Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  Some hours later, as the sun began to rise in the sky, she made out the outline of a magnificent castle against the horizon. The structure stood on a hill overlooking the countryside. Her heart raced as the carriage traveled towards her future home, and her dreams of wealth and privilege ran away with her.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” the messenger said, speaking for the first and only time during the entire trip.

  ***

  The carriage deposited her at the foot of a marble staircase. Neither the driver nor the messenger got out with her; they hurried away as soon as her feet hit the ground. She stared after them for a moment, unhappy to have been left without reason. At last she sighed angrily and began climbing the steps. The front door of the castle opened and her father came running out before she reached the top step.

  “My dear Belle, please leave this place!” he pleaded. “The man who lives here is a monster! A beast!”

  “Silence, father, the man who lives here will soon be asking for my hand in marriage,” she said.

  “No, he can’t!” her father cried. “I can’t leave you here with this beast, my beautiful Belle. My little Beauty!”

  “I don’t want to hear it, father,” Belle said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I have lived in that little shack you call a home for too long! I would have you know I even had to cook my own supper last evening. Can you believe that? Me, Belle Matelot, slaving over a hot stove! I deserve better, father.”

  “Belle, please listen, this man—”

  “I shall not hear of it!” she snapped. “You have been given your freedom, now take it.”

  Her father grabbed at her arm, but she shrugged his hands off and headed for the door.

  “Belle, please, don’t go in there,” her father called after her, but Belle was determined. If her father could not provide for her with his own business, he would provide for her with his lack of business. She would marry his debtor and become the mistress of this magnificent castle. “My little Beauty, please listen for once in your life. If you go in there you might never come back!”

  She stepped into the castle and the door blocked out anything else he said.

  ***

  Belle spent most of the day wandering around the castle alone. She was annoyed at having been kept waiting, and mystified that there didn’t seem to be any servants present. The absence of servants might have made her doubt the lord of the castle’s wealth, if not for the exquisite beauty and expense of the castle’s furnishing. And the fact that every time she needed something, it seemed to appear. A beautiful dress with diamond earrings. A wonderful lunch on fine china.

  Someone had once told her servants should not be seen, perhaps the lord of this castle had perfected that art. They took care of their master’s needs without ever showing their faces. To her this was a wonderful thought. After all, she had little time to spend on people of that cast.

  The mansion she had lived in with her father had been beautiful, but her old mansion could fit into a single wing of her new castle. Every room was filled with fine artwork and expensive furniture. She could imagine herself spending the rest of her life here within these walls, happy to be surrounded by such expensive things.

  At last, tired from her wanderings, she lie down on a couch near a fireplace and fell fast asleep.

  ***

  Sometime later she awoke to the sound of footsteps. Someone had come and kept the fire going while she had been asleep. They had also covered her with a blanket. She sat up and looked around the room. Outlined in the window against the setting sun she saw the form of a tall, muscular man. She couldn’t make out his features, but his shape was wonderful to look at.

  “Good evening, Belle,” the man said.

  “How may I address his lordship?”

  “You may call me prince, actually?” he said.

  “I apologize, your highness,” Belle said.

  “Time is short, so let’s cut to the chase,” the prince told her. “Will you marry me?”

  “Prince, I’ve not yet seen your face.”

  “That’s the mystery of it, dear Belle,” he told her. “On the mantle over the fireplace is a rose. The rose signifies my very deep feelings for you. If you truly wish to marry me, take the rose from the vase and bring it to me without question. If you cannot, will not marry a man you’ve not laid eyes on, go back to your little shack and live out your days as a pauper. I will leave you and your father alone. I will respect your choice.”

  Belle quickly weighed her options, and at last knew she could choose no other path. She got up from her couch and walked to the fireplace. The rose, resting in a crystal vase, was one of the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen. She reached up to take it from the vase, and one of the thorns pricked her finger. She cried out, and a drop of blood fell to the floor.

  “Oh dear Belle, how happy you’ve made me,” the prince said. He was standing right behind her. She felt his breath on her neck. He took her by the arm, turning her to face him. Belle screamed.

  ***

  Belle found herself face to face with a beast, just as her father had said. Although this beast was of the human kind. At least, once he had been human. Looking into his face was like gazing upon the face of death itself. Every inch scarred, with the exception of two bright blue eyes which stared back at her. His nose was gone, as were his lips and one of his cheeks. His mouth was the mouth of a grinning skull.

  “You don’t approve, little Beauty?” he asked. “You don’t admire your own handiwork?”

  “Mine?” she gasped.

  “But of course, although you thought me to be a penniless sailor at the time,” the prince said. “You don’t recall?”

  “No, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “I will never forget it, or your face,” he told her. “I met you at a tavern near your home. I traveled in those days, usually in disguise, because I didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to myself. I was looking for a wife. One who was beautiful and loving. You see, I was a kind hearted prince in those days, and I wanted to find a wife who would be just as loving and kind to my subjects. Instead I found you.”

  “I am a lady, I would never be found in a tavern, your highness!” Belle protested. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “Your beauty blinded me to what you truly were,” he continued, ignoring her. “You led me into an alley with the promise of a kiss. When I leaned in close, you plunged a dagger into my chest. As I lay there bleeding to death, you used the same dagger to do this to me. First you took my lips. Then it was a cheek. Finally, for good measure, you took my nose as well. You left me to die, but my servants were nearby. They were too late to save me from you, but they were not too late to save me from death.”

  The prince clapped his hands and two hooded men entered the room. They reached up and peeled back their hoods, revealing faces as disfigured as their master’s.

  “You got careless, dear Belle,” he said. “After I recovered from my injuries, I began to follow you. I wasn’t the first, nor the last of your victims. I saved plenty of them from death, and now they all live here. What other prince would employ such monstrous servants?”

  “Let me go,” she said, pulling away from him. He laughed. She staggered and pressed a hand to her head. “What have you done to me?”

  “You did it yourself, Belle—all with the prick of a thorn,” he said, laughing. “In just a moment you are going to begin to feel weak. I tried to find a witch or a wizard who could grant some spell to restore me, but I found none. I did, however, find an alchemist who provided me with a toxin. Don’t worry, Belle, it’s not deadly. It will simply paralyze you for two to three hours. You will still be awake and able to feel, but you will be unable to resist.”

  He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a pearl handled knife.

  “Yes, I had my people retrieve this from your shack,” he said, turning the blade over and ov
er in his hands. “It really is a beautiful tool!”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I told you I was once a loving, kind hearted prince,” he told her. “What you did to me, Belle, turned me into a monster. I can’t go out in public without making half the people scared and the other half want to kill me. Loving and kind hearted kind of went out the window.” He laughed and took a step closer. “I embraced the beast, you see. My new subjects love me, but I don’t think they would love you. At least not this way. You’re too beautiful, Belle. To become their princess, you have to fit in!”

  #

  Two days later, as Pierre Matelot and a group of armed men were prepared to leave the village in search of the beast and his castle, a messenger arrived on horseback. He wore a hooded cloak which hid his face from the angry mob. He singled the worried father out of the group and held a large wooden box out to him.

  Matelot took the package and pulled the lid open. Inside he found more gold coins than he had ever laid eyes upon, and a letter from his daughter explaining her new husband would take care of all of his needs. She ended with a request he never visit her new home. His eyes went from the gold to the letter and he knew Belle had finally found everything she had ever dreamed of. So had he. He had done everything for her, given her the best things money could buy, and she had still turned out to be an awful person. Now he was rich, and he would never be forced to see her again.

  ***

  Alone in her room, Belle stared at her feet, because down was the only direction she could look. Her prince had covered every wall in the room, as well as the ceiling, with mirrors. The prince gave her permission to leave at any time, but where would she go? After everything he had done to her, she would never be welcomed home again. She would never be welcomed anywhere.

  Belle tried to remember what she had done to the beast, but there were just too many. She had spent years trying to rid the world of the poor and the sick. They were an ugly scar on an otherwise wonderful world. In her mind, removing them was the same as making the world a better and more beautiful place. She never guessed one of them was secretly a wealthy prince.

  She looked up and her own horrifying visage stared back at her from a dozen mirrors. Belle tried to close her eyes and block out the vision, but she couldn’t. He had taken her eye lids. She screamed. The prince had told her no one could hear her screams, but that had been a lie. Everyone in the palace heard her, and they all began to laugh, but none so much as the prince himself.

  About the Author

  Matthew Alan Hughes is a horror author from the commonwealth of Kentucky, where he lives with his wife and daughter. He is a graduate of Kentucky Wesleyan College, where he served two terms as prior of Sigma Alpha Mu fraternity. Currently he is the news editor of The Journal-Enterprise, a weekly newspaper in rural Kentucky. Hughes is the author of 2 novels, a short story collection and has been a part of several short story anthologies, including the award winning “The Ghost IS the Machine” anthology from Post Mortem Press. Find out more about the author at facebook.com/mahughes.horror.

  Hare’s Tale

  A retelling of “The Tortoise and the Hare”

  Jay Wilburn

  Hare burst out from the gate. His body stretched out in the air showing sinew and rib under his tight skin and white fur. He cursed as he landed off balance. His sliced shoulder stirred the gravel on the road as it ground into his wound. He staggered and regained his feet in full run.

  He left the shell of the castle behind him as he bounded across open ground. He gritted his protruding, front teeth. His pace became uneven as the pain in his shoulder grew.

  Arrows peppered the ground on both sides of him. Hare weaved from side to side to foil their aim as he struggled to get out of range. He left the trail briefly and then crossed back over. He would not be able to fight the undergrowth for long in his condition.

  The cover lay too far away. He could not keep changing direction which would be his usual weapon on days he was not bleeding through his white fur. His only remaining options were speed and faith. He was quickly losing both.

  Hare’s speech came haggard and slurred through his leporid teeth. Saliva flew from his lips not accustomed to speech and even he could barely make out his own words through his long ears laid flat against his skull.

  “I can not make it.”

  He continued to bound and limp on his failing leg. The arrows struck the road close to his hide. His speed faltered further and his faith shrank to the size of a mustard seed, but he continued to run.

  The gates crashed open against the domed wall of the castle behind him and the scaly feet of his oppressors thundered on the road in their plodding manner. He felt the vibration of each step of his enemies through the hard ground, through the gravel, and through the pads of his paws.

  He ran with what little energy he had left and what little faith still remained. He ran in fear and in desperation. He ran because the race had just begun.

  ***

  Hare collapsed.

  His chest heaved against the hard road. Farther from the castle grounds, the road had become cracked and poorly maintained. As Hare let his head fall to the pavement, he felt thankful the gravel had been left behind. Numbness traveled down his wounded leg and the slice on his shoulder opened again.

  He could not feel the steps of his oppressor in the ground, but he knew he approached behind him.

  Hare slurred and drooled into the dust on the road. “They never give up. Never.”

  He could not draw enough air pressed on the hard ground. He allowed his eyes to slide closed even as he knew it was the greatest mistake he could make.

  Hare heard his mother’s voice echo inside his skull. His ears perked up off his sweaty head into the breeze. He recognized her tone and clear voice immediately, but the blur of his thoughts kept him from understanding the words. He tried to lift his head, but failed.

  He forced his eyes open, but he only saw shapes and shades. His vision blurred to match his thoughts. Hare peeled his lips back away from his teeth. He decided to do what he had always done when he was afraid as a young kit.

  He listened to his mother’s voice.

  Son, lift yourself from the ground. Being tired is no excuse for allowing yourself to die.

  Hare let his eyes slide closed again. He took one deep breath before returning to shallow breathing.

  He muttered. “You are not there. I am alone.”

  Her voice turned harsh. Even knowing her voice came to him in a hallucination, his fur prickled up afraid and he feared the wrath of his father for having angered her.

  You are not a leveret any longer, son. You are the cony now. Buck up. You decided to defy the scales and to race the shells. Now live with that choice. Up with you, son. Get to the race. Live, son, live.

  He groaned and tried to turn his nose into the road. Twisting made his wound separate and he screamed the way only rabbits and hares can.

  “I can’t, mother. I’m not the buck my father was and he died at the claws of the scales and the wrath of the soulless shell.”

  He heard a hiss, but did not recognize the sound. The road began to vibrate in small booms that built with each impact. He did recognize that sound. The hissing continued, but became the soft shush of his mother. It was not her harsh demand of silence from young, whining bunnies. But more the soothing sound she gave when fears needed her help in subsiding. His fur rested back on his sweaty body as he relaxed.

  Look at me, son. Open your eyes and look at me a moment, please.

  Hare obeyed his mother’s voice. He lifted his head from the ground with the dust from the road pasted to his fur. He stared to one side across blurry grass and blazing morning sun. The heat had begun to break through the chill of morning dew glistening on the grass. Despite the heat and his sweaty exhaustion, Hare shivered at the sight of the sun he had not seen in years of captivity to the reptile kingdom.

  He turned his head slowly to the other side of the road
where the wash of sunlight painted over the top of the grass. His vision remained unclear, but he noticed the grass had been crushed down in places by feet larger than his own. He shivered again. Sunlight also lit tall poles and flags that snapped and wavered taut on their frames against the light breeze. He squinted, but could not make out the familiar crest of the lizard king or his testudine overlords.

  The thundering in the ground grew with each impact until Hare now heard the sound in addition to feeling it in his broken body.

  The breeze turned into Hare’s face, fluttering the lids of his reddened eyes. He wrinkled his nose at the odor it carried. The smell was not from the tortoise or any other reptile oppressor. He recognized the odor from the dungeons that had served as his shadowed home for years.

  Hare turned his nose down toward his own fur. He smelled his sweat and the iron from his spilled blood, but the urine smell came from somewhere else on the breeze.

  He lifted his nose. It was not reptile. It was distinctly mammal. He couldn’t place the creature. The scent lacked the markers of rabbits or hares. There seemed to be a mix of haired beasts contributing to the waste.

  Hare mumbled. “I’m imagining it all in my crazed fear.”

  His mother’s disembodied call insisted. Look at me, son. I need you to see.

  Hare whined as he had done as a kit and he added tears to the mat of blood and sweat in his fur.

  “I can not see what is not there, mother. You died before my father’s bones were crushed by the overlords. You were taken by claws, scales, and at the point of the sword. You are not here.”