Ingrid and the Beast

Long ago, there’d once been a miller’s son. He’d been told by his father to remain at the house and to take care of his younger sister while his mother rested and recovered from illness. The son, named John, agreed, bidding his father farewell as he went down to his workplace in the nearby mill.

The son did as his father asked, playing with his younger sister and checking on his ill mother from time to time. The weather started to turn at some point during the day, and John heard a knock at the door.

Opening the door a crack, he saw a withered old woman, hunched over a gnarled cane, her beady eyes looking at him from under her hood.

“Young sir, would you be so kind as to allow an old woman to shelter from the storm in your home?” She asked. Her voice grated on the son’s ears, and there was an air about her that made his hackles raise.

“I cannot, good woman,” He said, giving her a false smile in the hopes that she wouldn’t cause a ruckus. “My mother is ill, and I fear what might happen if I allow you to enter. But there is an inn just down the road, a mere ten minutes walk. You can find shelter there.”

But the old woman didn’t move, watching him curiously.

“You would really turn away a little old woman?” She croaked.

Before the son could say anything in response, she threw back the hood of her weathered cloak, revealing an elegant enchantress, who paused a moment to fuss over her appearance.

“You could not see past the ugliness of my disguise to give shelter to one in need?” She said, not even paying the son any mind. “Truly, you hold an ugly heart. Perhaps your exterior should match.”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, the miller’s son collapsed to the ground, screaming as his skin burned and stretched into a monstrous form. The enchantress went on her way, not even staying to see what form John might take.

The form that John took was one unlike the animals of the nearby woodlands. His face was squashed, looking closer to what a noblewoman’s lap dog might wear, with great yellowing tusks forcing his lower jaw outward. Large, heavy horns grew from the tops of his head, curling behind and jutting out with a furious point. He screamed as a tail grew from his behind, long like a whip, with a large club at the end made of bone and sinew.

Alerted by her brother’s screamed of agony, the sister came to the door to see what had happened. She had nary a chance to scream before the creature turned on her, blinded by pain and anguish.

The bedridden mother stood no chance against her now monstrous son, letting out a weak scream before the creature was upon her, claws and tusks gouging wounds into her flesh.

When the miller returned, he came to find his home in shambles, with his young daughter dead by the door, and his beloved wife slain in their marriage bed. And the culprit, his monster of a son, covered in blood, yowling and howling as he tried to pry the horns from his head.

The miller grabbed a pitchfork, crying out for his son to leave. He did not weep. He was much too angry to allow tears to fall when his family’s killer still lived.

The son ran from his father, crashing through the trees and shrubbery of the forest. His father did not follow, but his heartbroken sobs did.

The son continued to run, only stopping when he collapsed from exhaustion, the cloying metallic taste of blood making him gag and spit. He found a once grand looking manor, in the midst of what might’ve once been a lavish garden, perhaps the crown jewel of some haughty nobleman once upon a time. John, having nowhere else to go, claimed the abandoned manor for himself, hiding away from the world outside.

Ingrid and her mother were considered social outcasts in their little village. Her mother was a spinster, never married and only relying on herself for a living. And Ingrid was her bastard daughter, her father completely unknown to her.

Any prospects for a marriage were quashed for Ingrid as a result of her bastard status, and not even her startling beauty could change that.

But she and her mother were content by themselves. Her mother made a fine income spinning wool and flax into a usable fibre for cloth, and Ingrid brought more coin into the home by foraging for medicinal herbs and food in the nearby woodlands. It was a simple existence, but a comfortable one, where they could afford a few creature comforts.

Ingrid was in the woodlands on one particular day, collecting all manner of berries, tubers and mushrooms from the rich land all around her. She was having good luck on this day, the good harvest drawing her deeper and deeper into the trees. Her basket was growing heavy, weighed down by the bounty she’d collected, and she was about to turn round and return for home when she noticed a crumbling manor, hidden in plain sight.

Finding herself curious, she approached the manor, easily slipping through a whole in the stone wall. So entranced by this find, she didn’t notice the lack of birdsong, or of buzzing insects. But she did notice the creature, his black eyes watching her as she encroached further and further into his territory.

With nary a chance to scream, he came upon her, whisking her away by the neck of her cloak in his teeth, dragging her into the crumbling manor house. Ingrid tried to fight back, tried to free herself from her cloak so that she could run. But her fingers fumbled with the pin, and the beast seemed unaffected by her kicks and protests.

He dumped her in what looked to have once been a banquet hall. Any opulence was spoiled by the stench of rot and the bones of many an unfortunate creature that neared this beast’s domain.

“Trespasser!” the creature roared, his words slurred by the great tusks in his mouth. “You have no right to my land!”

Ingrid tried to apologize, tried to prostrate herself in some act of repentance, but the beasts roar deafened any attempts.

“You shall stay here, since you think it right to traipse through my land,” The beast continued, circling Ingrid, saliva dripping from his jowls. “Perhaps you’ll be of some use to me.”

Again, he grabbed Ingrid by the neck of her cloak, dragging her along the dirty stonework floor.

He threw her into a dark room, with only a small window for sunlight. The heavy wooden door slammed behind her, and Ingrid found herself despairing as she noticed the thick iron bars over the window, making it impossible to escape.

She let out a desperate sob, hugging her knees to her chest as she looked around, at a loss for how to escape this prison. She had to find some way to flee. She had to find some way to return home, to return to her mother.

The beast occasionally visited her, bringing her animal carcasses for food. He said little, watching her with those cold eyes, as though daring her to try something. Ingrid didn’t, but that didn’t stop the constant watch.

But the creature appeared confident that she could do nothing to him, and would often sleep by the door, his club of a tail twitching and thumping against the stone as he dreamed.

Ingrid was sure she could use this to her advantage, and it had quickly become clear that the beast didn’t know what was within this room. She’d managed to find an old blade, rusted from a lack of care, but still razor sharp. She hid it beneath her dress, tying it to her leg using her garter ribbon, and she waited.

It was a few days, but eventually the beast came by, carrying a half eaten deer carcass and dropping it at her feet. Ingrid said nothing to him. She never did. But the beast seemed not to care, instead taking up his usual spot by the door, lying down and relaxing as he watched her, his eyes seemingly boring into her very soul.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Perhaps it was minutes, but it could’ve very well have been hours. But eventually, the beast fell asleep, resting his massive head on his great paws. His tail began to twitch and thump against the stone as dreams filled his mind, and a rather pleased looking smile graced his monstrous face.

Ingrid did not act right away, focused on watching the beast as he fell into a deeper and deeper sleep. Then, once she was sure he would not wake, she slowly grabbed the knife from her garter, clutching it tightly in her hands.

She moved at a glacial pace, careful of where she placed her feet to avoid any unnecessary sounds. She stomached the gag building in her chest as she got close enough to smell the foul stench of the beast’s breath. Like everything else, it was rot and decay, and she didn’t want to know why he seemed so unbothered by it all.

Readjusting her grip, she took a slow, deep, silent breath, praying to whatever god was listening that her desperate plan would work, that the blade would hold, that she could escape. Then, with a shrill, guttural cry, she brought the knife down, slashing the beast’s neck open. Hot, thick blood spilled forth, and the creature’s eyes opened in shock. But Ingrid didn’t stop. Again and again, she slashed at his throat, driving the knife in deeper and deeper, her guttural cries masking the sickening squelch of blood.

The beast didn’t even have a chance to try and stand against her, and soon his tail fell still against the cold stone ground. His black eyes were open, but they didn’t see anything anymore, but the mere sight of them made Ingrid’s skin crawl.

Still holding the knife, now slick with the creature’s blood, she used it to gouge out the creature’s eyes, desperate for them to never look upon her again. Once this was done, she dropped the blade, letting out a hysterical sob of relief.

The beast’s body was difficult to move, but Ingrid was able to shift it enough to slip out the door. She hurried down the crumbling hall, only pausing to pick up valuable trinkets that’d been strewn about, whether by the previous residents or the beast, she wasn’t sure. She gathered them in her skirt, cradling them close as she ran for the door and for freedom.

Her knees were weak from relief as she felt the sun upon her face once more, and she very nearly fell upon the ground. But desperate to return home, she remained on her feet, hurrying through the hole in the garden walls.

She must’ve been quite the sight, covered in the creature’s blood, carrying all manner of finery being carried in her skirt. She was sure to fuel the gossip for months to come, but Ingrid found she couldn’t care in the slightest. The wave of relief upon seeing her mother was enough for her to fall to her knees, telling her mother what had happened through gasping sobs.

She wasn’t sure how many of the local towns people actually believed her, but her mother did, and that was enough for Ingrid. She and her mother sold off the stolen trinkets, making a sizable bit of pin money from the sales. While they had a comfortable enough existence before, it improved exponentially now, and Ingrid found that the fine spices and crafting materials did wonders to distract her from the distressing memories of the stinking beast in the crumbling manor.