In the forest, where the stones are jagged as teeth and the moss hangs wet off the peeling tree branches, there lived a witch. She loved children, meaning she found them cute, and occasionally interesting to talk to, but mostly she loved eating them. She lived in a long, low, gray hut that she dragged around like the shell of a snail, leaving deep ravines in the earth wherever she went.
The witch had a daughter. She was not quite a teenager, skinny and silent. She had no hut of her own to live in, so the witch called her Slug. Her only magic was the ability to fit inside any space, no matter how small or large or oddly shaped. She could shimmy through the whorls of the old trees to bother the fairies that lived under the bark. She liked to take naps in birds’ nests. She had once followed some ants into an anthill, hoping to explore their underground city, but it had annoyed the ants, so she’d left quickly and never repeated the trick.
As towns wised up to the witch’s existence, it became increasingly difficult to find children wandering, conveniently unaccompanied, through the woods. When the witch had a particular craving for a child, she had to pick one off from the outskirts of town, a dangerous endeavor, for the townspeople in those parts were well-armed and ready for a fight. Whenever townsfolk spotted the witch’s tracks in the woods, they locked their doors and set up patrols.
Slug didn’t eat children, but she dutifully followed her mother on her hunts. She was a good daughter, and never objected or asked tiresome questions. She forgot that she, too, counted as a child. It was a dangerous thing to forget. One winter’s day, the witch developed one of her usual cravings and, as no other children were available, she swallowed her daughter whole.
Slug couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by this turn of events. Her mother’s gullet was larger than an anthill and softer than a fairy hole, but it was also stiflingly warm and smelled like wet leather. Through some effort, she was able to contort herself enough to turn around, so she was going down feet first.
“Stop squirming!” the witch warned her, sounding somewhat choked.
Slug ignored her, focusing on the task at hand. Unlike most people, witches are entirely hollow on the inside. They have no bones or organs, or anything beyond a rubbery outer shell, which they hold in the right shape with the power of various enchantments.
With a mighty effort, Slug was able to get first one leg, then the other, into the witch’s legs. It was rather like putting on a very tight pair of pants with your hands tied. Next, she did similarly with her arms, wriggling her right arm into the witch’s right arm, and her left arm into the witch’s left. She pushed and squirmed until she could feel out of the witch’s fingers. She tested her legs and found that they could move the witch’s legs.
“I’m warning you,” her mother said, but Slug still ignored her. With a mighty pop she squeezed her head right up the witch’s neck and twisted it into place inside the witch’s head.
The witch started to speak a spell to bind Slug, but it was too late. Slug lined her mouth up with the witch’s mouth, feeling her tongue squeeze into the witch’s tongue like a thumb into a glove. She shut her lips tight and the witch fell silent.
Now it was the witch trying to squirm free. First, she tried to shake Slug’s fingers out of her hands, but Slug’s grip was too tight. Then, she tried to bite her own tongue to force Slug out of her mouth, but Slug held her jaws apart, the tongue tucked safely back behind the witch’s hollow molars. Finally, she squeezed her body tight, trying to vomit Slug up again. Slug was unmoved. Her mother had made the mistake of eating her, and now she would deal with the consequences. Slug wasn’t going anywhere.
In the forest, where the stones are jagged as teeth and the moss hangs wet off the peeling tree branches, there lives a witch. She wears a body around like the shell of a snail, and she never takes it off.
And what else has she found in that body, besides its strength and its face and the space to fit her whole self? Has she inherited its cravings? The people who live in the towns by the forest don’t know, but they keep their doors locked, and warn their children not to wander too far, just to be safe.
Clarissa Grunwald lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where she works as a librarian and writes as much as possible. She has previously been published in The Sprawl, The Fantastic Other, and New Myths, among others.
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