Beanstalker and Other Hilarious Scarytales

by Kiersten White

  The man sounded annoyed. “I don’t know why they’re doing it this way, lady! I only started working for the castle today. I’m actually a pigpen cleaner.”

  “Yes, I had guessed. How is your wife search going?”

  “Not many girls with no sense of smell these days. Everyone has noses.”

  The stepmother clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Keep looking. You’ll find someone.”

  “Thanks. Hey, I don’t suppose you smell very good …”

  “You mean to ask if I smell well, which I do. And I smell good, thank you very much!” She slammed the door. “Honestly, the rudeness of poor grammar. Girls!” she called out. “Come here.”

  Cinderella was there in a heartbeat, her own heart fluttering like a candle flame. Her stepsisters took longer. She thought she would die of suspense before they got there.

  “What is it?” the big-headed-small-faced one asked.

  “Yes, what?” the other one asked. She had a small head and a big face. If only they could trade!

  “It appears we have to go to a ball. The prince needs a wife.”

  “The prince?” Big-head-small-face shrieked.

  “A ball?” Small-head-big-face demanded.

  They looked expectantly at Cinderella. Small-head-big-face elbowed her. “A wife?” Cinderella asked, because it was the only noun left that hadn’t been turned into a question.

  “I hear they call him Prince Charming!” Big-head-small-face said.

  “I hear no one ever sees him because he’s so handsome it makes women faint!” Small-head-big-face said.

  “I hear wind chimes!” Cinderella said, because she did. And because she never left the house, so she never heard rumors.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” the stepmother said, frowning. “Something about this smells bad.” She lifted the invitation, then grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s left over from the pigpen cleaner who dropped it off. Well, the ball’s tomorrow. So you have until then to find something to wear.”

  The stepsisters shrieked in joy, scrambling away. Cinderella turned to join them.

  “Not so fast,” the stepmother said. “You still have to finish all your work.”

  “But—”

  “No exceptions. Back to work.”

  Cinderella’s tears mingled with the salt, dissolving it and messing up her sorting. But she knew she would go to the ball. She had to. And she knew that she would win the heart of the prince. He would see her spark, and he would rescue her from this cold life of ashes. After all, she was the only character in this story with a name. Surely that made her more important than anyone else?

  The next night, the stepsisters swept down the stairs. The stepmother looked on with silent approval. She nodded tightly. “That will do. Though why anyone would want to marry a prince, I don’t know. And kings are even worse.” She sighed, stroking her ring finger. On it she wore seven wedding rings. It was heavy, and they were stacked so high she couldn’t bend that finger anymore. Marriage was not easy.

  Cinderella had worked all day and all night. She had cleaned the cleaning supplies—scrubbing the scrubbers, polishing the polishers, and wiping the wipers, until even the memory of dirt was gone.

  But she had been busy, too. Her clothes were ragged, every hem singed. Most of her skirts had small holes burned in them. But she had managed to take everything apart and make it into something new.

  This is the scene where the girl shows up triumphant, having created beauty out of all the ugliness. But … Cinderella isn’t that girl. Because instead of getting rid of the singed and burned parts, she had saved those. Her dress was a patchwork of charred fabric. She even smelled like cinders and ashes. She had used the remains of the coal in the fireplace to line her eyes and rouge her cheeks. Her hair was piled on top of her head in swirls like smoke.

  Her one concession to normal beauty was a pair of teardrop crystal earrings. The prisms winked when they caught the light. They were her last gift from her father, the only thing she had managed to hide from her stepmother all these years. She loved the way they twinkled. The way they concentrated light to a single bright, hot point. The things she knew she could do with that bright, hot point of light …

  “Where did you get those?” Her stepmother stomped up the steps.

  Cinderella put her hands over her ears. “They’re mine!”

  “I should have known better. You can’t be allowed out. This is for your own good. Girls, grab her arms.”

  Cinderella cried and struggled, but it was no use. Big-head-small-face and Small-head-big-face held her while her cruel, wicked stepmother stole the earrings. Then they pushed her into the kitchen and locked the door behind her. She pounded and cried, but it was too late. They were going to the ball without her. And her last treasure was gone.

  She crawled out through the cat door. Her stepmother didn’t know she was little enough to fit through it, but the cat that used to live there had been very, very large. Out in the garden it was dark and cold. Sobbing and sniffling, she found two rocks and started hitting them against each other. But her heart wasn’t in it.

  Her spark had finally been smothered.

  This is too sad. Poor Cinderella! If only there were a fairy godmother to conveniently show up and fix things. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

  Oh well.

  Ha ha, just kidding! Of course there’s a fairy godmother. Cinderella was so busy crying that it took her a minute to notice a light glowing around her.

  She looked up, surprised. “Fire?” she asked excitedly. But it wasn’t a fire—it was a fairy!

  Everyone knows there are three things fairies cannot resist:

  Chubby babies with toes like little perfect bubbles. Sometimes the babies get wonderful gifts. Sometimes they get curses, though. That’s why mothers always put socks on babies—best to play it safe.

  Teeth. (What do fairies do with the teeth? That is a story for another day. A much creepier, blood-tinged day, in a dark cave lined with the teeth of generations of children, where a fairy lurks in the corner, muttering to herself as she pets your precious molars and plots how to get all the rest of them.) (Ha ha, whoops, just kidding, there’s nothing creepy about a fairy sneaking into your room in the middle of the night and taking teeth! Nothing creepy at all. Nope. Carry on!)

  Beautiful girls crying because they have been cruelly wronged.

  Cinderella fit in the last category, fortunately. I’m glad I don’t have to write about the tooth fairy. She’s almost as creepy as Snow White.

  “Dear child,” the fairy godmother said, kneeling down. “What’s wrong?”

  Cinderella, who never left the house and therefore didn’t know you should never talk to strangers—especially glowing strangers who appear magically in your backyard—threw herself forward, hugging the fairy. “Oh, it’s too awful! I was supposed to go to the ball, but they wouldn’t let me!”

  “Well, now,” said the fairy godmother. She patted Cinderella’s sleeve, then coughed at the puff of ash that drifted up. “I—” She coughed again, then cleared her throat. “I can fix that. Now, what to do about your dress?”

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Cinderella said, standing and twirling.

  “Well, it’s … something. But wouldn’t you like a new one?”

  “Oh, no. It’s perfect.”

  The fairy godmother frowned. “I could fix it up a bit. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Smoke gray and flame orange!”

  That was not what the fairy godmother usually got requests for. It was usually spun-sugar pink, or summer-sky blue, and she was especially good at dresses the color of dreams about unicorns. (The king would have loved that one, alas!) But she was up for the challenge. She lifted her hands and concentrated. Around Cinderella rose a skirt in brilliant yellows and oranges. The top of the dress was a shimmery gray, the fabric so light it moved like smoke.

  The fairy godmother nodded. “I guess that will do. And your hair?”

  Cinderella touched her
hair, beaming. “Can we make it look like it’s on fire?”

  “O-okay?” Frowning, the fairy godmother filled the swirls of Cinderella’s hair with deep red sparkles. (In later years, when her services were out of fashion, the fairy godmother would be employed in a glitter factory. She excelled at glitter.)

  “And what about shoes? I can make you some nice, sensible—”

  “Glass!” Cinderella shouted, a crazed gleam lighting her eyes.

  “Glass?”

  “Glass! Like a magnifying glass. The type you can use to light things on—” Cinderella took a deep breath, then smiled sweetly. “I mean, wouldn’t glass shoes be pretty?”

  This girl was certainly not what the fairy godmother had expected. She’d tell this story for years to come when getting lunch with her other fairy friends. (Not the tooth fairy—even the fairy godmother was creeped out by her.) Concentrating, she pointed her wand. Two glass slippers appeared on Cinderella’s feet.

  “They’re perfect!” Cinderella said, spinning and laughing. “Oh, it’s all perfect. How can I ever thank you?”

  “By going to the ball and having the best night of your life! But you need to remember, at the strike of midnight, everything will—” The fairy godmother stopped. Cinderella was already sprinting down the road away from her. How the girl managed to run so fast in such impractical footwear, the fairy godmother had no idea. She herself could barely stand heels, and she flew everywhere!

  “Oh well,” she said. Shrugging, she poofed away. She had other stories to be in, but none of them are ours. Good-bye, Fairy Godmother! Please don’t tell the tooth fairy we say hello.

  Meanwhile, at the ball, the king and queen surveyed the scene in front of them miserably. The ballroom was filled to bursting with girls. The youngest was maybe twelve, or a very short fourteen. The oldest was as old as your grandma. (Wait—is that your grandma? I can’t blame her. It’s a shot at marrying a prince! Good for her.)

  “I didn’t realize rugs were in style,” Small-head-big-face said, eyeing her own beautiful gown sadly. The queen was draped in several rugs, and the king wore dirty towels. “Or was this a costume ball and no one told us?” Everyone else had noticed, too. A few of the more fashion-forward girls had stolen rugs from other parts of the castle and thrown them over their glamorous dresses.

  “Maybe they just don’t know how to dress themselves.” The stepmother looked around, distracted. There were no servants at all. Had something happened here?

  The walls were lined with buckets of water. Everyone remarked on what a clever idea it was—like fountains inside! Only less fountainy and more … buckety. But since it was in a castle, they assumed it was the height of sophistication.

  “It’s time to release the prince,” the king announced. Everyone turned and looked at him, blinking in confusion. He grimaced and tried to smile. “I mean, it’s time to introduce the prince.”

  The queen’s hands trembled as she pulled out a set of keys. Everyone watched, humming with anticipation as the queen unlocked the door. And unlocked it. And unlocked it. My, that is a lot of locks for one door!

  “He must be so handsome they’re afraid of kidnappers!” Small-head-big-face whispered.

  “He must be so charming, they know we’d storm the castle if we could get to him,” Big-head-small-face answered.

  The stepmother, who knew a thing or two about why doors are locked, narrowed her eyes. Perhaps she should have accepted the king’s request for her stepmother-hood, after all.

  (Oh, Stepmother. If only you knew.)

  Finally, after sliding one last dead bolt free, the door was ready to open. The king stood nearby with a bucket of water in his hands. Everyone held their breath as the queen opened the door to reveal …

  SPLASH! The king threw the bucket of water, thoroughly soaking the young man before he could even walk into the ballroom. The prince’s shoulders sagged and he dropped something that had been in his hand. Shaking water from his hair, the prince entered to a smattering of polite applause.

  He was neither so handsome you would want to kidnap him, nor so charming you would storm a castle just to be in his presence. He looked like a guy. A wet guy. But he had a nice smile, and cute dimples, and his hair was curling now that it was wet. His eyebrows were even starting to grow back in.

  Half the girls in the ballroom nodded. Good enough for them, if he came with a castle! A few slipped out, having expected more. (Oh, darn, your grandma left. I guess she’s picky when it comes to princes. Better luck next time!)

  Small-head-big-face and Big-head-small-face (this is confusing, I really should have asked the stepmother what their names are) were more than happy to give him a chance. They both stepped forward, smiling, but he looked right past them. No one seemed to be able to catch his eye as he strode through the ballroom, right for the fireplace. It had been bricked completely shut.

  He looked disappointed. But then, from across the ballroom, he saw her.

  She was on fire, and so was his heart.

  It took him a moment to realize the girl was not actually on fire; she was simply wearing a very odd dress. A mesmerizingly beautiful dress. As he watched, she slipped out a side door. She was carrying a large stack of books. (Oh, Cinderella! She came to a ball and only wanted books!)

  “Wait!” he called. He pushed through the crowds, stepping on feet and dodging attempts to talk to him.

  “Prince Charming!” “Prince Charming!” “Prince—ow, you stepped on my foot!” The girls at the ball were surrounding him and he couldn’t get through fast enough. Finally, with one last elbow to one last pretty nose, the crowd parted and he was out the door. He looked left and right. There was no sign of her.

  But in front of him, deep in the gardens, a golden glow grew.

  He ran toward it. Bushes caught on his sleeves. Branches scratched him, but he didn’t care. Finally he found the source of the glow.

  The girl was crouched in front of a pile of books, their pages torn free. She blew tenderly, cupping her hands around the tiny flame to protect it from the wind. (Wait a second—she’s BURNING the books? What a horrible girl! I hate her! Quick, make sure she isn’t burning this one, because we still have a lot of ground to cover before the end.)

  “Hello,” the prince said.

  Cinderella squeaked in fear. Then she jumped up and stood in front of the fire to try to hide it.

  “Prince Charming!” she said.

  “Actually.” He smiled and scooted her to the side. Then he pulled out a small bottle hidden in his pocket and poured it on the flames. They leaped higher, crackling intensely. He leaned so close that his eyebrows once again burned off. “It’s Prince Charring. And you are?”

  “Cinderella.” She turned and watched the flames as they greedily jumped to a nearby bush. She sighed in contentment.

  “You don’t like snakes, do you?” he asked, suddenly sounding nervous.

  “They don’t burn very easily, so no.”

  He slipped his hand into hers. “You smell like ashes,” he said, leaning over and breathing deeply.

  She rested her head on his shoulder. “You smell like gasoline.”

  It was very romantic. If you are obsessed with fires. Which I hope you are not, because that is a terrible hobby.

  As the clock struck midnight, a familiar scene unfurled. Cinderella ran down the steps of the palace, losing a single glass slipper. The prince was close behind.

  And the king and queen were close behind him.

  And everyone else was close behind them, screaming. The now-empty castle erupted in flames.

  Hmm. This is not quite how I imagined it. I don’t think it’s what the fairy godmother had in mind, either. Maybe the stepmother had a good reason for keeping Cinderella very, very busy at home and always locking her up?

  Prince Charring caught up to Cinderella. They stood with the crowd, watching as his tower was engulfed in fire. (I’m so glad your grandmother got out of there safely!)

  “At least we don
’t need servants to staff the castle now,” the queen said.

  “And we found him a wife,” the king said. The queen shrugged. At this point everyone could have broken into song and she wouldn’t even have had the energy to banish them.

  The stepmother searched desperately through the crowds, but it was too late. There was no way she could force Cinderella to go back home now. The stepmother had failed, yet again. She shook her head. Then she made sure Big-head-small-face and Small-head-big-face were merely singed and not actively on fire. After several years with Ella, they were used to it.

  Prince Charring and Cinderella looked lovely, backlit by the raging fire. They had never been so happy as they leaned in for a kiss. Theirs was a love that would burn forever.

  Do you remember that time you were wandering around the woods by yourself and you saw a house, so you were like, “Hey! I should go in and eat their food, sit in their chairs, maybe break some stuff, and then go to sleep in their beds”?

  Oh, you don’t remember that time?

  GOOD. Because none of that is acceptable behavior, which you are obviously smart enough to know. What kind of kid would do something like that? One without parents or responsible guardians. Unfortunately, Rapunzel and Snow White and Cinderella and Jack’s stepmother couldn’t be everywhere, much as she tried. Some things slipped through the cracks while she was (literally) putting out fires. One such thing the stepmother had missed is the subject of our next story. Her name is Goldilocks, and she has not learned any of the lessons about proper behavior that you have. I suspect it will get her into trouble. Let’s go watch!