Briar Blackwood's Grimmest of Fairytales (4 page)

Chapter 5

It was midnight and Briar still hadn't changed from her cinched-up gown. But there she lay in bed, eyes fixed on the brown-ringed ceiling. It was crazy. There were no such thing as walking wolves, and she knew it. But she couldn't erase the image of those fierce amber eyes, and those sharp teeth like ivory knives coming for her.
How could they exist? Simple. They don't
.

But then she remembered the weird podcast with the gaunt elderly woman.
It's dangerous
, she said. She called Briar by name.
Dangerous?
Briar wondered but only for a second. It was just too crazy. Neither of these things existed; they were evidence of her runaway imagination.

As she lay there, straining to doze, the dark muffled silence of the basement was disrupted by noises of shuffling shoes and kicked boxes. They seemed to come from the closet.
What?
Briar sat up, and she froze. Her mind became clear and taut, as sharp as the silence that now saturated the bedroom.

What noise? There was no noise. There were no wolves or any other creatures. There was no podcast calling her name. And totally no noise. Her gut twisted and told a different story. It was one that she wasn't sure would end well.

She was about to ease back onto her squeaky mattress, when the entire closet door thumped heavily.
For shit's sake, now that was a noise
. Briar caught her breath and heard heart throbs in her ears. “Dax?” she whispered, but no one answered. “Dax, you little creep. Very funny.”

Briar wasn't sure which was worse, a response, or none. She clenched the edge of the mattress and eased herself off. She kept her eyes on the closet door as it slowly groaned open on ruined hinges.

“Dax?”

Nothing. The very air was dead. Her breathing stopped.

A white-gloved hand appeared from behind the door and gripped its edge.

Briar rolled her eyes. “By the way, your little ghost in the closet routine isn't really working—but the gloves are very
Breakfast at Tiffany's.”
Still, whoever it was didn't respond. Briar began to feel sick with fear.

She bounded off the bed, sprinted to a far wall and snapped on the light. She grabbed a baseball bat propped up on a wall. “I see you,” she shouted, “get out of there.”

Like a coiled spring, a tall man leapt out from the closet. He was tall, thin and had a short, cropped beard. He wore a shimmering bustled ball-gown that glittered in the harsh overhead light. The strapless dress left his dark wooly chest rather exposed. “Briar Blackwood—is it really you? Am I dreaming?” the man asked. He straightened up and then stared at her.

Seemingly unaware of his height, he nearly grazed the crown of his vertical powdered wig against the low paint-peeled ceiling. He had a curious look in his stare. His eyes beamed clear and bright. But there was another world behind that clarity. It was a world of secrets, mysteries and things that wished to remain unseen.

Briar could feel the rise of the familiar, strange, burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. She gripped the bat tightly and cocked it back.

“Oh dear,” the man said. His voice had the deep tone of a stringed bass. “A ball gown, yet again” he said. He looked down at his outfit, but seemed rather blasé about it. “That makes thrice this week.” He sighed heavily and reached up to discover the powdered wig. He scowled darkly. “This is absolutely ridiculous. Glamorous, yes, but ridiculous.”

Briar swooshed the bat to warn him. “Get back. I mean it.”

“I know how this must seem. But try to stay calm.” He tapered his voice to a whisper, but his resonance still hummed in
her chest. He put a white-gloved finger to his lips. She opened her mouth to shout. But before she could issue a single sound, he speedily drew shapes—all geometric forms—in the air with his hand, finishing with a finger pointed toward her throat. That was when Briar felt something inside tighten. She grabbed at her neck with one hand and tried to shriek, but nothing came.

Her screams silenced, the man took a casual step toward her. But having little practice walking in high heels, he tilted to one side and steadied himself on a nearby table. “I'm so terribly sorry,” he said. “If anyone knew that I used mute-magic on Briar of the Black Woods…You won't mention this, will you?”

She stared with her mouth open, still trying to speak, and the baseball bat to which she clung drooped toward the floor.

“Well, of course you can't say anything just yet. But when you can, please don't.”

Briar tried to force another sound, but her face just reddened and her neck tightened further. It felt like a Chinese finger trap for her voice.

“Straining makes things worse,” he said. “Now come with me. Spies are everywhere, and they've finally found you.”

He tottered across the basement toward Briar. She flattened herself like a board against the wall, taking a stranglehold on the bat again. “I'm sorry,” said the man, “but didn't you get our message? We saw you watching through your device.”

As soon as he walked close enough, she raised the bat and swung at him. But he made another quick gesture with his white satin hand, and the baseball bat exploded into a flurry of white streamers and confetti that fluttered against his lacey ruffles like the first flakes of winter.

“Briar, please. Weren't the wolves enough for you?” he said. He brushed the mess away. Briar stood agog at the explosion of confetti all around her, but the word “wolves” seemed to penetrate her stupefaction. Briar mouthed something. And the man, exasperated, touched her throat. “Only if you promise not
to scream.” She nodded. He flicked his finger, as though he was turning on a light switch, and suddenly she could speak.

“Please don't hurt me,” Briar said. She felt out of breath as her throat eased out of its cramp.

“Hurt you! Don't be ridiculous. I am here to save you.” He turned toward an old cracked hanging mirror and adjusted his beauty mark. He teetered back toward the closet, like someone walking a tightrope, and he balanced himself against the wall. “Now, if you value your life, you will get into that closet with me!”

He opened the door and unsteadily lurched inward, doing his best to get his fluffed-up petticoats to cooperate. Briar rushed up and slammed the door behind him. There was a chair sitting beneath the window, and she jammed it between the knob and the floor, to brace the door shut.

Right on cue, the door at the top of the steps angrily scraped open, wood against wood, and Briar heard the unmistakable, unapologetic footsteps of Megan, Marnie, and Matilda, Briar's foster mother, clambering down.

Matilda was a beefy woman with broad, rounded ape-like shoulders. She was a former prison guard who tried to offset her machismo with bottle-blonde puffy hair, a French manicure, and deep makeup layers. She stood between her two daughters with mannish hands set defiantly on her hips.

Briar tried to wipe the astonishment from her face at seeing Megan and Marnie both wearing fuzzy slippers and awful matching pink crocheted bathrobes. Briar had never seen the girls after dusk, and knowing what lengths they took to assure a cultivated daytime look, she was taken aback by their atrocious get-ups.

“Oh Jeez,” Briar said. She wasn't sure if she should feel relieved or astounded.

She started across the room, but Matilda held up a hand. “Stop right there.”

“What? Stop? No you don't understand—” Briar cut her words short. She glanced over her shoulder at the closet. She knew they wouldn't believe her.

“Dear God. Here we go again,” Megan said.

Matilda flashed her sloppily mascaraed eyes. “Now that's not quite fair, Megan.” She crossed her arms so that they balanced atop her preposterously enormous bosom. “Let's give Briar a chance to explain.”

Briar swallowed hard. “There was—something down here. I was scared. You didn't hear anything?”

“Well, that's just sad,” said Megan.

“Pitiful, really,” Marnie added. She was distracted with texting.

Matilda ignored Megan and narrowed her eyes at Briar. “Something? Down here?” She advanced on Briar, looking left and right. “And just what did you see?”

Marnie chimed in, bored as ever. “Maybe it was her queer-bait friend.”

Matilda got red-faced. “We don't talk like that. This is a Christian home. We pray for all sinners here, whether they're gay, Jewish, or of Latin descent.”

“Mother, that was so divinely inspired,” Megan said.

“Thank you, darling. Now what the hell is going on down here?”

Briar knew she was screwed no matter what she said now. “There was a man in the closet,” she finally blurted out. Sounding crazy was easier than she thought.

“Oh, then it definitely wasn't Dax,” Marnie said. She was still glued to her phone. “He's been out of the closet since he could toddle.”

Matilda paraded across the basement, fists clenched, trains of yellow chiffon fluttering around her rump. “A man you say?” She pounded on the closet door. “Who's in there? Come out!” But there was no answer.

“I'll tell you what's in there, mother,” said Megan. “Briar's desperate cry for help. You know the rumors. For all we know she conjured up a demon.”

Matilda yanked away the chair wedged beneath the doorknob and jerked the closet door open. But it was empty, except for Briar's few black outfits hanging lifelessly above some jumbled shoes.

Megan shook her head. “It just breaks the Baby Jesus' heart.”

Staring into the emptiness, Briar felt a cold panic that started in her stomach. “I don't understand…”

Megan inserted herself again. “There's something more mother. I just didn't want to upset you. But, at school today, Briar stood on stage in front of everyone and spoke in tongues. I was so frightened.”

Marnie picked her teeth. “Yeah me too.”

“A sign of the Beast,” Matilda blurted. Then she threw a hammy arm around Briar's shoulder. “But we mustn't give up on Christ's lost lamb.”

“I pray every night for her soul,” said Megan.

“It's true. She's down on her knees a lot!” Marnie added.

Megan glared.

Matilda then noticed Briar's phone on the bed. “What is
this?”
She snapped up the phone in her sweaty fist.

Briar's heart dropped into her stomach. “I don't know. There's so much junk in this basement—maybe it belongs to one of you?”

Matilda powered it up and scanned the logs. “Well, what a coincidence. Whoever owns this phone also calls a so-called boy named Dax.” Her face tightened and her caked makeup flaked. “Who is paying for this phone Briar? Is it drugs? The Lord hates liars, and drug addicts, and cell phone users.”

Marnie shoved her own phone into her robe.

“I—I…” Briar dared not say.

“We've tried mother—you've tried. There's no shame in calling Mrs. Poplar to put an end to all of this.”

Matilda stuffed the phone between her bosoms. “Are you crazy? What do you think will happen when Mrs. Poplar gets involved?”

Megan tried to look angelic. “Well, I suppose she'll find Briar a more suitable placement.”

“And just where do you think the check comes from every month for your salon trips and your…enhancements?” Matilda snapped. “No. We must help poor Briar in her hour of need. It's time to pray like never before. Girls, go bring down the kneelers and light the votives. We shall hold a night-long vigil to expunge the demons from this household.”

Marnie shoved Megan. “She's talking about you.”

Matilda snarled at Briar. “As for Miss Blackwood, you'd better pray with us that I don't change my mind.”

Briar suspected she'd never change her mind, as long as the support checks kept coming, which meant that Matilda didn't have to go to work.

“Come along girls,” Matilda yelled over her shoulder. “We need to find the heavy crucifix.”

They were stopped in their tracks when three sharp knocks sounded from inside the closet.

Chapter 6

All four of them stood holding their breath, staring in disbelief at the paint-crackled closet door.

It knocked from the inside again.

“This better not be one of your tricks, you little worm.” Matilda lathered up on her words. “Go open it up,” she ordered Briar. But really, she was afraid to do it herself.

Briar edged toward the door, reached for the knob, but then hesitated. “It was probably mice. I've heard them before.”

“Open-the-door.” Matilda barked like a drill sergeant. But before Briar could do anything, the door swung open. Inside was Mrs. Poplar, dressed in the most outlandish fashion imaginable. She was short and round, with the lumps and crevices of middle age, and she wore a hip-hugging gray fishtail skirt with brass buttons that swept down one side to the floor. Her white blouse was a cascade of lace, and she sported an oversized hat with iridescent peacock plumage that bounced in all directions. A brass monocle with three telescopic lenses was fitted over her left eye.

“What in the world?” Mrs. Poplar asked. She adjusted the lenses of her monocle and ogled the Saulks.

Briar and her foster family stood awash in breathless astonishment, gawking at the tiny closet, barely big enough for Briar's clothes, stunned at the improbability of it all.

Mrs. Poplar stepped into the room and shut the door with a back kick from her button-down shoes. “I've been knocking for some time now. Were you going to let me wait on the front porch all night?”

“Front porch—” Matilda was disoriented, trying to understand the outlandish situation. “Mrs. Poplar, you're in Briar's basement closet. However—did you find your way there?” She approached Mrs. Poplar who abruptly turned aside and began
inspecting the basement, twisting her monocle left and right, while scribbling on a clipboard she held tight to her breast.

“Are you questioning me, Mrs. Saulk?” Poplar asked. “You know, explanations for everything rarely lead to understanding anything.”

She sized Matilda up and scribbled a short note.

“There's only one word to describe your behavior Mrs. Saulk—and that word is rude,” Poplar said. “That is, the word is not itself rude—and yet, it is.”

“What?” Matilda asked. She slowly backed away from the strange woman who was rummaging around and taking notes. “Girls,” she said quietly, “why don't you go upstairs and—make a phone call, hmm?”

Dull as ever, it took Marnie a few moments to finally understand. “Oh right. Gotcha.”

She poked her sister's side and they slunk up the steps. Suddenly the door at the top crashed open with great force, embedding itself into the wall. The girls screamed in stereo. A slim shadowed figure stood in the doorframe. A flash of lightning illuminated her silhouette. The surprise knocked the girls off balance, causing them to jumble together down the steps.

“Looks like the storm has finally arrived,” Poplar said. “In any event, I brought along my supervisor from the Department of Children's Services, Mrs. Myrtle. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind?!” Matilda said. “Lady, are you nuts? What is going on here?”

The woman atop the stairs took dignified, starchy strides down. Mrs. Myrtle was unusually tall, gaunt, and severe. She too wore clothing that looked as though it was from another era. Then it clicked for Briar. The neck-high pearl-buttoned shirt and red waistcoat, miniscule glasses sitting on the end of her nose, the tiny black top hat perched upon her pulled back gray hair—it was the woman she saw on her handheld device this afternoon.

“Good evening, Mrs. Saulk,” Myrtle said. She pursed her
crinkled lips as though smelling something sour and she petted a burnt orange fox stole that she had clasped around her shoulders.

“This is an outrage!” Matilda simmered. “You can't just invade my home. Where are your credentials?”

“My
credentials?” Myrtle peered over her spectacles. “And just where are
your
credentials? How am I to know you are who you say you are?”

“What?” Matilda looked as though she had something vile in her mouth. “I haven't—what?”

Ignoring Matilda, Myrtle spoke directly to Poplar. “Is this the creature into whose charge we have left our Miss Blackwood?”

“Hey, nut bag! I'm not deaf. You can talk to me directly,” Matilda said. “If you don't mind—”

“Oh, dear. It speaks,” Myrtle said. She developed a lingering sneer. “I don't mind at all,” she remarked. She sauntered past Matilda with a posture as straight and true as freshly milled lumber. She tried to force a social smile, but it looked more like someone smelling urine. Then it morphed into a look of outright revulsion while eyeing Briar's shabby furnishings.

“You are aware, Mrs. Saulk, that you've signed a county contract that we may inspect the premises at any time. Well, any time happens to be now. Congratulations.”

“This is the middle of the night. You can't barge in here!”

“It is exactly nine forty-five, Mrs. Saulk. If it was the middle of the night it would be precisely midnight. In fact, the word midnight explains itself in plain English. Do you not speak English, Mrs. Saulk?” Myrtle stood nose to nose with Matilda. “Therefore, Mrs. Saulk, it is
not
the middle of the night, nor anywhere near such time. Are we quite clear on that point?”

Matilda found herself confused and backing away from Myrtle, toward the closet, when it erupted for a second time. The door burst off its hinges and knocked Matilda flat beneath, onto the pitted cement floor.

A man wearing a full suit of armor strode out. He lifted a lengthy sword and pierced the water-stained ceiling. “I am here to save you,” he said. Muffled by his helmet, he sounded as though he was speaking through two tin cans and a string.

The girls screeched and clung to one another.

He began grumbling. “This makes four times this month in this ridiculous attire.” He tugged the sword free, and it released a shower of plaster that pinged off the steel suit.

“Get off me!” Matilda shouted from beneath the door.

He lifted the helmet's slatted faceplate to see who was speaking. Briar could see it was the same bearded man who appeared to her earlier.

“Oh, sorry about the door,” he said. He stepped off, removed it from Matilda and leaned it into the doorframe. Briar tried to suppress a laugh.

Megan and Marnie, trying not to look too flipped out, edged up the basement steps together. It didn't bother them one bit to leave Matilda behind. But before they could reach them, the door atop the stairs dislodged from the wall and slammed shut with such force that it nearly split. Megan charged up and threw herself against it grunting, prying it with her chipping finger-nails.

“Let us out!” she shouted. Finally she broke down in tears while hanging onto the immovable knob.

Mrs. Myrtle positioned her spectacles and grimaced at the pair. “Really,” she said. Then to Matilda, “Are these hysterical beasts your spawn?”

“How dare you come into my house and speak to me like that!” Matilda huffed while heaving herself to a stand.

Myrtle whispered to Poplar, “—like a beached whale.”

“A beached—what did you just call me?” Matilda clenched her fists.

“Oh fuss,” Myrtle said. She petted the fox stole. “You were busy hoisting yourself using the least amount of grace possible.
It's a wonder you could hear anything while performing such a momentous task.”

“I can hear you perfectly well, Mrs. Myrtle. Now—”

Myrtle smiled primly, “Good. Then perhaps you'll hear it when I say that I shall report what is happening in your home to the police authorities, to child protective agents, and to the Internal Revenue Service. I am certain that the criminal maltreatment of a foster child and the misappropriation of her support funds would be of interest to them.”

“Oh quite so,” Poplar chimed in cheerily.

The girls screamed and pointed at Poplar, who was in a corner of the basement now, busy eating the remains of a rat. Blood ran down Poplar's chin and she shrugged, holding the final third of the carcass by its fleshy tail. She pulled a crisp white doily from her velvet drawstring handbag, wrapped the rat within, and placed it away. “Portion control,” she said patting her girth and smiling daintily. Briar could see a rat claw still stuck between her front teeth.

“Sensible of you,” Myrtle agreed.

Matilda's face drooped like a saggy mattress and she slapped her hands together in prayer. “Lord, what fiends hast thou cast upon my home?”

“Do you think she knows Lord Toad of the Swamps?” Poplar whispered loudly. She wiped her bloody chin with her lacey sleeve.

“My dear woman,” Myrtle explained, “Lord Toad has been indisposed for some time now.”

Matilda looked positively sick.

“Oh yes,” Myrtle continued. “He was imprisoned. Caught poaching magic beans, I'm afraid.”

“Dear, you've gotten things mixed again,” Poplar corrected. “You're thinking of that pumpkin eater.”

“Oh yes, that's right, Peter.” Myrtle said. “Spousal abuse. Put her in a pumpkin shell. And there he kept her. Just dreadful.”

Matilda wasn't certain if she was angry or confused. “I am speaking of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

“Good Goose,” Myrtle said. “The poor creature speaks in gibberish. Are you quite ill, madam?”

“Perhaps she doesn't wish to soil her reputation by association with Toad,” the knight suggested.

“Never fear Mrs. Saulk, your secret will remain safe among us,” Poplar said reassuringly. “Goblins know you could be hanged for the mere mention of his name.”

“Hanged? What?” Matilda said. “Now see here—”

“No.
You
will see here,” Myrtle said. She ran her gloved finger across Briar's dresser and flicked away a heaping crumble of crud. “I will be kind enough to overlook your association with Lord Toad. But I will not tolerate the dungeon imprisonment of this poor child.”

“Dungeon! This is a perfectly suitable dwelling for a foster child, considering the meager stipend I receive each month. There are sufficient supplies and amenities for her here.”

“Is that so?” the knight asked.

“Yes, that's so, Oil-Can. You three have illegally invaded my home. I don't know how you did it, but in any event, you have insulted me and my family, and you've battered me with a door. There's grounds enough for all three of you to be arrested.” She removed Briar's cell phone from between her bosoms and showed it to Myrtle with an angry smile. She started to dial the police when Megan stopped her with a sudden thrill in her voice.

“Mother, I get what's going on here now. They're the reason why Briar has—you know—weird powers. They're all witches. Admit it. You're witches.”

“Witches!” Myrtle was positively scandalized. She held her hand aloft and made a beckoning gesture. Briar's phone slipped from between Matilda's fingers, soared across the room, and snapped into Myrtle's grasp. “Utterly preposterous.”

Matilda clasped her hands over her open mouth. Unable to
scream, she just squeaked.

“Now then,” Myrtle said, “are you finished with your babbling? Fine then. We shall be taking our leave with young Briar now. She will return after some time—how long I dare not say, for the tasks ahead are epic. Meanwhile, since you find these quarters so suitable, you shall dwell among them yourselves.”

“Oh hell no,” Megan said. Finding sudden courage, she puffed up and stood chest to chest with Myrtle. “Are you freaks high or something? You're not leaving with anyone. Briar stays. And as soon as we get the chance, we're calling the cops.”

Marnie shouted, “Yeah, take that to your coven meeting!”

“My, my,” Myrtle said. “Aren't we the brave little pickpockets? Well, let me tell you—from one freak to another— that you should take care to whom you are speaking.”

“Oh, I can see that I'm speaking to some dried up old tea bag, who's nothing more than a busybody with a degree,” Megan said. She slapped a high five with Marnie and they hooted.

With a placid demeanor, Myrtle removed a small golden wand, no bigger than her pinkie, which was tucked like a tissue into her starchy cuff. It pinged open on several springy hinges to the length of her forearm, and she pointed it at Megan. “Hickory,” she said. Then she pointed the wand at Marnie. “Dickory.” Finally pointing it at Matilda, she said, “Doc.”

“What is she saying?” Matilda asked. She sounded like she was going to burst out into laughter.

“Sister, no!” Poplar covered her eyes.

“I said, hickory, dickory, doc.” Again she pointed the wand at each of them.

Megan started busting up. “Are you kidding with this nursery rhyme bullshit? What—are you going to tell us a bedtime story and tuck us in?”

Myrtle squinted with an unforgiving expression, and with that, her wand glowed. “Goggles,” she announced. Then she produced a pair of brass and leather goggles in her empty hand,
which she held up to her eyes. A bright silver comet swelled up from the end and shot upward, flattening against the ceiling and spreading out.

The house groaned, the basement shuddered, and the room went black. Once the shaking stopped, an eerie cobalt glow filled the room. Suddenly it was as if a violent cyclone had burst into the basement. Posters and picture frames ripped from the walls, Briar's furnishings arose and joined the swirling tornado that gyrated from floor to ceiling. The Saulks screamed in unison as the spinning heap lurched forward, sucking in all three of them.

Megan, Marnie, and Matilda's shrieks suddenly halted altogether while the tornado shrank, leaving the furnishings exactly as they were. The gusts stopped. The pictures re-attached themselves. Order returned. But Megan, Marnie, and Matilda were nowhere to be found.

At least Briar thought so until she spotted three white mice, standing on their hind legs, tottering unsteadily out from behind a splintery pile of broken picture frames. Each of them wore a tiny pair of dark glasses and tapped around with a miniature white cane. They bumped into each other as they staggered into a nearby split at the base of the wall.