A Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz

neighborhood. They turned on to a wide street, with grass and trees and bushes—but red grass and black trees and red bushes—until they came to a little house with a black picket fence and red walls and black shutters. The demons pushed Hansel to the door. “Go see him,” they said. “See if you don’t scream then.”
    They turned away. “I hope we get a screamer next time,” one said.
    â€œYeah,” said the other. “That was freaky.”
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    Hansel stood before the door. It was black, like the Gates of Hell, but it was quaint, too, with a knocker that looked like the bronzed head of a kitten. Hansel looked at the knocker more closely. The whiskers were real. It was the bronzed head of a kitten.
    Avoiding the knocker, Hansel rapped very quietly on the door. No one answered. Cautiously, he leaned his head against it and listened.
    Screams—terrible screams, much worse even than those of the sinners in the pits of fire—echoed from inside. Hansel’s blood shivered in his veins. “Do it,” he told himself. “Do it now.” He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.
    Hansel found himself in a living room—sort of like a normal living room. It had a couch before a fire, a wingback armchair, side tables, candles to read by, and a thick rug. But it stank—of sweat and body odor and sulfur all mixed together—it stank so much that Hansel nearly gagged, and was forced to hold his nose and cover his mouth. He looked more closely at the wingback chair. It wasn’t leather. It was human skin. Hansel could see teeth sticking out from one of the seams. He clamped his hand over his mouth more tightly to prevent himself from throwing up.
    The screams were coming from the adjoining room. Carefully, Hansel crept up to the edge of the couch. It was made of hair. Human hair. He tried not to think about it. Hidden behind the couch, he could see into the next room. It was the kitchen. In it he saw an old Devil-woman, with a pot and a pan in each hand, cooking and singing. Not screaming. That noise was singing.
    Just then, Hansel heard the creaking sound of footsteps on the stairs that led up to the front door. He looked around frantically for a place to hide. His eyes fell on a closet. He ran to it and slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. Just then, he heard the Devil’s voice.
    â€œGrandmother, I’m home!”
    The screaming-singing in the kitchen stopped. “Dinner’s ready, my dear.” And now Hansel could hear the sound of a table being set.
    The Devil helped set the table (for even the Devil helps his grandmother set the table). He stopped and sniffed the air. “Do I smell human flesh?” he asked.
    Hansel caught his breath.
    â€œOf course, silly,” his grandmother said. “There’s a little boy named Hansel, waiting for you in the closet in the living room.”
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    No, she didn’t say that. I was just teasing you.
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    â€œOf course, silly,” his grandmother actually said. “What do you think we’re having for dinner?” And they sat down and ate.
    Hansel sat in the dark of the closet—surrounded by extra blankets and pillows (he refused to look at what they were made of)—and waited. The Devil ate the supper that his grandmother had made for him—the fingers of sinners, spiced with their guilty tears—and then he yawned loudly.
    â€œTired from all your wicked trickery?” his grandmother said indulgently. “Come and lie down. You can put your head in my lap, and I’ll stroke your beautiful golden hair.”
    The Devil removed his long traveling coat, took off his spectacles and laid them on a side table, and curled up on the rug in the center of the living room, laying his head in his grandmother’s lap. She gently stroked his hair. “Sleep now,” she said. “Sleep.” Soon he was snoring. After a little