The Origins of Nemesis

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, there lived a poor carpenter, his wife, and his two children, Hansel and Gretel. Their biological mother had died giving birth to Gretel…or so their father told them. Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother, Gwen, entered their lives soon after and was the only mother the children remembered or knew. Gwen was a sweet and kind woman; she doted on the children and raised them into fine young tweens. Hansel and Gretel’s father, Ralph, was a cold and withdrawn man, showing affection to neither his wife, nor his children. Ralph worked hard, drank heavily, and gambled compulsively. Gwen often reminded the children that their father had suffered a terrible loss when their mother died, and that grief does awful things to the soul.

‘It is not our right to judge, sweet ones,’ Gwen said, tucking us into bed after yet another of Dad’s drunken rages. ‘Your father copes the best way he knows how. We must allow him that much.’

We lost our mother. It isn’t fair that Dad treats us this way and wastes all our money.’ I replied.

‘Now, now,’ Gwen said. ‘You must understand that your father remembers what your young minds do not. He watched your mother die—his first love—we cannot begin to understand that pain.’

Resentment continued to fester in my sister and me as the years went on. We were both bullied relentlessly at school for our threadbare, hole-ridden clothing, and Gretel’s peers cruelly dubbed her Gurgle-Guts because of her frequently vocal, hungry tummy.

Three days after Gretel’s thirteenth birthday, we arrived home from school to a chaotic scene. Gwen was crying and pleading with an obviously drunk Dad, who was holding her firmly by the shoulders and shouting, ‘Don’t you see? There is no other way. It’s her or you. And I won’t lose another wife.’

‘Ralph, please, she’s your only daughter,’ Gwen said. ‘Her mother would roll over in her grave.’

‘Her mother wouldn’t be in a grave if she listened and went through with the bargain. All o’ this is on her!’ Ralph countered.

Gwen shook free from Dad’s grasp, and he staggered backwards. Gretel looked at me questioningly. We crouched in a corner of the front porch, too fearful to make our presence known.

‘What are you saying?’ Gwen whispered, though her tone was rhetorical, as the monstrous nature of the man she was married to dawned on her for the first time.

‘What I’m sayin’…’ Ralph slurred, ‘is that when ya promise the mafia a wee baby girl as payment of a gambling debt, ya shouldn’t change ya mind.’

Mine and Gretel’s eyes grew wide, and we clung to each other, desperately trying to muffle our unified sobs. Gwen fell to her knees, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘How could you do this? To Hansel? To Gretel? You let your daughter believe her birth caused her mother’s death!’ Gwen shrieked.

Ralph laughed mirthlessly. ‘What difference does it make what I told ‘em? Tis the truth, ain’t it? Gretel was born for a purpose and when her bleedin’ hearted mother reneged on that deal, there was no other way to pay, no other way but with her life insurance. That’s the price she was willing to pay for her idiot daughter. I slit her wrists with my box cutter and held her hand while she bled to death in my arms. Suicide after childbirth is quite common, ya know. Postnatal depression, they call it.’

My sister and I had heard enough. Hand in hand, we fled into the bushland our yard backed onto. We ran for what felt like hours, neither of us daring to speak and each crying silent tears. It wasn’t long until we realised, we were hopelessly lost, yet somehow, we felt safer than ever before; we had each other. I slumped against a large gum tree and sighed, letting my face fall into my hands. Kookaburras cackled in the distance and the sheer irony of their laughter, in our darkest hour, brought tears to my eyes.

‘There, there, Brother,’ Gretel said, dropping down beside me. ‘Better a despicable truth than the sugar-coated lies we’ve been fed our whole lives. But speaking of sugar-coated things, do you see that? Tell me I’m not crazy. Do you see that house?’

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ I murmured.

Far off, in a clearing in the distance, there was a quaint little cottage. It appeared, at first glance, to be painted to resemble a gingerbread house. We began walking towards it, as if pulled by some magnetic force. The closer we drew, the stronger the scent of freshly baked gingerbread, toffee, cakes, and cookies became. Our mouths began to water, and our tummies rumbled raucously. Soon we were close enough to see that it was no paintjob—it was a life-sized gingerbread house. The entire house, its surrounding gardens, and the front porch were all made from delicious lollies, cakes, pastries, and cookies.

‘This can’t be real,’ Gretel said, shaking her head. ‘Surely, we must be in some hunger-induced psychosis or something.’

I knocked on the door three times but there was no answer. Shrugging, Gretel broke a piece of candy-cane window ledge off and began devouring it. I followed her lead, plucking a yellow gobstopper from the centre of a fondant flower. Once we began eating, a possession of sorts overcame us and, try though we might, we simply could not stop. Soon, the entire front door and porch were gone, and we ventured inside the cottage. The indoor area was even more wonderful than the outside. Cushions of thick, fluffy marshmallow lined a chocolate couch, toffee-framed pictures printed on edible cake toppers adorned the walls, and the most delicious smell of steak was coming from the kitchen. We followed the smell and found a kind-looking old woman transferring two thick, juicy hunks of meat from her frying pan onto plates. She looked up and smiled warmly as we entered.

‘Everybody needs to eat dessert first occasionally,’ she said. ‘But come. You are skin and bones and that simply won’t do. I’ve made steak. Please, sit.’

We’d never eaten steak before, but it was difficult to imagine that any other meat could come close to what the old woman served us. It was tender; heated just right; and neither undercooked, nor overcooked. We gobbled it up in seconds and the old woman refilled our plates again, and again, and again, until we begged her to stop, or our tummies would burst.

‘As you wish,’ the old woman said, pulling out a chair made of bright pink musk sticks and joining us at the white chocolate table.

‘Who are you?’ Gretel asked.

The old woman smiled but something sinister lurked in her eyes. ‘I have been given many names throughout my centuries on Earth, dear child. Let’s see…Nemesis, Rhamnousia, Jezebel, Goddess of Retributive Justice, Revenge Incarnate. You, however, may call me Granny. Your mother was my daughter.’

Our eyes widened. Could this strange, magical woman truly be our grandmother? I let out a loud, involuntary belch and Granny chuckled.

‘You enjoyed your stepmother then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Gretel piped up. ‘Gwen is the most wonderful woman I know. She has the heart of an angel and is so good to us. Isn’t she, Hansel?’

I didn’t get the chance to answer. Granny chuckled again but this time there was no smile behind her laughter. We could never quite explain it afterwards, but a veil of evil seemed to drop across Granny’s features, sweeping away all remnants of the goodness that was there before.

‘I’m afraid you misunderstand me, sweet fools. You’ve eaten Gwen for lunch. I hope she was tasty. See, I could have killed your father. But that would have been too easy. I considered kidnapping you, but months of watching you made it clear that would be more reward to the vile creature than punishment. The only thing left was to kill his ignorant jackass of a second wife. I originally planned to eat her myself, but it seemed only fair that my kin, after starving all these years, should take precedence.’

Gretel and I had no chance to process, react, or respond to this grisly revelation. The next thing we knew, Granny clicked her fingers and a concealed trapdoor opened in the floor. Another casual click sent us careening into a deep, dark dungeon.

‘This is for your own good,’ Granny called after us. ‘I only regret not affording the same protection to your mother.’

The trapdoor slammed shut.

My sister and I lived out the rest of our days as Granny’s prisoners. She kept us well-fed and comfortable, yet, until her dying breath, all Gretel wanted was to feel the sunshine on her face one last time. And me? I never got over the trauma of learning I’d consumed my beloved stepmother. From the moment the trapdoor slammed shut, another word never passed my lips; I became mute. But my story will live on after I’ve joined Gretel in the afterlife. If it saves only one person, it will be worthwhile.

If you take nothing else from my misfortune, understand that monsters walk among us; know that the worst ones look like regular humans. Evildoers, I implore you, turn from your wicked ways. Granny is real and she’s always watching—don’t say I didn’t warn you.