You want me to tell you a story?
You’ve traveled far
on a dangerous night,
so you deserve at least one.
I will tell you stories,
but put bedtime fables from your mind.
The stories I tell have teeth.
Listen --
The monsters walk tonight.
Hidden behind masks and veils,
they twirl
and swirl
and smile,
and snare those who think they know what they want.
They caught her with an enchanted coach,
and when she thought she saw
a glimmer of what he truly was,
she ran.
But he held her with chains made of glass,
and took her for his wife.
Trading tatters for tiaras,
she danced with them,
and glittered
and glowed,
and slowly became familiar
with the faces behind the masks.
She learned that he drank too much.
That when he drank
he became loose with tongue and hand.
And she learned that her beauty only counted
as far as the heirs she could -- or could not -- produce.
So she produced an heir,
a boy -- she got it right the first time --
and was grateful when his eyes wandered.
Let others fall to his charm
and his lust
and his beatings.
She raised her child alone,
and told herself it was all right now.
But she realized one day,
standing in front of her son --
the image of his father --
that just as the mask of ashes
she had previously worn truly had been her,
so now was the glittering façade
that she woke to each morning
She was struck,
as she gazed at her child’s tear-stained face,
the imprint of her hand clearly on his cheek,
by how easily she had adopted the monster’s mask.
She saw herself -- what she’d become;
her child -- what he would be;
and she knew she could not allow that.
So she kissed him,
told him to imagine something nice.
She wanted his eyes closed
as she slid the blade between his ribs.
She left him there
for his father to mourn,
and walked without conscience or guilt
into the darkness of these woods,
much more comfortable where true monsters dwelt.
The wolves walk tonight,
in woods so dense the moon shines
even at noon.
They slink through the undergrowth,
waiting for the unwary,
the lost;
the innocent, just blooded young girls
foolish enough to believe
that flowers off the path are safe,
and shortcuts through
midnight woods hold no predators;
the naïve ones, who do not hurry
to bolt the door at Granny’s house.
Of course bolted doors do no good
if the beast is already inside.
And it’s so hard to tell the difference --
Who is a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Who is just a wolf?
Who is family?
Wolves can be charming,
but never forget,
they have teeth,
and they’re always hungry.
The hungry walk tonight.
Gingerbread houses are things of
children’s tales and hallucinations.
Delusions of children who have not
eaten in almost four days.
These woods, so dark,
hide things better not seen
by the light of day.
Bones so small -- too small for you or me --
decaying to dust,
ensnared in the roots of an ancient tree.
In the murky gloom,
you can pretend not to see the marks,
scratches made by small, unpointed teeth.
He said he wouldn’t let her go hungry another night,
so when she reached in her delirium
for a spun sugar window,
he did not complain.
Her fever broke,
her hunger sated,
but her mind gone as she realized
just why her gingerbread tasted salty.
This is many years ago now.
But she wanders there still,
forever hungry,
unable to eat.
The dead walk tonight.
You came for a story, a children’s fable,
yet I’ve delivered only truth.
It’s time for you to go.
The moon has risen over
this midnight forest --
Can’t you feel it? --
The air has the sharp taste of magic.
And you have a long journey
before the sun will rise.
But be warned --
the dead do walk tonight.
And so do I.