In the center of it stood a tall, dilapidated house. It had once been painted black, but now the paint was peeling, revealing the rotting wood beneath—which was black, too. The stone roof was high and steeply sloping, with a long row of unlit windows poking out from beneath the slate.
Before the windows, from the eaves, hung cages. In almost every one there perched a white bird, like a dove—but filthy, covered with brown stains and molting feathers. As Gretel stepped into the clearing, one called out in a voice that sounded more like a crow’s than a dove’s:
Then another repeated it, and another, their raspy voices ringing out together in horrible chorus:
Gretel!
GRETEL!
What are you doing? Turn around! Go home! Go home!
Tell me you would. Say you would.
Oh no, you wouldn’t.
Not with such an object of your fascination and adoration there waiting for you—for you alone.
Haven’t you ever had that enchanting friend—the coolest boy, the older girl—and he or she seemed to like
Imagine that he or she is in that house. Waiting for you. For no one but you.
What would you do?
What
Gretel followed the path of ashes up to the stairs. The heavy ebony door stood slightly ajar. “Hello?” she called. No answer. Slowly, fearfully, she pushed the door back and entered the front hall. All was dark, save a faint glow from a stairway that descended to the cellar. She followed the dim light belowground, carefully placing one small foot after the other on the creaking stairs.
She found herself in a filthy old kitchen. Dirty pots and pans lay in piles on the stone floor. Chairs were overturned. In the middle of the room was a plain oaken table, with a large copper-colored stain. Gretel thought it looked like blood. Off in one corner, a great cauldron boiled, and crouched over it was an old woman with an iron shackle on her leg.
“Hello?” Gretel said uncertainly.
The woman turned. Her face was like worn leather; her teeth were rotting in her gums. She glanced fearfully at the steps that led above. “Who are you?” the old woman hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see my friend,” Gretel answered, her voice atremble.
The woman stared at her. “Through the wood?” she asked. “By yourself?”
Gretel nodded.
“Oh, poor girl,” the old woman muttered as she came nearer. “You are brave to come all this way. But you must flee.”
Gretel’s eyes grew wide, but she did not move. “I want to see him,” Gretel said.
The old woman sighed and touched the girl’s cheek, which was bleeding from the clawing branches. “Oh, my dear, does your friend have long black hair, green eyes that dance with flecks of gold, and lips as red as blood?”
Gretel nodded.
“Then, my dear, you have befriended your death.”
The old woman paused, and then went on. “He is my son, though what kind of son would keep his mother locked up as a prisoner, I do not know. He is evil—an evil magician, a warlock. He invites girls to this house, and he ...”
No little children around, right? Like I asked? Are you sure? Check under the bed. At this point, they’re usually hiding under the bed.
No? Okay, so long as you’re certain....
“He invites girls to this house, and he reaches down their throats and rips their souls from their bodies, and he traps the souls in cages in the form of doves, to let them rot under his eaves. Then he hacks the girls’ bodies to pieces to make our supper.”
The old woman smiled sadly and reached out to touch a lock of Gretel’s golden hair. “Such a brave and pretty girl. But such a fool.”
Suddenly, a crash rang out above. The woman’s eyes went wide, and, without another word, she pushed Gretel behind an enormous stack of dirty pots and scampered back to her cauldron. At that very moment, the handsome young man with the green eyes and smile as red as blood appeared at the foot of the steps.
He had a girl by the hair.
Dear Readers:
I’m sorry for what follows.
He threw the girl on the oaken table, and from a nearby cupboard produced a filthy iron cage. Then he reached his hand into the girl’s mouth until his arm was buried deep in her throat. Slowly, painfully, and with great struggle from the girl, he pulled forth a beautiful white dove. The dove fought the young man as he shoved it in the filthy cage and slammed the door shut.
The girl’s body was still.
Now you might want to close your eyes.
He lifted an ax that hung on the wall, and Gretel, peering through a gap between a filthy pot and a filthier pan, watched her handsome, wonderful, funny friend hack the girl’s body into bits and toss each piece into the boiling cauldron. His blunt butcher’s knife rose and fell, rose and fell. He licked the blood from his hands and sent piece after piece sailing into the pot.
Each piece, that is, save one.
On the girl’s left hand there was a lovely golden ring, inlaid with rubies, red as rubies can be. He tried to remove the ring so that it would not ruin the stew, but it wouldn’t come off. Finally, in a rage, he hacked the finger
