stand.
Beauty plucked a rose from the garden, her fingertip pricking on a thorn. A droplet of blood trickled down her palm as she raised the rose to her nose and took in its scent. Her face melted with pleasure, and her cheeks filled again with life. She walked back to Red, clutching it between her thumb and forefinger.
Beauty extended the rose to Red.
Red blushed. She grew lightheaded, no longer sensing the pain in her leg. No longer sensing her legs at all. She leaned into the horse to keep her balance. Beauty giggled.
Red took the rose, pulling it close.
Beauty kissed Red. Euphoria washed over them. The world, for a moment, drifted away. Their grief, anger, exhaustion—all phased out—replaced with joy, love . . . and lust. They wished the kiss would never end. If they could have frozen there as statues, beholden only to the erosion of time, they would have been happy.
Alas, the world and all its responsibilities came back into existence as they released their embrace. They climbed onto the horse. This time, Red struggled to get over, and Beauty pulled her up.
They galloped out of the garden and into the woods where they would build themselves a cottage and live together, with their traumas and their love, surrounded by wild beasts and fairies, until death do them part.
THEA MAEVE (she/they) is a transgender woman currently living in Phoenix, Arizona. She occasionally posts poetry on her Instagram and Twitter under the username @TheaMaeveTV. But mostly she can be found day-dreaming about the upcoming queer communist revolution or cuddling with her dog, Fred.
* * *
Illustration by P.L. McMillan
I smile into the yellow, orange, and red. Sometimes a simple squinting of the eyes can transform the ugliest aspects of life, fusing them into a thing of beauty. My eyes half-closed, I take my mind half-elsewhere. Cars, trucks, motorbikes, and streetlights consolidate into a galactic communal mechanism of glowing rush-hour traffic. But once I focus upon the finer details, it all becomes so much more sinister. Cogs lost in the machine—or some other cliché shit like that.
I open my eyes. The motorway’s cold and calculated shape overwhelms my vision once again, its intricate parts now in full view. A black four-wheel drive is to the left of me; a stressed mother wearing an overtly formal blazer intermittently looks over her shoulder to yell at her squealing children in the back. Should’ve thought about these things before having kids, sweetie. Up ahead, horns blare at a tradie in a run-down ute as he swerves across four lanes to get ahead of the traffic. Does he think he’s better than everyone else?
My train of thought derails as I realise that the idiot in front of me is doing a hundred instead of a hundred and ten. Fucking moron, acting as if everyone has all day to get home. I slam my palm on the horn until they look in their rearview mirror. I shift my left hand to the bottom of the stee
ring wheel, exerting the least energy possible, and grab a spliff I made earlier for this very moment. Hammering on the horn some more, I can see it’s a young kid, probably just off his P-plates. He swerves into the left lane and gives me a dirty look as I pass him. I give him the finger.
The traffic ahead then slows to a crawl, and I hit the brakes nearly too late, inches away from a blue hatchback. The deafening roar of a motorbike just behind me, I look into the rearview mirror and see a broad-chested twentysomething slink between the lanes, quickly approaching on my right, veering on the edge of the emergency stopping lane. My hand makes its way to the car door with a mind of its own. Pulling on the handle, I imagine him colliding with the car door, his cocky smile wiped away as the glass strips the skin from his face. I push the door a fraction too slowly as he zooms past without a clue how close he was to death. I shake my head violently—what the fuck am I doing?
The traffic moves again, and I crank the radio till the music dissolves my wandering thoughts, shifting my focus back towards the road. Rock music plays—what sounds like a Nine Inch Nails song. Besides the spliff hanging between my fingers, music is the only other medication for my dangerous tendencies. Sometimes I get so lost in the music that I arrive at my destination, an hour having passed, with no recollection of actually driving. But this song does none of that, and it muffles and distorts, the vocals becoming unintelligible. Shitty radio antenna—I need to get that fixed. I change the station, but the song remains the same. The vocals deepen and slur as if some demonic force consumes the band, and the melody twists itself into a sort of blaring emergency alarm. This is too fucking weird. There must be some interference or something. I shut the radio off.
My headlights flash over a passing exit sign; I’m stuck in Ipswich for at least another half an hour till I get home. Not sure how long I’ve been daydreaming—haven’t crashed the car yet, so it can’t have been too long. The glare of the setting sun stings my eyes, so I pull down the sun visor. I look back over at the kid from earlier who is now behind me. I wonder what it would sound like if I were to suddenly swerve in front of him and brake, the squeal of screeching tires and the thunder of twisting metal. He looks a bit like Terrance from that shitty pizza place all those years ago, always giving me and the guys shit for every little thing so he could suck up to the owner.
Howls From Hell Page 23