004: Hansel and Gretel [Location: The Gingerbread House]
Once upon a time, there lived a witch who lured children into her gingerbread house in order to gobble them up and drink them down ...
But that wasn’t right. Drusilla knew lots of witches - red witches and white witches, sharp witches and soft witches, brave witches and stammering witches - but they weren’t wicked enough for that. They were interested in hunting demons, not embracing the darkness that pulled at their heels. Such a waste.
Once upon a time, she had enjoyed luring children into the shadows. Before the chip had stopped her, she’d pulled the close using her soft voice and her gentle hands. Gentle, that is, until it was too late for them to run away. Their parents had always cried, which had made her smile. You had to mourn for them, instead of pushing them out into the woods, because it spoiled the game if you didn’t. (Her Mummy had cried for her, before Daddy had closed one mouth and opened another in her throat.)
When Drusilla opened her eyes, she knew that something was wrong. There was no sign of Daddy and her silken bed sheets had been replaced by a heavy sleeping bag. It wrapped her up, held her tight, left her feeling like a caterpillar in a cocoon. When she split the material down the middle, stepping into the room like a butterfly, she wondered how the witch had found her. Flapping wings that weren’t really there, and dressed in a white nightgown that gave her an air of inappropriate innocence, the vampire surveyed her surroundings.
Walls made of gingerbread. Candy cane eaves. Everything was sugar and sweetness. A sticky, cloying sweetness that tightened around Drusilla’s chest like a vice.
Her eyes were drawn, involuntarily, to the heavy iron stove. That was how the story had ended, hadn’t it? The witch had been pushed into her own oven, burned alive and deprived of the meal she’d worked so hard to fatten up. Poor thing.
“I wonder if her bones are still inside,” she murmured, addressing her companions. They all looked a little skinny, but that hardly mattered to Drusilla. She couldn’t kill them even if she could fatten them up, and she wouldn’t want them to be cooked. That was bound to spoil the taste.
But that wasn’t right. Drusilla knew lots of witches - red witches and white witches, sharp witches and soft witches, brave witches and stammering witches - but they weren’t wicked enough for that. They were interested in hunting demons, not embracing the darkness that pulled at their heels. Such a waste.
Once upon a time, she had enjoyed luring children into the shadows. Before the chip had stopped her, she’d pulled the close using her soft voice and her gentle hands. Gentle, that is, until it was too late for them to run away. Their parents had always cried, which had made her smile. You had to mourn for them, instead of pushing them out into the woods, because it spoiled the game if you didn’t. (Her Mummy had cried for her, before Daddy had closed one mouth and opened another in her throat.)
When Drusilla opened her eyes, she knew that something was wrong. There was no sign of Daddy and her silken bed sheets had been replaced by a heavy sleeping bag. It wrapped her up, held her tight, left her feeling like a caterpillar in a cocoon. When she split the material down the middle, stepping into the room like a butterfly, she wondered how the witch had found her. Flapping wings that weren’t really there, and dressed in a white nightgown that gave her an air of inappropriate innocence, the vampire surveyed her surroundings.
Walls made of gingerbread. Candy cane eaves. Everything was sugar and sweetness. A sticky, cloying sweetness that tightened around Drusilla’s chest like a vice.
Her eyes were drawn, involuntarily, to the heavy iron stove. That was how the story had ended, hadn’t it? The witch had been pushed into her own oven, burned alive and deprived of the meal she’d worked so hard to fatten up. Poor thing.
“I wonder if her bones are still inside,” she murmured, addressing her companions. They all looked a little skinny, but that hardly mattered to Drusilla. She couldn’t kill them even if she could fatten them up, and she wouldn’t want them to be cooked. That was bound to spoil the taste.