The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart by Jesse Bullington

woman had tricked her, and was likely a witch as
     well as a murderous cannibal. She yelped when she felt a poke to her side, and tried to mask her rekindled terror.
    “Come now,” the witch cooed, “that little patch should hold him until dawn.”
    “But,” Nicolette began, her fear turning her cleverness as sharp as the traps her father used to catch rabbits, “my father
     has said nobody may ever touch me there save myself or my husband, when I get one.”
    The hag cackled at that, and made to pounce on her quarry when Nicolette quickly added, “I can do it myself, if you’ll kindly
     lend me the knife and bowl.”
    The old woman scowled at the girl, but the child’s eyes reflected the fire and she could not read them. Her husband loved
     that hair the most and she felt confident the child was stupid, not guileful. Nicolette forced herself to smile, her cheeks
     flushing with shame as she spread her legs and reached for the knife.
    Taking it with trembling fingers, Nicolette peered at the blade. “What’s that?” she asked, her voice cracking. She pointed
     to the tip of the weapon, but when the witch leaned in for a look the girl pressed the knife to her throat.
    “Don’t you move,” Nicolette hissed. “Don’t you speak, and don’t you sing or I’ll cut you dead.”
    The witch glared balefully but she did not move, and she did not speak, and she did not sing.
    “You tell me what to do,” Nicolette whispered, the handle clutched in both hands. “Tell me how to get away or I’ll kill you.”
    The witch grinned but said nothing. The loose beams overhead creaked and Nicolette jumped, the honed blade nicking the witch’s
     turkey-wattle neck. A little blood oozed out and the crone looked worriedly at the girl. Nicolette picked up on her distress
     and smiled triumphantly.
    “If I die it will be after I bleed you out like a rooster,” she spit at the hag. “Now tell me quick before I get rid of your
     foulness and deal with it myself.”
    “He’s already impatient,” the witch shot back, raising her voice. “He’s et all your hair, and so he’ll smell you a mile off.
     He runs faster through the trees than a stag on the ground, and before the sun next touches this place he’ll be eating you
     alive. Your only hope is to hand over that knife, so I can protect you.”
    “I don’t believe you,” the young woman whispered, her eyes welling up anew.
    “Then I’ll make it fast for you,” the stink of spoiled milk hot in Nicolette’s face, “better than what he’ll surely do.”
    Nicolette stiffened, breathed deeply, and tried unsuccessfully to stop shaking.
    “What do you do?” the girl croaked, cheeks shimmering. “Why? Why do you—”
    “Pleasure,” the witch snapped. “For me, and of course the taste. For him it’s that as well, but also comfort. All that pretty
     hair he’s et will twist in his belly and grow out of it, keeping his pelt thick and warm. Now that you’re fit to be cleaned
     and divvied, he’ll burst through that door and take such delight from your misery as suits his appetite.”
    Nicolette shuddered for only an instant before pressing the blade into the old woman’s throat. The hag’s arm slapped her head
     but the girl lunged forward, driving the witch to the ground. The blood spurting into Nicolette’s face blinded her, burning
     her eyes and nose, running into her mouth and down her throat. She choked but pressed harder, the crone bucking and scratching,
     a wheezing, gurgling fart of a noise escaping her shriveled lips.
    Eyes locked shut, Nicolette leaned on the handle until the point burst through the other side. The thrashing gave way to shivering,
     the crone’s legs rattling on the floor. The young woman remained hunched over the witch, the hot liquid warming her hands
     and face more than any fire could. The roof creaked and the girl leaped to her feet in a twinkling, trying to wipe the blood
     from her face.
    The beams groaned again and Nicolette