Grimm & Dread: A Crow's Twist on Classic Tales

By Cassandra L. Thompson, Lucas Mann, Brad Acevedo and 10 more

Is it possible to make Grimms' Fairy Tales, the gruesome collection that shaped our storytelling, even more dreadful? Leave it to Quill & Crow Publishing House to try. Included in this anthology are twelve deconstructed tales with "A Crow's Twist." Some are dark and some are meaningful, but all of them will make you reconsider the classic stories in a brand new way. Featuring authors Lucas Mann, Victoria Audley, Brad Acevedo, Stephen Black, Ryan Brinson, Elou Carroll, Adam Faderewski, Beatrice Hadwin, Sabrina Howard, J.S. Larmore, Zeena Mubarak, and Mary Rajotte.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quill & Crow Publishing House
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737104995

Book preview

1

What the Earth Bore

Mary Rajotte

A Sleeping Beauty Retelling

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The way you gaze at me with such adoring intensity makes me believe you could love even my darkest side. But in those moments, when I move into the half-light, your brow furrows and your eyes glaze over, perhaps sensing something you can’t put your finger on, so I turn before you see what I truly am.

If you knew, my betrothed, what secrets I beheld, what grotesquerie lurks beneath my skin, you wouldn’t clasp my hand with such devotion. You wouldn’t pull me into the crook of your arm or hold me near to protect me from creatures that lurk in the night. For I am one of those things. Only you haven’t realized it yet. With my ambitions and cunning, you never will.

Keeping my true nature hidden takes effort, so I rise before the sun, sneaking into the woods beyond our stone cottage where you slumber. I scurry into the deepest reaches where the air is dank with decay and look not to the heavens for comfort but to the earth beneath my feet.

There, where most might see death and decay, I find the most enchanting objects to help with my trickery. I thread tendrils of spun spider webs into my hair for a lustrous sheen. Crushed lantern bugs offer the most exquisite ethereal glow on the apple of my cheeks. Tart crimson berries broken open and smeared across my lips with a blistering sting provide color. Lazy, lilting moths settle in my hand long enough for me to capture so I can pluck their wings and press one to each eyelid. The sweet ambrosia from split honeycombs becomes perfume dabbed on my neck and at my temples. Fibrous fluff from cattails flitter when I twist and twirl.

With my glamour woven, I steal back home where you stir in the morning light. When I slip into your arms, your body warms my chilled skin. Turning to you, I’m unable to breathe until your pale blue eyes open and gaze upon me with fondness. For the moment, at least, my secret remains hidden.

I see your excitement is as rampant as my own, you say, nuzzling my shoulder. You woke before sunrise in anticipation of the day ahead?

I nod, hoping my smile is enough to disguise my apprehension. I only hope the others are as accepting of me as you are, Edmund.

You laugh and, for a time, it puts me at ease. But even as we rise, a shadow lurks behind me, one I fear I may never outrun until you know my genuine spirit.

When we leave the comfort of the peaty woods and travel to the village center, the weight of expectation grows within my chest the closer we get. From the moment we set foot in town—with its quaint stone cottages and the market square abuzz with activity—a wave of residents moves in to greet us. They offer their hands or pat you on the back, excited to see you, their beloved son.

For me, there isn’t as enthusiastic a welcome. The curious gazes of the village women make me second-guess my attire. Their sidelong glances provide no comfort. Some study me, scrutinizing every inch, so I flutter my lashes to beguile them. Others reach for my dress to run their fingers over the strange fabric, so I swish and sway in a dazzling display of distraction. I touch the pulse point on my neck, releasing a faint whisper of cloying honey and, for a moment, the perfume entices them. Keeping a smile fixed on my face, I pretend to get lost in the wares at various peddler booths, but I can feel their eyes watching, like those of salivating wolves.

The longer they study my every move, the more fear takes hold of my heart. If they see through my glamour, will you do the same? These past years, I’ve kept you from discovering my true self. But now, something as simple as a sideways glance or darkened gaze can sow a seed of doubt in your mind. Goddess willing, I can keep it from taking root.

Uncertainty gets the better of me, so I turn to leave, crashing into a cartload of apples from the village orchard. I reach out to brace my fall, but my touch sours the fruit, bruising their skin, defiling their crimson blush with darkened blemishes. Noticing large wicker baskets of fragrant bluebells and thistles, I raise a hand to stop myself from upsetting the cart, but the blooms dehydrate with a gasp of bitter perfume, withering and fading to dried buds on the vine. Spinning away, I come upon a corral of cows, cleaned and lined up for market. They shift nervously, bellowing so loudly at my presence that the wooden buckets of fresh milk on display sour and curdle. I bolt from the stalls, weaving through the crowd until I find you in conversation with your father, Wilhelm.

Have you found what you need, my dear? you say, smiling down at me.

I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. Perhaps I haven’t had enough rest.

With such exciting news to share, that’s understandable, my darling. You turn to Wilhelm, clasping your hands over mine. Father, my most enchanted love, Rosamund, has agreed to take my hand in marriage.

You’re betrothed? he says, shooting me a withering glare.

Yes, and I cannot wait to make Rosamund my bride. Now if you will keep her company while I finish my business, Father, we can discuss this joyous news later.

You kiss me on the top of my head before doffing your cap and leaving. Wilhelm waits until you’re halfway across the courtyard before directing his hate-tarnished gaze toward me.

Your love is a scourge that spoils everything you touch, something my son turns a blind eye to. Your very existence is an affliction no man should suffer. God willing, it shall also be your undoing.

His words prick like thorns before he joins the whispering few who look upon me with equal disdain. The way they watch and wait with their lips pulled into sneers makes it clear it’s only a matter of time before they poison you against me.

My first thought is to flee, but that would only give them power over me. You tell me often how it’s not only my allure but my strength that captured your eye. But it’s your heart that concerns me. Might showing you my darkness turn you from me the way the others do now? Do I allow them to have this influence, one that keeps me fearful that their hate will ruin everything I’ve longed for? Or can this other self I’ve conjured keep you content, my beloved?

Whether we live in the village or if it is only us two is no concern of mine. Knowing one way or the other if you can love every part of me, even that which differs from you, would be better than living in this constant state of fear that my genuine self will drive you away from me.

For I see such magic in the obscurity of this earth. The shimmering moon on the still lake. The glimmering glint and flare of lantern bugs in the trees. Even the storm clouds as they roll in overhead, burgeoning with their tumultuous allure. Perhaps you could love that darkness as I do, for it is from these elements I was created, and I merely wish to show you the beauty in the unfamiliar that so many fear.

Yet as I watch you converse with our neighbors, that dread continues to cling with talons sharp and deep. Keeping you bewitched protects you not from me, but from what others might think of you if they knew what I am. Still, this glamour is a façade hiding my inner self from those who would shun me without taking the time to see the resplendence in both the darkness and the light. I only hope that one day I can show you all of me. That, even with my faults and blemishes, I deserve your love.

As I leave Wilhelm behind and continue through the village, the others bristle and move aside. Turning my attention from their coldness, I notice an old woman in a grey shawl, perching like a bird on a nearby bench. Others stride past her as though they don’t notice her, but her gaze falls on me with a weight that overwhelms my senses. Keeping her in my periphery, I steer away from her, losing her around a corner only to have her appear before me. She clasps her bony fingers around my wrist, holding fast when I struggle to pull free.

You cannot build true love on a foundation of lies. And when your betrothed discovers your otherworldly nature, he shall cast you aside and you will wither like a spoiled piece of fruit.

Like a wraith, she floats away, slipping unseen behind unsuspecting villagers whom she lingers near, whispering into the ear of the man closest to her. His face shifts from curiosity to concern, all the while watching me. She moves to the next, determined to spread her cancerous message, until so many watch me with darkened intent that I can’t help but back away. I seek you out in the busy square but, before I find you, she has made it to those gathered around a large campfire. Like whiffs of smoke, it doesn’t take long for her sinister words to possess them.

Bewitched by her message, they inch toward me, reaching out to skim their curious fingers down my spider-webbed hair, touching my arms, my face. I allow them this intrusion, knowing my glamour is powerful enough to withstand their scrutiny, but still the honeyed perfume engulfs my senses. The moth wings prickle my eyelids. Even so, I must smile to keep the crowd from sensing my discomfort, even when my breath hitches in my throat as I am taken aback by the scene before me.

On the other side of the bonfire, you warm your hands over the smoldering flames while deep in conversation with a young woman, whose flaxen hair shimmers in the golden light. When she laughs and touches you on the hand, you don’t pull away. You are comfortable and content, not vexed in the same way you’ve been these past weeks, tending to my concerns as we prepared to announce our nuptials to the entire village. She is the sun to my moon. The warmth to my coolness. Standing together, any outsider would think you are a couple. I can’t stop myself from edging closer, hoping to catch a snippet of your conversation and, when I do, your voices crash like dark waves over my heart.

The days dim earlier now, she says. Oh, how I despise the darkness. I prefer it when those long summer nights stretch out before us, don’t you? Falling asleep to the wind’s dulcet lullaby. Dreaming of bright, clear days in the lush meadows, far from the frightful forest beyond the village.

When you smile at her in agreement, it plunges my spirit into blackness. How the others seem to gravitate toward you, smiling and watching as though wishing the two of you together, only makes me realize there is a life that you deserve, and it’s one I cannot give you.

The thought sends an icy chill across my shoulders but when I turn, it isn’t the night air at my back, but the old woman. Having edged next to me, she trails her fingertips up my nape, holding out a bouquet of yellow, purple-veined flowers.

This charade you play is what keeps you bound to your secret. You live in a prison made of your own fear. One you will never escape, one that shall continue to torment you, to prickle and sting until you reveal your truth.

She holds out the flowers, waving them under my nose to tempt me. I fight to keep my composure, but the way she regards me sends a panicked chill through my veins. It has been easy enough to fool the others, but the wise old woman senses my secret.

I swipe the bundle and steal away from the power of her gaze to the forest, stumbling over gnarled roots toward our home in the distance. Her words drive me to run further, to move faster, not noticing how hard I clutch the flowers. Hidden within the aromatic bouquet, blackthorn stems scratch my palm, pricking my tender flesh open. Blood percolates to the surface, spilling out across my hand and staining the blossoms.

Tossing the plants to the ground, I stagger away from thudding footsteps pursuing me from a disquieting section of the forest. My pulse surges, panic swelling over me. The trees lash out, skimming their branches across the back of my neck. A biting wind moans through the woodland, prickling like the poisoned words of the old woman in the village square. Distress rushes through me for being made to feel this way, but as my vision clouds and my forehead beads with feverish sweat, I fear something more sinister vexes me.

I steady myself against the roughness of a ghostly birch tree, but its bark sloughs off in sheets. Whirling around, I tear through the woods, shrieking to the heavens, sending the owls lifting away with a downy flourish, and millipedes skittering from my path. My anguish disrupts the stars above, eclipsing the moon. Birds fall from flight with a screech. Beetles and grubs pour from the cracks and crevices between rocks. The musky earth convulses with a tremor in solidarity with my strife, for everything I am, all that I am made of, is rooted to this place. To be persecuted simply because others don’t care to understand me foreshadows more darkness than any unrest I could bring to this place.

When the wind rises, it’s your voice urging me to fight. Yet when your face comes to mind, I see not the joy of your devotion, but that same uncertainty that forced me from the village square. My despair is a rabid beast threatening to swallow me whole. But when the winds shift, the energy of this shadowplace fights to show me what it is I love so much. Behind me, a voice calls out, but when I turn, blackness seeps in around me. The trees bend and sway, blocking my way, scratching and tearing at my skin. The sharp trill of the crickets sends me staggering sideways until I collapse on my back.

Fine mist rises from the shushing grasses, soothing my troubled mind. Ferns and wildflowers exhale their sweet breath while click beetles gleam from their watchful place amongst the plant roots. Yet my body sinks deeper, the peaty earth swallowing me. And in that moment, rather than give in to the wave that threatens to overwhelm me, thoughts of our love inspire me to fight.

In a cresting wave, the earth rises beneath me, washing across me with cool comfort before it pulls me under. Velvety soil laps at my arms and legs, weighing me down like the reaching tide. Thick tree roots and stinging tendrils entwine my ankles, ensnaring my wrists, binding me to the ground. Worms and other fetid crawling things weave into my hair and settle there, chewing, whispering, and lulling me into a dream-state, one I am too weak to resist. Above me, a silhouette appears, and for a moment, I cling to the hope that it’s you. But dashing the promise, a harrowed face etched with contempt comes into focus until your father stands over me, holding the thorny branches I dropped earlier.

The plant was poison enough, he says, thrashing my exposed skin before tossing it onto my chest, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure.

Behind him, a cloaked figure appears. The specter of the old woman peers over his shoulder, and the true betrayal makes sense to me now.

Our village was lovely and prosperous until you arrived with your tenebrous allure. Wilhelm says. My son may be enchanted by these dark gifts, but it’s plain to see you affect our prosperity. That your presence is a calamity to us all. Spoiling and souring everything within reach. Making our beasts unfruitful. Cursing our fields so they fall fallow. Only by ridding ourselves of your foulness can we prosper once more.

Infected by their poison, my body seizes in torment. The glimmer from the lantern bugs crystallizes and cracks, sullying my face with deep creases. The forest weeds wither and blacken. The moth wings dry and turn to parchment that desiccates and blows away on the breeze. With bitterness puckering my tongue, my lips turn purple and my skin blanches into a deathly pallor. Crickets gathered and hidden in my apron, sing a beguiling tune to lull me into a nightmarish dream-state.

Wilhelm’s lip curls with satisfaction as I drift deeper into slumber. With the earth seeping over me, I think only of you, Edmund. Will you know what has happened to me? Or will I be so far belowground that you will wander the forests looking for me, thinking I was unhappy and left you for another?

Heavy muck covers my body, its rich sourness flooding my nostrils, caking in my throat, threatening to choke me. Earthworms burrowing underground slither against my skin. As the influence of the earth takes me over, my gaze diminishes. They have stolen my magic, and now the things I love are slipping from my grasp. The deliciousness of the cool air trembles with uncertainty. The ghostly whisper of the wind screeches through bare branches. The watchful moon dims like an eye blinking out and, without her, I am untethered, something the others would rather ruin than understand.

Yet we are each to blame. Them for their hatred of something unlike themselves. And myself, for shunning the gifts nature has given me. If only I had been powerful enough to be my true self, they would have never had the chance to take my power from me. To steal me away from you. The very thought of allowing them this hateful victory sends a rush of intensity through me. I cry out, wailing to the night, to the earthly energy within me, willing you to find me where I lay.

Behind Wilhelm, your face appears, and you barrel past him in your desperation to get to me. There, you fall on your knees, hands trembling, afraid to touch me, and he laughs at how his actions have brought about the thing I feared most.

Father! What have you done? you shout, turning to him, baring your teeth, your eyes bulging.

I showed her for what she truly is. A hideousness that deserves to be in the ground.

My lips blister from his venom into two mushrooms pressed together. You attack him with your fists, beating him back, but the other villagers who witness this atrocity come forward to stop you, berating you for defending me. It’s then that I see what my selfishness has created. When you turn to me, grasping my hand in yours the way you’ve always done, I recognize not the disgust I feared, but the love that was already mine.

You take up the blackthorn branch, clasping it to you like it is some part of me and, as you do, the thorns prick your skin, the juices stain your hands and, as you rise to leave, you are a glorious apparition in the gloaming. But even as you stand in that place where the lantern bugs glimmer, you suddenly stagger to one side. Above me, you gasp, spinning unsteadily until you fall again beside me.

Breathe, Rosamund! you say, tracing your fingertips over my lips until you pry them apart. Don’t leave me, my love.

You shoo away insects gathered at my temple. Slough cobwebs from my eyes so I might see, dust from my feet the spoil and decay, and scrape moldered fungi from my ears so I can hear your dulcet voice.

Hovering over me, your face is a beacon that I cannot reach. And yet you lean into me until your breath intertwines with mine. And pressing your mouth to my lips, your kiss is as exquisite as it has ever been, willing me to live. The magic of your words seeps into the poisoned soil, giving me the hope that if only I am myself, you will still look at me so lovingly.

We two together are a marvel no amount of poison can diminish. When you take my hand, the energy of your love surges to my fingertips, making loamy moss bloom across my skin in tiny velvet florets. The spiders return, spinning gossamer threads and weaving them through my hair.

Come back, you say. Come back to me.

Your words enliven me, allowing me to wiggle my fingers, to move my arm, to lift my hand to your face the way you have done to me so many times. The tiniest flicker of hope in your gaze gives me the spark I need.

I lift both arms from the overbearing earth. Scraping away dirt by the handful, you unearth my body. But as you do, you slough away all my charms. The butterflies and crickets. The flowers and moss. And yet I help you remove any last remnants of the mask I’d been hiding behind. My slender limbs wither into spindles. My skin, black-veined and crêpe-thin, goes pale and lusterless. Spiny barbs extend from my fingertips. The whites of my eyes distend and blacken. Stripped of my façade, I bear myself fully to you at last.

When I sit up, the dirt falling away from me, the look of utter amazement on your face is enough to give me strength to defend myself from this vilification. To be wholly myself, the woman you love so unconditionally, one you will be proud to wed.

Beneath me, the forest floor sighs, aiding me in my desire, cresting until it pushes me into your embrace. I cling to you, breathing anew. The night has never looked more beguiling. High above the treetops, the moon is a radiant orb with a shimmering veil of stars. Against the midnight sky, a cloud of bats loops and spins, clicking to one another as you lift me from the earth.

Rosamund, my love. You’re alive! And more beautiful than I could ever imagine. Clasping my face in your hands, happy tears fill your eyes. Your hair has the sheen of the raven. Your skin, as glimmering as the moon’s reflection on the river.

This shall not be! your father cries out.

You spin to face him, pushing me behind you as he barrels toward us. You are larger than he and hold him back long enough for me to stagger to my feet. But he has a weapon to aid him. With the poisoned branches I cast aside earlier clutched in his hand, he whips them across your arms. Dozens of tiny pinpricks draw blood.

You fight him back, but as he continues to whip you, the berries burst open, seeping into