The Candied House

The Candied House

Deep in the woods, past the thorny briars and through the alder thickets, there was a house of spectacular beauty that mortal eyes rarely beheld. There were rumours of it in the nearer villages, but no-one truly knew it's fatal aesthetic except for the lost souls who died within its walls. A glimpse would seal the fate of the viewer, for curiosity would overcome the fear born in youth, gleaned from the hushed voices of parents in the night.

      The house itself was a spectacular sight. The stories tell of a place gaudily decorated in candy canes and fudge, licorice laces and jelly beans. Tiles of bread sat atop mallow beams were a crude depiction of the actual scene. Coloured plates of melted and reformed sugar, much like stained glass, made up the walls of the place. Layer upon layer of ethereal coloured sheets provided the structural strength that the fantasies ignored. Interspersed were pillars of stronger, swirled sugar anise, marking the regular, semi-opaque intervals that acted as windows onto the world. These portals were too far from the ground to allow any onlooker on view the inside of the domicile. When the sunlight broached the horizon it hit the panes, leaving a glistening trail of light across the surrounding foliage, illuminating every blossom and drop of morning dew.

Inside the house there was but one resident, who had lived there all of her natural life and more. No one knew how old the woman was, and her appearance would not betray her secret: she looked not a day over two dozen years. The only aspect that hinted at her unnatural life was her copious snow-white hair, sleek and seemingly without flaw or end, extenuating her already spindly body. Her skin was flawless, ivory and clean. Her eyes were a sharp grey that demanded the attention of anyone who looked too closely, trapping them in her deadly fate. She was a witch.

      She had lived alone for decades; her visitors crossed the threshold only once. Most days she sat alone in a delicate pretzel-wicker chair at the clearest pane of the single room on the first floor of her home. It was different than those of the lower story: wide and round, giving a clear view of the grounds about the place. Here she would brush her endless locks for hours on end, blankly looking out upon the tangled roots that encircled her realm. She waited.

      In the middle of the driest summer in decades, when the crops were failing all across the lands, the woman stirred in her seat. A passage began to form through the deepest section of brambles, revealing a lush green path that shined temptingly in the harsh summer light. She would not leave this place, but she knew that someone would soon arrive. Someone tall and strong and full of the vital life she saw infrequently and craved with an intense hunger. A smile swept through her features unnaturally, stirring the muscles into unfamiliar action. Raising from her seat, it was time to ready the house.

Two days passed and there was only silence still. The house itself stood strong in the unreal heat, an eternal palace of shimmering fantasy. The heat was growing each day, and though the trees were parched, the material of the house did not fail. The woman herself began to sweat though the rooms were cool; her eyes gained a hungry look, but all else was unchanged about her guise; her beauty was unchallenged though it gained a ravenous quality.

      Early on the third day a voice broke through the clearing, happening in its course upon the ears of the solitary occupant. A sigh escaped her lips and her slender limbs relaxed once more, while her mind buzzed with excitement. Moving to the hearth, she set a light in the oven. Methodically she began to set the table for one, precisely laying the freshly cleaned plates and cutlery, glancing fondly at these rarely used tools.

Laughter broke this calm, the knife hit the table with a clank and lay disparate, disturbed on the table. Another peal rang out, and a thud. There was a tearing noise somewhere outside, and she shrieked. A scratch ran down her arm, searing angry and red over her ivory flesh. Her eyes flashed bright, and in an instant she was at the door, hair whirling in a mad rage. As she gripped the handle she took a breath, eased herself, and slowly entered the world outside.

At the top of the garden path, left of the door, were two scrawny beings tearing at the coloured candy plates of the building. Their stubby, boney appendages were digging into the very seams of her crystalline palace, trying to tear away pieces to fill their greedy, open mouths. She had expected a handsome young creature plump with possibility, brimming with exuberance and passion; someone she could charm and devour. Instead, her gaze met with a pair of children no more than ten years each. They were thin and ungainly, their youth held no future promise: their emaciated bodies belied lives of poverty and neglect.

The children were called Hansel and Gretel, and they had been abandoned in the woods by their parents who feared a slow death by starvation. They told the witch of the declining village they had been forced to leave, and how all the young people had left in search of food and fortune. None had returned, and the elders had begun to die. Some had gone missing, but none wanted to question how or where they had ended up.

      Unmoved by this story, the witch began to ponder her own plight. She was to receive no meal of health and boundless spirit; she would have to make-do with what she had been given. She led the children to her kitchen, and pulled from the air a magnificent spread of meat, fish, bread, cheese, fruit, and cake. Boundless quantities seemed to fill the table, and the youngsters began to eat with feverish hunger. Even as they scooped handfuls off the plates, the quantity never seemed to decrease, and their hunger only seemed to increase. Glasses of fruit wine appeared and were gulped down between bites. Hours passed and the children became visibly plumper and revived. Throughout the witch merely stood by and watched the feast, preparing her own dinner for later.

      Eventually the children fell asleep under the table. In the morning they rose frantically to continue their meal, but the table was bare. They shrieked and begged their host for some breakfast, their eyes and hair wild with the flavours they had almost forgotten over the last few long months at home. The woman could not give them anything, she said, unless one of them could help her start the fire. It had gone out in the night, and it would be much quicker if they could help her. Of course, they yelled, anything for her. She led them over to the hearth, cold and empty, which appeared to fill an entire wall. She pointed inside, saying that the wood was already prepared, but needed lighting. One of them would have to climb inside.

      The witch's eyes were shining, her mouth watering with the energy the children were exuding. She could not wait to taste their tender flesh, the elixir which would ensure her continued life. She was excited, and while the young boy was charmed by her manner, Gretel began to question her surroundings. Was this the place her elders had warned her about? Could this beautiful woman really be a witch? The hearth-fire was not lit last night when the bountiful supper had been prepared for them.

      As the realisation of their danger slowly dawned upon the girl, and the spell started to loosen its grasp of her, Hansel only became more enamoured with the woman. He would do anything for her and her sumptuous food. He had been handed a matchbox and had started to climb into the oven when his sister started to wail. Suddenly there was smoke pouring from the gaping mouth of the range, Hansel's legs still protruding and wiggling about. The witch was captivated by her cooking that she had momentarily forgotten Gretel, who was to be her second course. Suddenly, though, she felt searing agony. She whipped around to see that the girl-child had ripped apart a sturdy bread chair, and was holding a leg up in the air. This limb was hurled across the room, followed by another and another. Gretel held the remaining carcass of the chair up and ran towards her captor. In her shock the witch did not move, she was not used to her meals fighting back.

      In an instant she was knocked backward into the opening of the oven, just after Hansel managed to flail his way out. The girl found strength enough to push the door shut after the dainty creature. Moments later, the entire house began to shake angrily, and the children barely had time to rush to the door before the whole place was aflame. The sugar-panes melted into pools of searing hot caramel, before burning completely and making the air smell sickly sweet.

      The children fled from the place, resting only to tend to the burns which covered most of Hansel's arms. He had lost most of his hair too, but seemed to be fine otherwise. Gretel was in shock, and apart from several scratches down her arms was unscathed. They were alive. They would have to eat again sooner or later, though.