Grim

Once upon a time, a peasant girl named Phoebe plucks the last feathers from an unfortunate hen and sets it down in her aunt’s favorite brass pot to be cooked in the broth later. She tugged on her soft, leather boots and trudged off into the snowy eve in the heart of a Flaike December. The town of Flaike was amongst the mountains of Middlefrost and stayed mostly true to its name during the winter. Then, there was a nasty tundra of slush in summers and springs. It was worth it, though, for Phoebe because she visited more coastal towns like Westernfrost when she knew the off-seasons were around the bend. She had family there—third cousins twice removed. Or was it second cousins three times removed? She wasn’t sure, but then again, it seemed it didn’t matter much.

The town square was shrouded in the shadow of the Nevermore forest, which was obviously forbidden. The ‘obviously’ part was only really ‘obvious’ because her mother told her so. And Phoebe always listened to her mother. Also, the name Nevermore implies a dark, desolate forest from which no man (or little girl named Phoebe) could return.

This was always anticipated by the people of Flaike, so designated lamplighters were stationed at one of thirteen streetlamp encompassing the circular square.

Phoebe wondered why it was called a square if it was very much not a square. That seemed to just be a source of confusion when she told her friends, “Meet me later at the circular square for cocoa.” And speaking of which…

Her boots crunched, sinking through the thick layer of firm snow and onto the buried cobblestone. The ambrosial scent of rich, roasting chestnuts and decadent hot chocolate led Phoebe quicker along the trail of breadcrumbs, faster than that which led a certain pair of misfortunate twins into the oven of a witch.

Now, if that’s not obvious foreshadowing, thought Phoebe. I don’t know what it is.

Nevertheless, everyone knows that hot cocoa waits for no one, so Phoebe shrugged off a grim feeling of doom and skipped off toward the smells.

When she came upon the stand where the mouthwatering goodness wafted from, she stopped abruptly about the length of a wizard’s staff from the crotchety old man who emerged from a caravan parked behind it. “Hello, little girl,” he said gravely, waving a bony finger in her face. “I’ve been expecting you.

This is definitely foreshadowing; Phoebe nodded confidently, white hair bobbing with her chin. But a girl’s gotta eat.

Aloud, she said to the man, “Well, that’s good because I think I see some cocoa over there in that thermos.”

The old man smiled gleefully, revealing a row of miscellaneous teeth of animals like rabbits and wolves stuck into his gums. And as disgusting as that was, he was wearing long, silk gloves over his hands, so Phoebe wasn’t worried about sanitation issues. “Good eyes, good eyes, good eyes, little girl! What big eyes you have, indeed!”

If Phoebe were a little older and perhaps a little brighter, she would have counted that as three red flags: the teeth, the villainous repetition of phrases, and the quoting of a certain story involving the identity theft of the grandmother of a girl in a red hood. But Phoebe didn’t like to read; she did not have time for such things, and besides, she thought bedtime stories were make-believe.

“Come in, come in, come in, little girl!” beckoned the old man with the haggard appearance and unhygienic teeth and not-at-all-suspicious verbiage. “I have chestnuts and children—I mean pheasants, roasting on the fire.”

Phoebe weighed her options. She could turn around now—she was a wizard’s staff length away—and go back home to where her mother would surely be cooking the hen she plucked, or she could go into the very inconspicuous and scrupulous old man’s caravan where he had pheasants not children roasting over a fire.

Her mother did say, ‘Be back by dark,’ and the sun was only just sinking down below Nevermore forest, and one always listens to their mother.

Well, thought Phoebe, resolved. I don’t want to be early, now, do I?

So she followed the old man, who was surprisingly brisk for an old man, into the back of his caravan. She vaguely noticed how he was closing the drapes over the side to block out any light but that of the roaring fire but was too distracted by the tower of sweets in the middle of the table made completely from teeth, which were definitely also animal teeth. Definitely.

“So tell me, tell me, tell me, little girl—how did you happen upon my operation?” the old man sat himself down in a large, squishy armchair that wasn’t made of teeth—animal or otherwise. He poked the roasting slab of meat with a small, silver tool that looked a little bit like the kind of sharp pick dentists used. But that couldn’t possibly be it because what would a man with such poor dental hygiene be doing with a tool? Phoebe consoled herself.

“Uh…” with a mouth full of sticky, sickly caramels, Phoebe found it very difficult to respond. “Mph, hmph, mph…” she managed, which probably meant ‘these caramels are very sticky and sickly. It is very hard to respond to you.’

“Indeed, indeed, indeed,” said the old man. Then, leaping from his chair like a certain nimble high jumper with an appreciation for wax hurdles, the old man cried out. “Oh, my, little girl! What dirty teeth you have!”

“Mph, hmph, mph,” Phoebe replied indignantly, which probably meant something like: ‘Well, I think that’s from these caramels, which we have already established as sticky and sickly. Hey, what are you doing with that sharp object? Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to—

Then, Phoebe remembered something that would have been very helpful a few classic fairytale references ago. She remembered another thing her mother had told her, something that could possibly have been even more important than the Nevermore rule.

It went something like this: never go into the caravan of an old man who wears other people’s teeth and has repetitive verbiage and invites you for pheasants or children or chestnuts.

In Flaike, there were some very particular aphorisms.

Just as the old man shed his cloak and gloves and glamor to reveal the fact that the old man was actually an old witch, Phoebe pieced everything together and was tucking and rolling like a certain boy who broke his crown should have done.

Oh, dear, thought Phoebe. I sure wish I had a fairy godmother now!

“My, my, my, what dirty teeth you have, my dear!” Cackled the witch, brandishing her silver pick at Phoebe, definitely closer to her than the length of a wizard’s staff.

Phoebe banged on the door, which was not a silk drape now but a door, probably due to witchcraft—or expert dentistry—wholly distraught now because all she really wanted was some cocoa before her dinner.

Unfortunately, the door was shut tight, and Phoebe could not get out. She pounded on the door, screams melted by the caramelized sugar sticking her teeth together like cement. She felt cold, clammy hands closing on her shoulders, and she dared to turn her head.

“My, my, my…” crooned the witch, uncut nails digging into her shoulders. “Little girls should never miss their appointments.”

And the moral of this story is to always listen to their mothers, especially if their rules seem unnecessary and oddly specific. Because mothers know best.

(And, of course, never miss your appointments)