The Immortal Gazette Presents: A Tale Told by Rumpelstiltskin
—The camera flickers on, revealing a dimly lit studio adorned with aged tomes, peculiar trinkets, and a fireplace crackling with an eerie green flame. A gnarled wooden chair sits at the center, and upon it, a small, twisted man with piercing golden eyes and a wicked grin drums his long fingers against the armrests. He leans forward, tilting his head as if listening to some distant whisper before speaking—
"Ah, so you’ve come to hear a tale, have you? Good. Good. I do love an audience. But mind you, this isn’t some sweet bedtime story wrapped in silk and lace. No, no, no. This one is soaked in blood and bone, with just a sprinkle of vengeance—my favorite seasoning.
Let me take you back to a time when the dead did not stay buried and justice had a… heavier hand.
Once upon a time—oh, how I adore those words!—there lived a man, a simple man, with a kind wife and a heart full of longing. You see, they had no child, and in those days, that was a sorrow that grew heavier with each passing year. But fate, ever fickle, heard their pleas. Beneath the branches of an ancient juniper tree, the wife prayed for a son. And lo! The tree granted her wish. But, oh, my dear listeners, there is always a price, is there not? The woman perished soon after childbirth, her life slipping into the roots of that very tree, binding her to it forever.
Time passed, as it always does, and the man remarried. Ah, but this was no gentle stepmother, oh no. This was a woman with a heart of iron and eyes that gleamed with envy. She despised her stepson, for he stood between her own daughter and fortune. And in the twisted way of those who crave power, she hatched a plan—one that dripped with malice.
One day, she called the boy inside, her voice as sweet as honey but her heart as black as pitch. She handed him an apple, but when he reached for it—snap! Down came the lid of a heavy chest, severing his head in a single, brutal stroke. Tsk, tsk, poor lad. But she wasn’t done yet. Oh, no.
Thinking herself ever so clever, she placed his head back upon his shoulders and tied a scarf around his neck. When her own daughter returned, she cooed, 'Wake your brother, dear.' And when the girl touched him, the head rolled to the floor like a wayward ball. Oh, the screams! Delicious, weren’t they?
But the mother, heartless as winter, silenced the girl’s cries. 'Waste not, want not,' she muttered, and set to work. That night, the father dined well, savoring the stew his wife had so generously prepared. He never once suspected that with every bite, he devoured his own son.
Now, here is where things get… interesting.
The stepsister, wracked with grief, gathered the boy’s bones and carried them to the juniper tree—the same tree that had granted his mother’s wish all those years ago. She laid them beneath its twisted roots and wept. And then… ahh, the wind shifted. The leaves trembled. And from the branches, something new was born.
A bird. But not just any bird. A creature of shimmering feathers and an enchanted song. It flew through the village, singing a tune that made the ears tingle and the spine shudder. And wherever it went, it collected gifts—a golden chain, a pair of red shoes, and from a miller, a weighty millstone. Oh yes, it was gathering the tools of justice.
And then, back to the house it soared, where its killers lay unsuspecting. First, it dropped the golden chain into the hands of the father—blind, foolish, hungry father. Then, the red shoes before the sister, a comfort for her sorrow.
And finally, for the stepmother? Ah, something much, much heavier.
The bird released the millstone from its claws, and down, down, down it fell, striking the wretched woman upon the head. Crack! And just like that, she was crushed beneath its weight, her wicked deeds repaid in full.
And the bird? Gone. In its place stood the boy, whole once more, his life restored as if fate had simply corrected an error in its grand design.
Now, isn’t that a story to savor? Justice, revenge, a taste of the macabre—it has all the best flavors!
But tell me, my dear mortals … if a child’s spirit can return in the form of a vengeful bird, what else might be lurking in the trees around you?"
—He leans back, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief as the camera flickers, the eerie green flame casting strange shadows against the walls. And then—darkness.
