Poor Li'l Things

Another fable-inspired story. This time, Hansel and Gretel. It was a rushed work so I expect mistakes and typo,and the standard might not be that good either. But I still hope you enjoy reading it.

Poor Li'l Things

People often spoke of the little house in the woods; a witch's house, they say.

They spoke of Baba Yaga. They spoke of an old woman. They spoke of razor teeth. They spoke of cannibalism. They spoke of feasting on raw flesh. They spoke of the blood of children. They spoke of her.

They spoke of her to threaten children who are wiser than they should be; for what were adults when the young do not fear them.

They spoke of her to rationalize their cowardice.

They spoke of her to retain their ancient traditions of purpose, hierarchy and conformism; the taboo shall remain taboo.

No one dares to enter the woods at night. No one dares to approach the house that sleeps in the heart of it.

But when you are lost, when you are young, when winter seduces you to death, when the only sign of life is the billowing smoke from the little hut in the middle of the woods, you have only one choice; you knock.

The knocking on the door was faint but she heard it, just the same. Her heart raced in anticipation. Her mouth salivates for the life beyond her door. Her nose sniffed the scent of youth, whetting her appetite.

She moved fast for an old woman; creeping like a wolf with the wind. She had a silver cane to keep her from falling and it clicked her wooden floor to a rhythm one could dance to. Her hand went around her door knob. She turned it. She pulled the door back, opening it. And before her stood a boy and a girl; barely eleven of age; skin so fair, flesh so tender.

I shall feast on lambs tonight, she thought. Her lips curled to a smile as she let them in.

You poor li'l things, she said, you must be freezing out there. Do come in. It's warm in here.

She gestured them into her warm home. She led them to a table beside her fireplace where a cauldron bubbled warm soup upon bright flames.

Her guests sat at her table quietly as she scooped the soup into two plates. Then she dropped three drops of poison from a vial into the soup. She did it with such swiftness that no one could ever notice; if they ever did, you wouldn’t know, for they're all dead now. Practice makes perfect.

She set the plates on the table and waited. Waited for the shock in their eyes. Waited for the desperate choking of tender throats. Waited for the cruel convulsion of young flesh. Then she waited for their souls to admit defeat.

It was done. Now it was time to cook.

She raced to her old bookshelf, her cane clicking with insane delight. She drew out an old leather bound cookbook and flipped through it. The book was filled with delightful cannibalistic cuisine. She licked her lips when she found just the right recipe.

She hurried back to the table, her silver cane clicking away. She hurried back to her dinner only to find them gone.

She searched her entire home but it seemed they disappeared. Howling in fury like banshee as she hunted for them. Her stomach and tongue was filled with a carnal craving that was too familiar to her.

But just as she was about lose hope, she saw a movement beneath her bed.

She bent down to look, her spine creaking as it curved.

It was the little girl.

Where is your brother dear, she asked in the sweetest voice she could muster.

The child merely smiled back, revealing her rows of white fangs.

Shock did not even have time to possess the old woman, for the boy had lunged from behind her; sinking his fangs into her frail neck. She was fast; he was faster.

His sister soon joined him in the meager feast.

Once they drank the woman dry of blood, they returned to the winter outside.