Witchy Tales: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fairy Tale

by Amanda M. Lee

  I jumped when I heard the sound of voices, hoping everyone else was transported here with me.

  “Cinderella!”

  “Oh, crap,” I said. “Why me?”

  No one can make you do something you don’t want to do unless you let them. Except me. Always do what I tell you to do. I’m always right, and you’ll regret it if you cross me.

  – Aunt Tillie’s Wonderful World of Stories to Make Little Girls Shut Up

  Twelve

  “Landon,” I hissed, scanning the dimly lit room and trying to hold off the settling panic.

  He didn’t answer.

  “This isn’t helping my abandonment issues,” I grumbled, wiping my hand down my hips and frowning as I glanced down. My jeans and T-shirt were gone, replaced by a set of filthy rags that made my skin crawl. It was a dress – barely – tattered at the hem and hanging off my shoulders. A quick look down the bodice told me that bras were apparently banned in this tale. “Double crap.”

  “Cinderella!”

  I pressed my eyes shut, irritation and worry warring for supremacy in my mind. This couldn’t be happening. Not only had I been transported into my least favorite fairy tale, I also was the character who was about to be utilized for slave labor. I can’t even keep up on my own laundry.

  “There you are.” The voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and I recognized it instantly when the slim figure stepped into the doorway of the dirty room. I guess it was supposed to be a kitchen, but without a microwave and Keurig I couldn’t be sure. “Have you been hiding here all morning?”

  My high school nemesis, Lila Stevens, fixed me with a harsh look, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from unleashing hours of frustration on her. In my head, I knew the character only looked like Lila. It wasn’t really her. In my heart, though, I still hated her. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Lila was appearing in this specific story. “I’m not hiding,” I said. “I’m … contemplating the meaning of life.”

  “Oh, whatever,” Lila said, stepping into the room. She wrinkled her nose disdainfully. “This place smells … and you smell. You should try taking a bath.”

  “You should try shutting your mouth,” I grumbled, brushing my hair from my face. It felt greasy. That couldn’t be good.

  “What did you just say to me?” Lila flounced down the stairs, stopping right in front of me. Her hands were on her narrow waist, which looked thinner than normal thanks to the corset and hoop skirt under her bright pink dress.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I said, bartering for time. I wasn’t sure what to do. “Do you need something?”

  “I need my breakfast,” Lila said. “You were supposed to serve it to me five minutes ago. I’m hungry.”

  I pointed to the pot above the open flame in the fireplace. “Go nuts.”

  “Excuse me?” Lila’s eyes were narrow slits of seething hatred. “Are you suggesting I cook my own breakfast?”

  “Or go hungry,” I said. “I don’t really care which. Although, to be fair, I’m guessing you’ll be quiet if you have something shoved in that huge mouth of yours so I would prefer that you ate something.”

  “I … I …. I … .” Lila’s mouth was open but only staccato sounds emanated. It was a nice change of pace.

  “Have you seen any … strangers … around?” I asked.

  “Strangers?”

  “Three men and two women. They would probably be dressed in clothes you would find … odd.”

  “I find you odd,” Lila said. “You’re speaking to me as though we’re … equals. We may be stepsisters, but you’re not my equal. You need to learn your station in life.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion,” I said. “Um … where is the front door to this place? I need to get out of here. Which way is the yellow brick road?”

  “What are you talking about?” a now-furious Lila asked. “Have you gone crazy? Have you lost your mind? Are you suffering from the vapors?”

  “I might be going crazy,” I conceded. “I’m pretty sure my mind is teetering on the edge. I have no idea what the vapors are. Is that like gas? I definitely have heartburn, which is pretty interesting since I haven’t eaten in hours.”

  “I can’t even look at you,” Lila said, covering her eyes dramatically. “You’re like some horrible monster.”

  “You’re as lovely as ever,” I said, pushing past her and moving toward the door. “Just give me a hint. Do I want to make a right or a left when I get out of this room? I need to get out of this place. I am not finishing this story. I hate this story.”

  “What story?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I replied, glancing into the hallway. There was nothing to signify which was the correct way to go. The structure was made of stone, high arching doorways cutting into the granite walls at regular intervals. It appeared to be a sort of castle, but I couldn’t be sure. “So … right? Left?”

  “I’m telling,” Lila said, shoving past me and taking a hard right. “You’re going to be in so much trouble you won’t be able to walk when Mama is done taking the switch to you.”

  Mama? Ugh. Who did Aunt Tillie cast in that role in her little fantasy world? It couldn’t be good. Despite my better judgment, I followed Lila down the long hallway. If I could just find a way to get outside of this place I could walk until I found the yellow brick road – and my family.

  “Mama!”

  I rolled my eyes. Lila was even more annoying in this world. At least I knew she was behind bars in the real world. She was allowed to run around willy-nilly here. Life just isn’t fair sometimes.

  “Mama!”

  Lila’s long corkscrew curls swung vigorously as she stomped down the hallway. I had an incredible urge to yank one of them. I had no idea why.

  “Mama!”

  “Why are you screeching?”

  Another figure popped into view from one of the doorways. It took me a second, and a bevy of unhappy memories from my childhood, to recognize her. I didn’t think this was Mama. This had to be the other stepsister. Even though she didn’t look exactly the same – a little more weight spreading around her hips than I remembered throwing me – years couldn’t erase the pinched and unpleasant face of … . “Rosemary.”

  Rosemary tucked a strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear. Unlike Lila’s bouncy curls, lifeless hanks that looked as though they hadn’t encountered a brush in years marked Rosemary’s locks.

  “Where is our breakfast, Cinderella?”

  “It’s in the pot in the kitchen,” I said. “Which way is the door? I need to get out of here.”

  “How are we supposed to eat it if it’s in the kitchen?”

  “I would suggest using a spoon,” I said. “Or, in your case, maybe a shovel.”

  Rosemary was as flummoxed as Lila. “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

  “While I’m sure you go through life with people laughing every time they see you, I can assure you this isn’t a joke,” I said. “Now, where is the door?”

  “I’m telling Mama,” Rosemary said, placing her hands on her wide hips and glowering at me. “You’re going to be in so much trouble you won’t know what hit you.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “I need to find the door. Where is it?”

  “Mama!”

  Rosemary’s voice was even more annoying than Lila’s. Nails on a chalkboard would be a reprieve.

  “What are you two screeching about?”

  I swiveled quickly, my gaze landing on another familiar figure from my life. This one was … jarring. “Edith?”

  Edith was the resident ghost at The Whistler, the Hemlock Cove newspaper where I worked. She’d been haunting the offices since she keeled over at her desk decades earlier. I’d never known her as anything other than a phantom presence. Seeing her whole – blood pounding through her veins – was fascinating.

  “What’s going on?” Edith asked. “Why is everyone yelling?”

  “I can’t believe you’re … real,” I said, touching
her shoulder. “Well, I know you’re not real. I can actually touch you, though. It’s … so different. Do you feel different?”

  “Are you somehow addled?” Edith jerked her shoulder from my probing finger. “Have you forgotten your station in this house?”

  I guess, in a weird way, it made sense for Aunt Tillie to turn Edith into a nasty stepmother. She’d always had a problem with the woman in life, constantly complaining that Edith was trying to steal Uncle Calvin from her. I had no idea whether that was true, but Aunt Tillie’s dislike of Edith was legendary. It was dwarfed only by her dislike of Aunt Willa, Rosemary and Lila. I shouldn’t have expected anything else when Aunt Tillie decided to paint a picture of otherworldly villains.

  “Um … I’m guessing I’m your personal house slave,” I said. “The thing is, I have to … meet some people. I can’t make your breakfast this morning. You’re on your own.”

  Edith’s dark eyes fixed on me, and while she was never overly fond of me – unless she needed something – I found overt hatred there now. I inadvertently took a step back.

  “Who are you meeting?” Edith asked, suspicious.

  “Just some friends,” I said. “We’re going to a … party.”

  “What party?”

  “I think it has a lot in common with a pity party,” I replied.

  “I think you’re up to something,” Edith said. “I think you’re going to try to sneak into the castle.”

  “Isn’t this the castle?”

  Edith ignored me. “I think you heard about the prince picking a bride tonight,” she said. “Do you honestly think you have a chance with a prince? You’re a servant. You’ll never be anything other than a servant.”

  “I’m not interested in the prince,” I said. “I don’t particularly like princes. I’m happy with my lot in life … which isn’t here.”

  “Oh, I know what you’re trying to do,” Edith said, reaching over and grabbing my chin so I had no choice but to focus on her. “I won’t let anyone mess with Rosemary and Lila’s chance to snare a prince.”

  I jerked my chin out of her hand, grimacing when I felt her claw-like fingernails catch on my skin. “I don’t care about your stupid prince. I don’t care about your castle. I don’t care about any of it. I just want to get out of here.”

  I stalked toward the far end of the hallway, hoping I could find an external door if left to my own devices for five minutes without nattering voices burrowing into the back of my brain. Things probably would have been fine if I had kept my mouth shut. That’s not in my nature, though.

  I turned around long enough to grace Edith with a withering look. “And neither one of your terrible daughters has a chance with the prince. Rosemary looks as though she fell off the back of the ugly truck and Lila has the personality of my ass. Neither one of them has a chance. Just … suck it up.”

  TWO hours later I was sitting in the storage room where Edith, Rosemary and Lila locked me in after wrestling me down and … quite frankly … pulling my hair. My scalp hurt ... and I was really grumpy.

  I was at a loss. Somewhere out there Landon was looking for me. I knew it. He was probably panicking because he couldn’t find me. Or – and this was a troubling thought – he was about to start waltzing with hundreds of desperate women at the castle. What if he was the prince? I was Cinderella, after all. I was supposed to claim the prince.

  “Crap,” I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “I should have killed Lila the second she walked into the kitchen.”

  “Well, that would have been a stupid idea. Murderers can’t marry a prince.”

  I lifted my head when I heard the voice, my mouth dropping open at the face peering through the small window in the door. “Aunt Tillie?”

  “I’m not your aunt, nincompoop,” Aunt Tillie snapped. “I’m your fairy godmother.”

  “That’s worse,” I said. “You get me out of here right now!” I jumped to my feet and stormed to the door. “I can’t believe you did this to us! We’re your family! Do you have any idea how horrible this night has been?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not your aunt?”

  “You are my aunt,” I said. “You’re also the narrator of this book. You trapped us in the book, and now we’re stuck. You get me out of here right now!”

  Aunt Tillie sighed and stepped away from the door. The lock tumbled, allowing the door to spring open, and when I strode through it I pulled up short when I saw what Aunt Tillie wore. “You’re dressed up in a … ball gown?”

  It wasn’t your run-of-the-mill ball gown. It was a floor-length blue monstrosity with more sequins and crystals than should be allowed by law. In addition to the dress, she carried a wand. I kind of wanted to steal it and thwack her over the head with it.

  “This is how I normally dress,” Aunt Tillie sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest obstinately. “I’m a fairy godmother. I always dress like this.”

  “I miss the camouflage and combat helmet,” I snapped. “Are you … aware of what’s going on here?”

  “You’re Cinderella,” Aunt Tillie said. “You need to go to the ball so you can snag your prince.”

  “I already have my prince,” I said. “I just can’t seem to find him right now. Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s at the castle.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m your fairy godmother,” Aunt Tillie said. “Of course I’m sure.”

  I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose as I looked to the ceiling. “What do I have to do?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Aunt Tillie said, smiling. “The first thing we need is a gown.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I complained. “I hate this story. You hate this story. Why am I the one who got it? Clove is the one who would’ve loved this story. You should have put her here … although, I have to say, having Edith, Lila and Rosemary be the evil-doers in this one was a nice touch.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aunt Tillie said, brandishing her wand.

  “Some of the other characters in this … book … have been self-aware,” I said. “Are you?”

  “I’m a fairy godmother.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “See, the problem is, you lie,” I said. “You’ve always lied. You tell us what you feel like telling us as if it’s truth, even though we all know it’s a load of crap. Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Do you want to find your prince or not?” Aunt Tillie was getting irritated. Some things never change. “I don’t have all day. I have six more downtrodden women to get to before I can have a bottle of wine and relax. You’re really slowing me down.”

  I decided to try one more thing. “Are you aware of what’s going on in the real world?”

  “This is the real world.”

  “If we die here … do we die there?” It was an ominous question, but I needed to know.

  Aunt Tillie shrugged, noncommittal. “It all depends on what you believe. Now … stand over there … I’m on a bit of a timetable and you need a coach and a footman before I can get out of here. Fairy Tale Jeopardy starts in two hours. I can’t miss it.”

  One day your prince will come. He’s not going to put a glass slipper on your foot. He’s going to be bossy and willful. He’s also going to expect you to cook. Make sure you burn the first few dinners so you can keep his expectations low. If you’re lucky, though, he’ll also make you laugh. Make sure to keep him if he makes you laugh.

  – Aunt Tillie’s Wonderful World of Stories to Make Little Girls Shut Up

  Thirteen

  “How far is the palace?”

  The footman who ushered me into my carriage – which left a little to be desired since it actually smelled like a rotting pumpkin – was the quiet sort. He hadn’t said a word since we left Edith’s manor. It had been only three minutes, but it was an uncomfortable three minutes.

  “It’s right here.” The footman directed the horses to the side of the road and pulled to a stop.<
br />
  “Where?”

  The footman pointed, and after serious study a palace began to take shape in the mist. It was beautiful. It looked like it came straight out of a … well, a fairy tale … but I was still irritated. “Are you really telling me I couldn’t just walk the hundred and fifty feet here? This is ridiculous. Now I smell like pumpkin.”

  The footman opened the carriage door and extended his hand to help me out. I gathered the wide skirt of the white dress, grimacing as I tried to keep the uncomfortable glass slippers on as I descended the slippery steps.

  “Thanks,” I said, dropping the skirt and frowning. Now I understood how embarrassed Thistle was wearing a dress that constantly made noise. “Which way do I go?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you going to sit here and wait for me to dance with the prince and then flee before midnight, leaving a glass shoe on the ground and a dumbfounded man in my wake? If so, you can go.”

  “I have no intention of staying,” the footman said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, up until five minutes ago I was a dog,” the footman said. “I’d like to go back to playing with my bone.”

  I was overwhelmed with the mad inclination to laugh, but refrained. “Knock yourself out,” I said, fighting the urge to grimace when the footman started scratching his head. Great. With my luck he was infested with fleas.

  I followed the steady stream of excited guests, not missing the fact that women outnumbered men by a large margin. Most of the men were older, and I guessed they were expectant fathers trying to unload desperate daughters. The whole mating ritual was annoying.

  I’ve never understood the Cinderella story. Don’t get me wrong, I like the talking mice. They’re fun. I just don’t get why Cinderella didn’t tell her stepmother and stepsisters to “suck it” and move out. I don’t get how a man spent one dance with a woman and thought he was in love with her. I never understood why a glass slipper was so cool because, let me tell you something, they’re uncomfortable and they pinch. I would trade these stupid glass slippers for a pair of Converse without thinking twice about it.