Fearie Tales Read online

  Jo Fletcher Books

  An imprint of Quercus

  New York • London

  Selection and editorial material © 2013 by Stephen Jones

  “Introduction: Don’t Scare the Children” © 2013 by Stephen Jones

  “Find My Name” © 2013 by Ramsey Campbell

  “Down to a Sunless Sea” © 2013 by Neil Gaiman

  “Open Your Window, Golden Hair” © 2013 by Tanith Lee

  “Crossing the Line” © 2013 by Garth Nix

  “Peckish” © 2013 by Robert Shearman

  “Look Inside” © 2013 by Michael Marshall Smith

  “Fräulein Fearnot” © 2013 by Markus Heitz

  “The Ash-Boy” © 2013 by Christopher Fowler

  “The Changeling” © 2013 by Brian Lumley

  “The Silken Drum” © Reggie Oliver 2013

  “By the Weeping Gate” © Angela Slatter 2013

  “Anything to Me is Sweeter, Than to Cross Shock-Headed Peter” © 2013 by Brian Hodge

  “The Artemis Line” © 2013 by Peter Crowther

  “The Silken People” © 2013 by Frogspawn Ltd.

  “Come Unto Me” © 2013 by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Cover illustration by Alan Lee

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  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  e-ISBN: 978-1-62365-807-6

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For Dot,

  with gratitude.

  Contents

  Introduction: Don’t Scare the Children

  Stephen Jones

  The Willful Child

  Find My Name

  Ramsey Campbell

  The Singing Bone

  Down to a Sunless Sea

  Neil Gaiman

  Rapunzel

  Open Your Window, Golden Hair

  Tanith Lee

  The Hare’s Bride

  Crossing the Line

  Garth Nix

  Hansel and Gretel

  Peckish

  Robert Shearman

  The Three Little Men in the Wood

  Look Inside

  Michael Marshall Smith

  The Story of a Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was

  Fräulein Fearnot

  Markus Heitz

  Cinderella

  The Ash-Boy

  Christopher Fowler

  The Elves #1

  The Changeling

  Brian Lumley

  The Nixie of the Mill-Pond

  The Silken Drum

  Reggie Oliver

  The Robber Bridegroom

  By the Weeping Gate

  Angela Slatter

  Fräu Trude

  Anything to Me Is Sweeter Than to Cross Shock-Headed Peter

  Brian Hodge

  The Elves #2

  The Artemis Line

  Peter Crowther

  The Old Woman in the Wood

  The Silken People

  Joanne Harris

  Rumpelstiltskin

  Come unto Me

  John Ajvide Lindqvist

  The Shroud

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  Don’t Scare the Children

  In the early years of the nineteenth century, German brothers Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm set out to collect folk stories from across Europe in an attempt not only to reflect a German cultural identity in such tales but also to preserve stories that for centuries had been handed down through the generations in the oral tradition.

  This had resulted in differing versions of these tales existing from region to region (especially in France), and the Brothers Grimm not only gathered these stories into a coherent manuscript for the first time—after listening to friends, family members, and storytellers, and transcribing the tales they were told—but they also allowed fragments of the old religious beliefs to continue to survive through the telling of these stories.

  In this respect, it is not too much of a stretch to consider Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm to be among the first horror anthologists. That is because, despite subsequent editing and rewriting by diverse hands (including Wilhelm himself), many of the original stories contained scenes of gruesome retribution or implied sexuality that early reviewers deemed totally unsuitable for younger readers (who were not in fact the initial audience these tales were aimed at).

  Later versions added religious and spiritual motifs to make the stories more uplifting to a middle-class readership, while the cruelty, sexual elements, and anti-Semitism was toned down. In fact, the Brothers Grimm even added an introduction encouraging parents to make sure that their offspring were exposed only to age-appropriate stories.

  Culturally at this time the discipline of children was often based on fear, and many of these tales were supposed to be a “warning” to youngsters not to misbehave, lest something terrible befall them (such as being thrown on a fire or eaten alive).

  Between 1812 and 1864, Kinder-und Hausmärchen (Children’s and Household Tales, or, as it was later known, Grimm’s Fairy Tales) went through seventeen printings and was revised many times, with the number of stories included in some larger editions growing from eighty-six to more than two hundred. The book was also widely pirated, and different folktales were often added by other compilers.

  Today, just over two centuries since Jacob and Wilhelm first published their seminal collection, fairy tales have probably never been so popular. Although Hollywood (especially Walt Disney Studios) has made liberal use of the Grimm Brothers’ work almost since the birth of movies themselves, in recent times we have been bombarded with “reimaginings” such as the werewolf-themed Red Riding Hood (2011), Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013), and Jack the Giant Slayer (2013), not to mention various versions of “Snow White,” along with such popular TV series as Once Upon a Time and Grimm (both 2011–).

  Over the years, even the Brothers Grimm themselves have been given fictional film biographies (incorporating more than a touch of fantasy) with George Pal’s colorful The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm (1962) and Terry Gilliam’s somewhat darker The Brothers Grimm (2005).

  So, for this volume I invited a number of prominent authors to contribute their own spin on the classic fairy tales, whether inspired by the Grimms or folk stories from other cultures. The only condition I imposed was that, in the end, this was first and foremost a horror anthology, as a reflection of those early versions of the stories, before they became overly sanitized.

  I am delighted to say that all the writers included in this volume rose to the challenge magnificently, and have produced their own—often unique—spin on some classic tales,
while still remaining true to the source material.

  Here are some genuinely scary and disturbing stories for the twenty-first century.

  In 1884, George Bell and Sons of London published Grimm’s Household Tales, a new translation of the Brothers’ stories by British novelist Margaret Hunt (the mother of supernatural writer Violet Hunt). I have used some of these translations as the basis of those tales interspersed between the original material in this volume.

  Not all the stories featured herein have their inspiration in the work of the Brothers Grimm, but I have attempted to include some of their older tales that have either thematic links or served as inspiration for the new fiction that follows them. And, as this is a horror anthology, I have also taken the liberty of book-ending those tales with a couple of unfamiliar short ghost stories originally collected by the German siblings.

  And so, finally, to echo the warning that Jacob and Wilhelm gave to their readership two hundred years ago: while the stories contained in this volume are based on fairy tales, folktales, and myths, they are perhaps not entirely suitable for children or younger readers.

  That is, of course, unless you really want to scare them out of their tiny little minds … !

  Stephen Jones

  London, England

  April 2013

  The Willful Child

  Once upon a time there was a child who was willful, and would not do what her mother wished. For this reason God had no pleasure in her, and let her become ill, and no doctor could do her any good, and in a short time she lay on her death-bed.

  When she had been lowered into her grave, and the earth was spread over her, all at once her arm came out again, and stretched upward. And when they had put it in and spread fresh earth over it, it was all to no purpose, for the arm always came out again.

  Then the mother herself was obliged to go to the grave, and strike the arm with a rod, and when she had done that, it was drawn in, and then at last the child had rest beneath the ground.

  Find My Name

  RAMSEY CAMPBELL

  Doreen was awake at once and trying to hear why. A dog barked on the far side of the tennis courts, and another yapped from the direction of the golf club, and then she heard noises from Anna’s old room. Benjamin was shifting in his crib, a sound both blurred and amplified by the baby monitor. As Doreen prepared to stumble to the next room the sound rustled into silence, and she let her head sink back onto the pillow. Before she closed her eyes she glimpsed midnight on the bedside clock. At the very least she was dozing when she heard a low voice. “You’re mine now, Benjamin,” it said.

  Though she felt as though the night had settled a suffocating weight on her, she managed to open her cumbersome lips. “He never will be. Stay away, Denny, or I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m not the boy’s father. His mother had her wish and now it’s time for mine.”

  This had to be a dream—nobody could hear Doreen through the monitor—but she felt pierced by anguish. “What wish did Anna have?”

  “Her son till he was a year old.”

  “And his father abusing her for half of it. You think she’d have wished for that too?”

  “That’s what she wished away, and I’m the one that made it go. She knew there was a price.”

  Doreen felt her eyes spill her grief. “She paid for her mistake all right.”

  “We aren’t talking about that.” The voice had turned peevish. “Maybe she thought she could cheat me that way,” it said. “Nobody swindles me, so don’t try it. It’s my time.”

  Doreen couldn’t tell if she was struggling to understand or waken. “What time?”

  “You’ve almost had your year of him, so say good-bye while you can, Doreen.”

  “And what do they call you as long as you know my name?”

  “Nobody ever knows.” She heard a snigger or the slither of a tongue across the plastic microphone. “I’ll see you on his birthday,” the voice said. “I’m leaving you a sign.”

  The dogs began to bark again, and more of them joined in. They were real, and they made her aware that the night was otherwise silent, which allowed her to lapse into sleep. A late April dawn coaxed her awake, and she lay pondering her dream. Was she afraid Benjamin’s father would come looking for him while her husband was at the managers’ conference? The court had kept Denny away from the child, and if necessary the police would. Perhaps she was uneasy because Benjamin had lost his mother on his only birthday. That ought to be another reason to make his imminent birthday special, and Doreen was thinking of ways when she heard him begin to stir.

  His morning ruminations always sounded as if his language was taking time to wake up. “Bid honor revert efforts,” she could almost have imagined he was mumbling, not to mention “Font of our reserved birth.” Most of thirty years ago she’d enjoyed overhearing Anna’s infant monologues, but she tried not to be reminded too much. Now Benjamin was talking to Nosey and Stuffy, the bears that shared his cot. When he started clattering the wooden bars, either playing at percussion or demanding freedom, Doreen made for his room.

  He was standing at the bars that faced the door, and she couldn’t help being reminded of Anna. His face was almost a miniature of his mother’s—blond hair, high forehead, bright blue eyes, small snub nose, full lips, determined chin. In Anna’s case the brow had left too much room for brooding, and she’d dyed her hair any number of colors, none of which had placated her partner; apparently few things did. Her eyes had grown dull as stones last year, and the few times Doreen saw her smile it looked more like a plea, even once she’d rid herself of Denny. At least she’d been sufficiently determined to take him to court, but had that left her more afraid of him? Doreen vowed she wouldn’t be. “Ready for adventures?” she said to Benjamin.

  “Avengers.”

  “Come on, little parrot,” Doreen said, only to falter. The microphone she always planted on top of the blue chest of drawers was lying on the floor. She’d thought the wire was well out of Benjamin’s reach, and was dismayed to think she hadn’t heard the fall. She felt insufficiently vigilant on his behalf, as if she might be growing too old for the task. As she returned the microphone to the shelf she said “You mustn’t do that, Benjamin.”

  He stuck his lower lip out. “Didn’t, Gran.”

  “Don’t tease, now. If you didn’t, who did?”

  “The man.”

  “Which man?”

  “Comes to see me.”

  “Who does, Benjamin? Not your—” Nervousness had made her blurt that, and she couldn’t avoid adding “Not Daddy. Not your father.”

  “Not Daddy,” the toddler said, and laughed.

  Doreen wondered if he was simply repeating her words. “Who then, Benjamin?”

  His face grew puzzled before he said “Dark.”

  “You can’t see him, you mean. You know why, don’t you? He isn’t real. He’s just a dream.”

  “Just agree.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know when you’re teasing,” Doreen said but didn’t really mean.

  Surely he could have dislodged the microphone while he was waking up. He put his arms around her neck as she lifted him over the bars. He was warm as sleep, and eager to walk downstairs and run through all the rooms. Doreen caught him in the kitchen, where she helped him off with his sleeping suit. Once she’d praised his potty performance she gave him a hand with dressing while letting him believe he’d done it virtually by himself. She strapped him into the high chair and readied herself for the day, and then she watched him deal with cereal, spilling very little and hardly daubing his face. As she played the game of mopping him while he tried to squirm out of reach she said “What shall we do this morning?”

  “See the trains.”

  He found plenty to chatter about on the half a mile of wide suburban road. “They’re jumping for the ball,” he said by the tennis courts, and “There’s the little hill car” beside the golf course. “Gone in to read,” he said beside the deserted schoolyard,
so that Doreen knew he was recalling what she’d told him he would do at school. “Robber jugs,” he declared outside the antique shop, and she gathered he was thinking of the tale of Ali Baba she’d read him. He called the hairdresser’s customers space ladies because of their helmets, and outside the florist’s he said “Where the flowers go,” which Doreen tried not to find funereal. As they reached the railway she took a firm grip on his small warm trusting hand. “Red bell,” he said.

  The bells were indeed jangling as the red lights flashed. The traffic halted as the barriers descended on both sides of the level crossing, and Benjamin’s fingers wriggled eagerly in Doreen’s clasp. When a train left the station she couldn’t resist asking “What does it look like?”

  “Lots of stamps.”

  He was still remembering the ones he’d put on envelopes last Christmas—the strips the train windows reminded him of. At his age Anna had loved licking Christmas stamps. These days you peeled them off the backing, and Doreen wondered if the generation after his mightn’t even recall that, if every greeting would be sent by computer. Six trains passed, framed by three performances of the barriers, before he was ready to head home.

  Doreen saw to lunch and dinner while he had his nap. After lunch they walked past the Conservative Club and the Masonic hall to the Toddling Tiddlers playgroup. “Here’s another of our talkers,” Dee Maitland cried as he ran to compete with his friend Daisy at garrulousness. While Doreen wouldn’t risk entrusting him to a stranger—she’d taken early retirement so as to care for him—she asked Daisy’s mother Jonquil to look after him while Doreen made his birthday cake. “There’s nobody I’d rather have,” Jonquil said, and Doreen was fleetingly reminded of her midnight dream.

  She hadn’t realized Benjamin had left quite such a mess at home, where toys were scattered through all the downstairs rooms. He helped her clear some of them away before he set about redistributing them, and Doreen reflected that all too soon he would outgrow them. She would even miss his messiness, and after dinner she was in no hurry to finish cleaning his indignant face. She relented when Hubert rang. “How’s the man of the house?” he said.

  “Being looked after by the woman just now.”

  “Sorry,” Hubert said, sounding surprised if not defensive. “Something’s wrong?”