Fairly Wicked Tales (8 page)

“Well, that’s all right then,” the countryman said, pretending he could speak dog. He
wished
they understood him.
Oh
, the conversations they would share. He could take out his misery on them with more than just a rudimentary kick. He would unleash it all, burden them until he was as light as a feather. They would, he thought, be suicidal by the end of the day, tossing themselves down the well at the bottom of the garden simply to be rid of the torment.

“Is he alright?” One asked. Two and Three exchanged glances. The countryman smiled to himself as if stricken with wind.

“Maybe he’s plotting to knock the old witch off,” Two said. “It’d explain the smile.”

“Well, let’s hope he does it so we can all watch,” Three said. “We deserve it after all these weeks of torture.”

“
Torture?
” One said. “Do you know how they treat dogs in Bavaria? We’re living the dream over here.”

“Will you lot quit your yapping for one minute?” the countryman hollered. “Sheesh, can hardly hear myself plotting over here.”

The puppies, sensing they had outstayed their welcome, decided to head out into the garden. A beautiful day, for the middle of November. Crisp. A month’s worth of frozen dog-shit gave them plenty to play with. They soon got bored, however, and decided to taunt the chickens for a while, amazed at how easy it was to wind Henrietta up.

“Hey, Henri!” Two called to the Bantam as she minced her way across the yard. “Like your hair!”

“Yeah,” One added. “Love the way it flaps in the wind.”

Henrietta knew better than to converse with the puppies, for they were not the full ticket and certainly not intelligent enough to banter with. In other words, she would tear them a new one if she got started.

“I’m bored,” Three said. “Do you think we’re alright to go back into the house?”

Two glanced down at an invisible watch on its foreleg. “Probably. As long as we stay out of the way of the countryman. He likes his space of an afternoon, especially if he’s hitting the flagon.”

So they went back to the house to find the countryman seated at the kitchen table. Something disgusting was piled high in front of him, sandwiched between two wedges of homemade bread. It looked like meat, smelt like fish, and probably tasted like neither, and yet the puppies were mesmerized.

“What
is
it?” One asked as they pattered cautiously into the kitchen.

“My first guess would be some sort of taxidermy,” Two said.

“It’s a
sandwich
,” Three corrected.

Two smiled—or pulled that strange face dog’s do when trying to smile. “That was my second guess,” he said.

So they sat, watching as the countryman devoured the atrocity, licking their lips and wishing—more than anything in the world—he would miss his mouth, if only once. But he wouldn’t. He never did.

“Is it just me,” One said, “or is he dragging this out on purpose?”

“What, to wind us up?” Two said. “I didn’t think he was as cruel as that. The
mistress
, maybe, but not him.”

“I don’t know,” One said. “Almost certain he’s watching us from the corner of his eye. He’s enjoying himself, enjoying watching us whimper and whine while he scoffs himself silly.”

And he
was
. The countryman saw just how hungry they were. He’d fed them the peelings from a potato that morning, but nothing more. As far as he was concerned, there was plenty to eat outside, so long as they didn’t mind shitsicles. It was fun seeing them squirm and beg, a
god
compared to them, with the power to keep them alive or slowly let them succumb to hunger.

“Look at you,” the countryman said, so unexpectedly the puppies almost leapt from their fur. “I’ll bet you’d kill for some of this, wouldn’t you?” He gestured to the half-eaten sandwich on the table. “To be honest, I’m starting to feel it.” He rubbed his rotund tummy, a satisfied grin spread across his grease-smeared face. He remained confident, though. It took another hour, but the sandwich was reduced to nothing but crumbs. The countryman leant back on his chair, massaging his distended belly as if trying to induce a genie. “Spectacular!” he said. “Never been so full.”

In the corner, the puppies observed in disbelief.

“I feel violated,” One said.

“He did it on purpose,” Two added. “He could’ve broken a piece off. He was just being mean.”

“I’m possibly going to throw myself down the well, now,” Three said, his usually chipper voice reduced to a solemn whinge.

When all was believed to be lost, the countryman straightened up in his chair as if he’d had a
Eureka!
moment. His malicious grin, however, remained hidden from the puppies. He turned to face them, and for a split second all three of them thought he was contemplating dessert. They sighed collectively with relief when he said:

“Why don’t you come and polish off these crumbs?”

One looked at Two, who turned to Three, who rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” the countryman said as he gathered the crumbs into a more manageable pile upon the table. “I won’t tell anyone, and your mistress won’t be back for hours so the chances of you being caught are slim-to-none.”

The mechanical report of miniature cogs slowly turning was barely audible over the unbearable sound of the countryman grinding his teeth with anticipation. Apart from that, you could have heard a pin drop.

“Is he serious?” One said. “I mean … he just punished us for …”—he glanced down at the invisible watch he wasn’t wearing—“… over an hour, and now he’s seen enough sense to offer the tat his mouth didn’t catch.”

“Yeah, but
still
,” Two said. “I am pretty hungry. How much longer can we go on without scoffing something? Those crumbs might be enough to see us to the end of the week.”

Three said, “He’s right. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went poopie. I remember it being very painful, and more
dusty
than anything.”

“But the
mistress
?” One said. He was talking to a brick wall, if said wall was made of fur and teeth. “She’ll have our guts for garters if she comes back and we’re on the table chowing down on the countryman’s crumbs.”

“Sure is a pickle,” Two said, already moving toward the table. Three followed, shrugging, the mention of pickle enough to convince him it was worth the risk.

The countryman practically beamed as the puppies approached the table. “Yes, come and get it. There are enough crumbs here to choke a donkey.” He knew, vicious bastard that he was, there were enough crumbs to keep the puppies eating until the mistress returned. She was due back any second. It would be an abattoir by moon-up.

“Is he
grinning
?” One asked as they neared the table. “Pretty sure he’s got something up his sleeve.”

“Like
what
?” Two said. “You worry too much. He’s simply doing right by us. Our ribs are visible, and he knows the mistress won’t be in any rush to peel us another spud.”

The countryman patted the table. “Come on, you’ll need to come up here to get at them. We can’t be getting any crumbs on the floor. The vacuum’s on the blink.”

Three leapt up onto the table before turning to the others. “Wow, you ought to get up here. Plenty for all of us.”

“Hang on,” Two said, jumping up onto the table.

Well, this is ridiculous
, One thought as he leapt up to join the others. When his eyes fell upon the feast of morsels, he almost fainted.

“Go on!” the countryman exclaimed. “Get stuck in. Be sure to get them all, though. Save me getting the dustpan and brush out. You know what the old Gorgon’s like when it comes to cleanliness.”

The puppies didn’t—
couldn’t
—speak. So they did the next best thing. They ate, and they ate, and they snuffled at the pile of crumbs until they were practically licking the varnish off the table.

“What the devil is going on here?” a voice screeched. Now, none of the puppies had taken rocket-science exams, but they realized they were in all kinds of trouble.

There, in the doorway with several designer bags and a face like thunder, stood the mistress.

“They jumped up!” the countryman said, feigning astonishment. “I tell you, wife, they’re uncontrollable!”

The puppies were about to interject when the mistress rushed across the room and grabbed the poker from the fire—an object of dubious worth since the lovely men from the council had installed a gas fire six months ago. “We’ll see about that!” she screamed. “Uncontrollable, indeed!”

The puppies jumped from the table.
Trapped
. Their mistress caught them, one by one, and beat them so severely, most of the crumbs they had eaten made an unwelcome return. In the corner of the room, keeping his conniving beak out of the matter, the countryman laughed, and laughed, and laughed so hard that he, too, lost his supper.

Later, when the mistress had had her wicked way with the poker and the puppies, they lay in a crippled heap outside the house. If they hadn’t been of varying colors, the pile of limbs, paws, and cauliflower ears would have been indiscernible.

“Do … Do … Do you see what happened?” One just about managed around his fat lip. “She went berserk.”

The countryman grinned. “Oh, quit your whining, will you. What did you expect?” He slammed the door to the house, no doubt off to placate the old bag with three minutes of grotesque pleasure.

“Well, I don’t know about you two,” Three said, “but that was bang out of order. He stitched us up good and proper.”

“I think my tail’s loose,” Two said, licking at it as if it might somehow adhere itself back to his ass.

“Come on,” One said, pushing the other two off. “We can go live in the woods. Reckon we can catch some rabbits and whatnot. At least we won’t have to look at her miserable face any longer.”

And so the puppies headed into the trees, where they found solace amongst nature. The food was amazing, too—particularly the squirrels, which tasted more like chicken than chicken did—and the puppies soon grew to a healthy size. It seemed a good time to be alive. At least, it was if you were one of the dogs. Not so much for those on their shit-list.

Six months passed. The countryman went about his daily routine, cleaning out the chickens and pigs while the mistress went about
her
daily routine of applying face-cream and moaning incessantly.

One night, after almost seven minutes of unadulterated passion, the countryman and the mistress lay in bed. She was already wearing her cucumbers when there came a loud bang somewhere in the house.

“Husband?” she gasped, her left cucumber sliding down her cheek. “Did you hear that?”

He
had
heard it, but knew better than to acknowledge loud noises in the middle of the night. “Hear what?” he said.

“You must have heard it,” she said. “Sounded like the front door. I think you should go and check. There’s a rumor going around about a particularly nasty wolf knocking round these parts dressed as an old lady.”

After a moment of consideration, the countryman sighed and climbed out of bed. “If it’s a wolf dressed as an old lady,” he said, “do you think it would entertain the idea of just noshing you?”

“Just go,” the mistress whinged. “My heart’s not as young as it used to be.”

Like the rest of you
, the countryman thought but didn’t possess the balls to say.

And so he left the bedroom—and the rancid scent of seven minutes of pure perversion—and made his way toward the sound of the disturbance. He didn’t rush. If he was going to get beaten to death, it would be in his own time.

The mistress listened from the bedroom, the sheets pulled up to her neck. With the cucumbers slipping down her face and sloppy white cream everywhere else, any intruder would suffer the shock of his life if they came across her.

Suddenly, there came a grunt, a groan, a watery squelch. After checking beneath the sheet, she realised the sound had come from beyond the bedroom door. “Husband!” she screeched. “Husband! Is everything okay out there?”

The door slammed wide open. The mistress toppled from the bed in fear. It was then, as she lay in the floor wearing nothing but green fruit and a countenance of extreme terror, that she saw the hounds.

Three of them, standing up on two legs like werewolves. One of them—a brown and black spotty thing that would have been called Dusty, or Bandit, if anyone had ever cared enough to name it—held the countryman’s still-twitching head in its right paw. The mistress screamed, but only for a moment.

The hounds leapt upon her and chewed and ate until nothing remained, not even a crumb.

About the Author

Adam Millard
is the author of eighteen novels, eight novellas, and more than a hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for children, as well as bizarro fiction for several publishers. His “Dead” series has been the filling in a Stephen King/Bram Stoker sandwich on Amazon’s bestsellers chart, and the translation rights have recently sold to German publisher, Voodoo Press. Adam also writes for UK horror website, This is Horror.

A Thrice-Spun Tale

A retelling of “The Three Spinners”

Suzi M

Many stories are begun in the age-old way with the well-known and oft-used words ‘once upon a time’ and this one shall be no different. Once upon a time there was a town high in the mountains of Germany where lived a young lady of uncommon loveliness. Despite her beauty, the girl remained unwed and the townspeople spoke in whispers regarding her odd, lazy ways and her inevitable spinsterhood. In spite of all their whisperings, an element of pity existed for the family, as they seemed to be cursed now with only the one child left to help with day-to-day life. So the townspeople went about their business and dropped their voices to whispers when a member of the family passed within hearing. The lowered tones were not out of respect, but out of fear the girl might hear and curse them as well.