by Alana Greig
I stopped for a moment outside a townhouse, its Edwardian facade imposing in its grandeur. This is the sort of place my child deserved to live. She should be treated as a princess. As tiny as she is, I knew she would have hair the colour of gold thread and eyes as blue as the sky. Blue like her father’s.
I heard the front door open and went to move on, but whoever it was called to me. It was a woman. I looked over at her; she was the housekeeper maybe. It was hard to tell; the path to the door was long, and the light that shone behind her hid her from view. She walked down the path and begged me to come inside. She had heard the baby crying, and Mr. Lewis, the owner of the house, was away on business and would not mind. He loved children. With no other choice really, I let the woman usher me and my daughter into the house.
I had killed along the road searching for Carrie, so many faceless people. I carried pieces of them with me, panels of skin that I had stitched together and wore under my shirt, with a bucket of aftershave to mask the stench.
Now I was close; I could feel it. The bloody dog had had us thrown off the bus for pissing, so I had been walking for a good few miles. The dog was long gone. I shouted at him and he ran off. I’d have done the same had I watched my master kill and skin his own kind without blinking.
It wouldn’t be long until I sniffed her out. All the money she had taken, it was all marked. The police had been informed not an hour past. The second she spent some, it was all over.
I fantasied about skinning her. Alive. How long would it be before her nerves were overloaded and she had a heart attack? I hope it is a while. She ripped out my heart taking my baby. This was her karma. Was I a monster now? Probably. I don’t really care. I have a goal and my code. I want my daughter, and I will have my due.
Pheobe was so good to us. She was great with Rose; that’s the name I had finally given my daughter. She was thriving, and for a moment I dared to dream that we would never be found by Robert. It had been four days; he should have passed through here by now, I hope. But the ball of fear in my stomach would not shift. I shouldn’t have burnt him. He was a handsome man, and I had taken even that from him. I couldn’t tell him the truth though; he would have wanted to help me, and that would have got him killed. This was for the best.
I had to head out today. Cabin fever was taking root, and Rose needed some nappy cream. Phoebe said she would go, but I asked if she would watch the baby instead. I had not been anywhere without my child since her birth, and to walk without her in my arms for half an hour would be a tiny moment to be just Carrie.
I knew she would come out of her hole sooner or later. I had been staying, as it happened, in the hotel opposite the house she was staying in. Bitch had landed on her feet, judging by the fancy pile she just walked out of. At least my daughter was safe. My heart stopped, where was she? Carrie had no child with her. The rage was building. If that bitch had hurt or given up my child, skinning her would be the very least of her worries.
How lucky I had been to be standing at the window that morning with my coffee. I would have missed her had I been a few moments longer in the bath. Fate was clearly on my side. I watched as she headed toward the centre of town; it was only two streets away. I dashed about, getting dressed and checked my pocket for my blade. It was time to go hunting.
It was easy to find her. Her masses of golden hair shone like a beacon. I followed her around a few shops. She stopped in the pharmacy and bought nappies and cream. Thank God, my child was alive, and I knew exactly where to find her. Once I was done with Carrie, I was going to get my child. I let her enjoy the last moments of freedom before I drew up beside her outside the baker’s.
“If you scream, I will gut you here and now,” I said to her with my blade pressing against the exposed skin on her hip. It amazed me how quickly she had got her figure back. Then again, running from the man you just partly melted is bound to burn come calories.
“Robert.” He found me. I should have listened to my gut and kept running. At least I don’t have Rose with me.
“Yes, it’s your jilted lover. My face is still fucking sore, thanks for asking.”
I gripped her arm and began leading her down the high street. I had already found a place I could use. It was quiet and no longer used. Best of all it was underground.
She screamed for an age, and the blood went everywhere. I loved every second of it. I am proud of myself and my new personal record; I managed to flay half of her before she died. It wasn’t so much fun then, so I was less precise. I had planned ahead and bought a large bag. Plus, a huge zip lock bag and some preserving fluid. I intended to tan her hide and use it as a door mat. It’s all she is good for.
The woman at the house, well, she got in my way. All I wanted was my daughter. My little Grace. That is the name I had given her on my journey to find her. The owner was going to come home to a right mess. Not my problem. I had what I came for, and Carrie had finally paid her due.
I can hear the parents telling their kids the story of “Bad Robbie,” the man who steals the skin from naughty children; that’s not true. I’d never hurt a child or anyone else that is innocent. But if you take from me, steal from me, or cheat me. I will have my due
GINGERBREAD AND THE W.S.G
BASED ON HANSEL AND GRETEL BY THE BOTHERS GRIMM
Fran was at her bi-weekly support group. It had been fourteen years since she was held for ransom. Fourteen years and she still had nightmares. Tonight, Fran was going to do something she had never done before at this group. She would tell her tale. She arrived at the meeting hall a little before the start time. Taking a deep breath, she checked her bag for her journal and stowed her broom in the allocated spot. The sky was clear tonight and the moon bright. Fran was able to read the notice board that gets put out every two weeks. Her eyes followed the curves of the letters.
W.S.G
MEETING STARTS AT 8PM SHARP. BROOMS TO BE LEFT OUTSIDE. FAMILIARS ARE WELCOME. (BRING POOP- SCOOP AND BAGS PLEASE).
The last part always made her laugh. They could just magic away the poop. Still, she figured it was in case humans saw the sign. They never made it inside though. The door was charmed so that any human who tried to enter the meeting found themselves back on the street with no memory of how they got there.
Looking up, Fran noticed several group members arriving and decided to head in. She wanted a seat near the door tonight. The idea of a quick exit was very appealing. The stuffy room that always smelled of moth‐ balls greeted her. Morag, the group leader, was just putting out the wine and oatcakes. It used to be ginger‐ bread, but the panic it caused to several of the members, including Fran, was too much.
The room was beginning to fill, so Fran quickly took the seat nearest the door as planned. She would have loved some wine to settle her, but it was too late now. There was a no casting rule while in group so that was that. Morag waited for the group to be seated and smiled out at them.
“Blessed be, Sisters,” she sang. Fran wanted to throat punch her. Her happiness pissed her off. Of all the witches present, Morag had never lived through a bad human experience.
“Blessed be,” came the muttered replies. Unper‐ turbed by the frosty reception, Morag ploughed on as only she could. Short and rotund with hair that refused to sit flat, she looked more like a fat fairy than a witch.
“Tonight, Fran will be bravely sharing her experience with us. Now, please remember the rules.” As if a switch had been flipped, the whole group started to recite the rules of the circle:
“Be kind.” “Be honest.”
“Be non-judgmental.” “Do no harm.”
What a load of balls; Fran couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. She glanced around; no one seemed to have noticed. Phew. Morag gestured for Fran to enter the centre of the circle and begin in her own time. This is it. Woman up, Francesca, they can’t hurt you anymore.
“Greetings, sisters. Ermm, tonight . . . I . . .”
Fran froze; she couldn’t do this. The memories were still s
harp, and the nightmares, oh the nightmares, would she ever be rid of them? Not if you don’t stop being a baby you won’t.
“You know what? I am just going to read from this,” she said, holding up her battered journal. Opening it at the first page, Fran began to read:
Mabon
I was getting ready for the festival. I had chosen this year to have a private ritual rather than join the coven. I had not long recovered from the flu and did not wish to pass any lingering sickness to my sisters. I had made some wine earlier in the day and planned to make an offering to the Goddess that evening. First, I must plant the seeds for next spring. Mabon is my most favourite time of the year. I love welcoming back the dark for the winter and the restoration of mother earth before her rebirth in the spring.
The day had been like any other, and I was content. That is, until they came. I had felt their presence in the surrounding woodland before; humans never wandered too close to my home. I meant them no harm, far from it, but I do grow some deadly plants for rituals and so had put up wards to stop anyone coming in and hurting them‐ selves. They all knew who I was—what I was. But we rubbed along together just fine.
I thought nothing of the children being there that late afternoon. After all, the conkers had begun falling, and they all swarmed the forest like bees, looking for the biggest to take home and soak in vinegar. Nothing works better to make them as tough as stone, unless you know a witch, of course. For the children who lived nearby, I always spelled a couple of buckets. It meant all the children had a chance at owning a strong conker for their games. Silly I know, but I do believe in fairness.
Well, these two particular children were different. Out they came from the woods, a boy and a girl who were the spitting image of one another. I couldn’t place them: They must be new to the settlement. I smiled at them and waved and wished them a good evening, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t enter my domain. That’s when the boy produced the white oak blade. He made cuts in the fence posts, and the wards I had put up began to fade.
Fran looked up from her book. Her audience was stock still, waiting to hear what happened next. She glanced at Morag and received an encouraging nod.
Taking a breath, she looked back at the words and lost herself within them.
I had no time to cast a new ward; the children were already within the boundary of my home. I did all I could do. I made a dash for my front door. As every good witch knows, you make the outside space a magical null so you cannot be attacked by another witch or magical being. This always seemed safe to me, but it stopped me from removing the two children from my front garden.
They ran after me. I could hear the soft thuds of their leather shoes as they chased me to my door. What did they want with me? I never asked. I just ran. I thought I had made it as I turned and closed the heavy wooden door, sliding the bolts into place. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. I needed to relax. I needed to cast new wards. Thankfully, that did not take long.
I found the wine I’d made on the last Mabon and, toasting the Goddess, I had a very long drink. It was as I was pouring a second glass that I saw the children, but not through the window as I expected. I had hoped not to see them at all. But I did, in the refection of my cooking pots that hung on hooks from the rafters.
“By the Goddess!”
The children had found a way in, and now I was close enough to see the whites of their eyes and their milk teeth. I knew these were not ordinary children. They smiled eerily sweet smiles as they approached me. I tried to cast a repelling charm, but nothing happened; these children were nulls!
A collective gasp went up from the group. Fran shuddered; nulls were feared by all magical beings. They stopped any magic from being cast or manifested. A null rendered a witch powerless, no matter how strong or old she was. Swallowing and licking her lips, Fran turned back to the task in hand.
I asked them what they wanted. They just kept coming in slow measured steps. There was nothing for me to do. They had me trapped, and they knew it. Nulls or not I would not harm a child. “DO NO HARM” was all I could hear repeating in my head. The next thing I knew, I was tied to a chair and left in the centre of the room. Still they would not speak to me. The boy kept coming over and cutting me with the white oak blade. The pain was unreal, and I begged him to stop. He just laughed and carried on, cutting my arms, my hands, and my cheeks. I prayed he would not cut my forehead. Damage to my third eye would be permanent.
“Henry, leave the witch. Come and help me. I want to bake something,” I heard the girl child say. So, I knew his name now. Not that it helped me, but a connection may help me wear them down and get them to see me as a real person and not just a plaything.
“Shush, Greta! We said we were not going to speak!” Clearly Greta was younger and less worried about being caught. That worried me, too. What did they have planned for me?
“What are you going to make then?” her brother asked, as it was clear for all to see that they were siblings.
“Gingerbread!” she exclaimed, while waving her arms like windmills and knocking my fruit bowl to the floor.
I saw the pieces of Grandmother’s clay bowl skitter across the flagstones. The children set to work stoking my fire and making a fine mess of my kitchen in their quest to make gingerbread. The smell to this day haunts me. I asked for water and had a jug of it poured over my head. I begged for the outhouse to relive myself. They just laughed, and I messed myself after hours of waiting.
The whole house stank of gingerbread. The child had over-sweetened it, and the cloying scent permeated the air and caused me to gag.
“Look, Henry, the hag is hungry, let’s feed her some.”
I shook my head and clamped my lips shut. It was fresh from the oven. The boy came and pinched my nose closed as the girl advanced on me with scalding hot ginger‐ bread on the end of the toasting fork.
“Open up, hag, I need to know if it is good,”
The malice in her eyes spoke of a wrongness that went all the way to her core, and I was not fooled. I wanted to scream at them, but opening my mouth would be foolish. The air of my last breath was all but used up. I had to breathe.
The sticky bread burned my mouth. Tears leaked from my eyes, and the children danced around me. Henry cut me with his white oak, and Greta forced more bread into me. It went on for days. They never seemed to tire, and the torture just got worse. They made a syrup with sugar and rose petals from my garden and painted the walls with it and then me. The burns are still visible in some places.
“What stopped them?”
The voice pulled Fran from her memories, and she once again found herself in the hall with the members of the Witches’ Support Group.
“Pardon me?”
She caught the eye of Tessa. Tessa had shared the week before. She had been blamed for the coma of the princess of her kingdom. All untrue of course: The girl had eaten a deadly nightshade, and instead of killing her it had put her to sleep. She would wake one day.
“What stopped the children?” Tessa asked, again, giving Fran an encouraging smile. Fran smiled weakly back.
“Their parents. They were travellers and the children had run off. Their father was furious. He said he knew what they were, and that was why they never stayed in one place for long,”
“But the story we know is that a witch stole the children away,” Julie piped up. There was a smirk on her face. Fran hated her.
“True, but witches can’t lie, and you all heard my tale. Did it not have the ring of truth?”
They all nodded.
“Humans make up stories to protect their young and to warn those who wish to cause trouble. Those children were the bane of my life for three weeks.”
Her voice cracked, and a single tear slid down her flushed cheek.
“Where are they now?” Morag asked while she passed Fran a frilly hankie.
“I don’t know. This was years ago. As you know, they will be grown now. I know I never wish to see them again.”<
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Outside, under the glittering moon. A young man and woman read the sign:
W.S.G
MEETING STARTS AT 8PM SHARP. BROOMS TO BE LEFT OUTSIDE. FAMILIARS ARE WELCOME. (BRING POOP-SCOOP AND BAGS PLEASE).
“Looks like this is the place for us, dear brother.”
“Yes, Greta, I believe it is.”
KILLER HEELS
BASED ON CINDERELLA
To really understand my story, we will have to go back to the beginning. When my life as I knew it hit the fan. My mother died when I was a young girl, and my father seemed so incapable of living without a woman to warm his slippers and cook his meals, that he married the first one he came across, scarcely a year after losing Mother. My new “step-mum” was called Kira Dutton; she had two daughters, one slightly older than I was and one a year younger than me. I was suddenly the dreaded middle child. Their names were Precious and Divine.
I know the names are laughable, but it was the thing at the time to curse your kids with truly stupid names when they were small, never considering the effect it was going to have on them as grownups. I am lucky my mother named me Ella.
So, the “step-monster” and the gruesome sisters moved into our country pile; I was less than thrilled about this. They were all noisy and rude to the housekeeper. The sisters stole my things, and I would either never see them again or find them weeks later, hidden away in a cupboard and broken.
Dad would just chuckle and tell me that this is what it meant to have siblings. I knew that he just didn’t want to end up sleeping in the guest room like the last time he dared to say a word against his stepdaughters. Kira was a hard woman, and Dad was completely spineless when it came to her. I hated it.
