It’s no use being a clever paws around a human, Miss Vix had said. They are cleverer by a landslide. They will catch you with their traps, peel off your skin with their long fingers, and wear it around their naked necks to keep warm. If you ever see a human, run.
The human shined its light, following the silver root straight to the bush that hid Mia’s mom. A growl awoke in Mia’s throat as the human’s hairless paws parted the leaves, unveiling her mom’s red fur. Her mother snarled and yipped, jerking back, trying to get as far away from the human as she could.
“Water dull lite,” the human said, rubbing its paws together.
No, not paws. Hands. With five fingers each, every one as deft as a baby snake. The human pulled out two hand skins and slid them over its own. It reached into the bush, and Mia’s mom lashed, sinking her fangs into the skin covering the human’s hand.
The human didn’t so much as wince, only clucked its tongue. “Imp fat ’n pennies!”
The growl grew in Mia’s throat as the human forced her mom’s muzzle to the ground with one hand, using the other to draw a gleaming splinter from the silver root’s mouth. Her mom’s paw came free, and the human hefted her into the air by the scruff.
Mia’s growl grew into a howl. “Let go of my mom!”
She shot out from under the leaf and attacked the human’s foot. The human made a surprised “Woop!” and dropped Mia’s mother to the ground. Mia didn’t stop attacking. The foot’s skin was as tough as bark. But if she could just bite hard enough, rip hard enough, she was confident she could kill it.
“Mia!” her mom shouted. “Let go! Run!”
Mia tried to let go of the human’s foot, but her fangs caught on something stringy. Before she could untangle them, fingers seized her by the scruff, making her whole body freeze. And then she was being hefted into the air—up, up, up, high as the branches.
Mia dangled in front of the human’s hideous face. It was made of loose frog-belly skin that wiggled and stretched in strange, terrifying ways.
“Wei, wei … icko morso.” The human breathed its strange sounds at her. “Otter’z breezed! Hee hee.”
With her scruff pinched, Mia could only snarl.
Below, her mom ripped at the loose skin around the human’s legs. The human kicked her in the teeth, but her mom shook off the blow and bit down again.
Mia’s stomach lifted as the human swooped down to catch her mom with its other hand. But her mom dodged into the brush.
“Verilell!” the human said, standing.
It tried to step away, but Mia’s mom kept nipping at its feet. Whenever the human reached down to grab her, she bounded off into the brush.
Finally, the human crouched low, holding Mia out. “Flair, eh?” it said. “Allures.”
With its other hand, it reached toward Mia’s mom. Mia’s mom remained frozen behind the leaves, her injured paw curled to her chest.
“Mama!” Mia cried. “Don’t let it take me!”
Her mom whimpered. She kept her distance.
The human sighed. “Verilell.”
It hefted Mia as high as the branches again and burbled as it carried her through the forest. Her mom limped behind them, trying to keep up on her injured paw.
“I’ll find you, Mia!” her mom called. “Be brave!”
But Mia was too numb with fear to be anything.
Soon her mom’s sobs and sweet apple scent were swallowed by the leaves.
FOUR
AN ORANGE LIGHT bloomed through the elder trees. It shone from something that looked like a den but was built aboveground. Its walls were made of stones and fallen trunks. It had a roof of dead grass. Black smoke billowed from its top, hazing the air and stinging Mia’s eyes.
“Housatrix!” the human cried.
Something was wrong with this place. No crickets chirped. No frogs croaked. There were no scuffles in the underbrush. As if the creatures of the wood knew to keep quiet here.
The human carried Mia into the den and then closed it with a click, cutting off the scent of the trees. The walls danced with flames—a forest fire, somehow contained within a small cave. Mia had only ever seen fire from a distance when lightning struck the Great Crook Tree. This close, the crackling flames burned her nose and dried her eyes, making the shapes of the den blur together. She started panting with fear.
“Fur sings fur,” the human said.
Mia felt a snip behind her ear as the human stole a tuft of her hair. Then, carrying her by the scruff, it brought her to a nest of silver sticks. The sticks opened with a squeak and Mia fell inside. Another squeak, and she found herself trapped. She tried to bite through the sticks, but they were made of the same impossible stuff as the root that had bitten her mom’s paw.
The human unfolded the outer skins from its body, releasing a scent like melting flowers. Its long white fingers hung the skins, one by one, on a dead brown tree. It turned, firelight flickering on its flat, naked face. Raspberries stained its lips. Blueberries tinted its eyelids. A clump of silver hair sat atop its head, and it wore a golden flower at its throat.
Mia sniffed. This human was female.
“Ahh,” the woman said in a breathy, bright voice. “Much better.”
Mia’s ear twitched. She could understand the human now. But how?
The woman drew close and bared her teeth through the silver sticks. “Hello there.” She tapped the air a whisker from Mia’s muzzle. “I’d reach into your cage and pet you, but I’m afraid you’d nip my finger, you’re shaking so.”
Mia howled for her mom. “Arooorooorooorooorooooooo!”
“Oh, bup bup bup,” the woman said. “None of that now.” Her round pupils moved up and down, taking in Mia’s coat. “You’re a … vixen, I believe.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though I won’t do either of us the indignity of checking.”
She walked to what looked like a hollow tree trunk and drew out something sharp and hooked—a silver claw that gleamed like moonlight on water.
“You were a surprise, you know,” the woman said. “And not a pleasant one, I’m afraid.”
She picked up a stone and ran it along the claw’s edge—shink shink shink. The sound raised Mia’s hackles.
“I’m not particularly partial to foxes,” the woman continued. “They’re unpleasant creatures at the best of times. Always murdering innocent ducks and mouses and little cherubs—that’s what I call piglets, by the way.” Shink shink shink. “That’s why foxes have always been the villains in my stories. Don’t much appreciate villains myself.”
Mia kept her eyes on the silver claw. She was trying to follow the woman’s words, but they didn’t make any sense. Stories? Villains?
“Besides,” the woman said, “I already have a fox story. The Tale of Mr. Tod. And it was not popular amongst the littles.” She set down the stone and gave the sharp end of the claw a prick with her nail. “I was hoping to catch a chubby chipmunk or a bunny or perhaps some pleasant forest critter I haven’t written about yet.”
She brought the claw to the cage. Mia cowered. There was nowhere to hide.
“My, but you are beautiful, aren’t you?” the woman said, hesitating. “And young. Why, you’re nothing but a kit!” She tapped the claw against the silver sticks of Mia’s cage, thinking. “Perhaps it is time for another fox story. My publisher might enjoy one that isn’t so … well, nasty.” She set down the claw with a clatter. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
Mia’s ear twitched. Give what a try? Was the woman not going to steal her skin?
“How impolite of me!” the woman said, clapping her hands together. “I haven’t made introductions!” Her face drew too close to the cage again. “My name is Beatrix Potter.”
Mia’s ears flattened. She didn’t care about the woman’s name. She just wanted to leave.
The woman tapped her lips, studying Mia’s face. “And I believe I’ll call you … Little Miss.”
Mia avoided the woman’s eyes as Miss Potter again bared her teeth.
FIVE
AFTER MISS POTTER SANG a bright “Good night” …
After she banished the lights with a click …
After the fire died with a crackle …
It was only then that Mia was able to take in her surroundings. She pressed her nose between the silver sticks of her cage, trying to sniff out an escape. Moonlight poured through a hole in the den’s wall. But she couldn’t smell the trees or her mom’s apple-scented fur. The wind and all its smells were held back by something as invisible as a fly’s wing.
Mia searched the den’s other walls and found that they were impaled with forest things: mushrooms and feathers and leaves of different shapes; a hairy vine coiled in a circle. There were creatures too: a yellow beetle no longer marching, a butterfly that did not flutter, as well as a bat, a frog, and a lizard, all shriveled and still. The creatures were as scentless as dust, and Mia’s stomach did not rumble at the sniff of them.
She turned her nose upward to see if the den had a top exit, and her heart turned over. There, standing on a flat perch high in the den was a large male fox.
Keep away from unknown foxes, Miss Vix had warned. If you don’t belong to them, they will snap your neck and leave your body for the worms.
Mia didn’t want her neck snapped. But the fox wouldn’t be able to reach her in the cage. Besides, who else was going to help her?
“Excuse me?” Mia whispered to the fox.
He didn’t respond—only stood proudly, sandy whiskers alert.
“Hello?” she said.
The fox gazed out over the den, eyes gleaming like black currants. He didn’t so much as blink.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Mia gulped. “You look very, um, busy, but I just need to find a way out of this nest. My mom’s looking for me outside.”
A long silence followed.
“No use talking to him.”
“Who’s there?” Mia asked, searching the moonlit room. “Who said that?”
“Just me,” a pinched voice said.
Mia sniffed but couldn’t smell anything. She swiveled her ears until she caught the creature’s whistling breath, its slow-thumping heartbeat. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the corner, and she saw another silver cage like hers. Faint moonlight made squares on floppy ears, wide eyes, and brownish-gray fur.
“Why can’t I smell you?” Mia asked the rabbit.
“That’s what she does to you,” he said in a tired voice. “She keeps us in these cages, feeding us nothing but oatmeal until our fur loses the smell of the forest.”
“Oh.” Mia’s heart pounded, flooding her head with more questions. “Why can’t I smell the trees? How can I understand the human? Why can’t I break these sticks?”
The rabbit pointed his nose toward the hole in the den. “That’s a window. It cannot be opened. Not by us anyway. Only way out is through that door, there.”
Mia sniffed at the entrance where Miss Potter had carried her in. It was blocked by a piece of wood that had shut with a click.
“She rarely opens it,” the rabbit said. “And she closes it twice as quickly.” He sniffed. “As for why we can understand her, I don’t rightly know. It was all gobbledygook and gibberish to my ears until she stole a bit of my fur.” He sniffed. “That was before she killed Sara.”
Mia gulped. “Who’s … Sara?”
“My wife,” the rabbit said.
Something stirred inside Mia, but it was faint. It was difficult for her to feel pity for a rabbit. They died all the time. It was part of their nature.
She decided to ask the question she feared the most. “Why won’t the fox talk to me?”
The rabbit’s eyes shined. “Mr. Tod is not in his body anymore.”
She looked at the fox, sitting perfectly still on the high perch. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“He’s there,” the rabbit said, pointing his nose. “In the pages.”
On the wall above Mia’s cage were several white leaves. The pages, as the rabbit had called them, had markings that showed a bit of nature—trees and rivers and skies—all captured in watery hues.
The pages held a depth Mia felt she could leap into. She could escape the human den and go bounding down the little stone pathways, through a tunnel of brambles, past a field of carrots … And yet, the pages were as flat as leaves.
“What do you mean the fox is there?” Mia said, staring at the strange little worlds. “Where?”
“In the page farthest from you.”
Mia squinted at the wall facing her. These pages were populated with creatures—a bullfrog, a bunny, a squirrel—as flat as the worlds that held them. But they weren’t behaving like animals. They stood upright on their hind paws and wore extra skins just like the human.
A duck wore a blue circle around her shoulders and carried a small nest of apples. A frog wore all white and used a long stick to whip a fish out of a pond. A badger wore gray and red skins and walked with a stick in his forepaw. He had a soft expression, which Mia knew was impossible for a badger.
Mia saw the fox with the sandy whiskers—trapped in a page. He wore a green skin around his chest and forelegs, and rested a forepaw on the shoulder of a dim-witted-looking duck.
“Miss Potter doesn’t like animals the way they are,” the rabbit said. “So she changes them. Makes them more like her.” He pointed his nose toward a pile of sharpened sticks. “She starts by stealing your essence with her pencils. Once she’s used them to draw you into her story, she’ll have no more use for your body.” He nodded toward the tree trunk at something floppy and white. “She’ll use that cloth to steal your breath. Then she’ll pull off your skin and stuff it full of grass. And finally she’ll remove your eyes and replace them with shiny rocks.”
The fox’s gaze glowed darkly above Mia’s cage. She looked away.
“After that,” the rabbit said, “you’ll be trapped in Miss Potter’s stories forever. That’s what happened to Sara. She’s the Nice Gentle Rabbit now.”
Mia stared at the fox on the page. He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. His whiskers didn’t twitch. He just stood, frozen, wrapped in skins, unable to take his paw from the head of the dim-witted duck. Unable to hunt her.
It was the same for the toad, who would never catch the fish. The duck, who would never eat the apples. And Sara, the Nice Gentle Rabbit, poking her nose out of the greenery—unable to do anything but wait for her husband to join her.
If Mia went to the watercolor world, then she’d never see her mom or siblings again.
She shook the thought from her head. Rabbits were scared of everything. Their hearts were always in a panic, their eyes always wide with shock.
“Tell me the truth, rabbit,” she snarled, trying to sound more frightening than frightened. “Or else I-I’ll rip out your throat.”
The rabbit gave her a pitying look, and Mia realized there wasn’t a bit of fear in his droopy eyes. “I was like you once,” he said. “I kicked and kicked at my cage until I thought my legs might break. Then Miss Potter filled my belly with oatmeal, and it made me old and slow.”
Mia looked at the fox with the sandy whiskers. “Tell me he’s lying!”
The fox’s eyes only glowed.
“Once Miss Potter finishes drawing your story,” the rabbit said, “that’s when you’ll know it’s your time.”
“No!” Mia attacked the sticks with renewed energy. “I have to get out of here! My mom’s out there!”
The rabbit tucked his paws under his chest, warming them from the night. He turned his nose toward the pages lying on top of his cage. “She finished my story this afternoon. Tomorrow, she’ll bring the jar and the cloth, and then I’ll become just like Mr. Tod.” He lay in his cage, turning his back to Mia. “At least I’ll be with Sara again.”
Mia’s breath grew short. Was that how she would end up? Stuck inside one of these watercolor worlds forever? Her skin stuffed, her glowing eyes staring out the
window, waiting for her mom to come and find her?
“Wait,” Mia called to the rabbit. “How do I get out of here?”
But the rabbit was fast asleep.
SIX
A SOUND DREW Mia out of sleep.
Dawn shined through the speckles of the window, glinting off the silver sticks of her cage. She remembered where she was.
An angry grunt made her sit upright. Miss Potter was crouched over the rabbit’s cage.
“There, there, now,” the woman said, slipping on her hand skins. “No use in fussing.”
Mia’s heart started to thrum in her throat.
Miss Potter reached into the rabbit’s cage and hefted him out by his floppy ears. His legs kicked. His heart thumped. His breath ruffled. Normally, the sounds would fill Mia with hunger, but right then it made every one of her hairs stand on end.
“It’s okay,” Miss Potter cooed to the struggling rabbit. “It will all be okay soon.”
She took the brown jar from the tree trunk, along with a loose white something.
The cloth, Mia realized.
With one hand, Miss Potter opened the jar and tipped it onto the cloth. A scent wafted through the den. It tickled Mia’s nostrils, making her head feel woozy, her eyelids heavy.
“Here we are,” Miss Potter said.
She pressed the damp cloth over the rabbit’s nose while turning her head away. The rabbit made a muffled grunting. His legs kicked. His heart thumped faster and faster as his gaze frantically searched the room. He found Mia. She watched in horror as the rabbit’s eyelids slowly drifted shut and his legs fell limp. When Miss Potter removed the cloth, his breath was gone, along with his heartbeat.
“Oh,” the woman said with a bit of heartbreak. “I do hate it when they make those little sounds.” She laid out the rabbit’s body and picked up the silver claw.
Mia looked away just as his stomach opened wetly. The room thickened with a steamy red scent, making her teeth clack. But whether out of fear or hunger she wasn’t sure.
Scary Stories for Young Foxes Page 6