#tumblr loves to slaughter my art its rude like that

[creative-robot]

I love her???

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A Spooky Story for Halloween

‘Tis the season for spookiness, so I thought I’d share a little story.  Is it related to my muse?  No.  Will it entertain you regardless?  Might do.  And hey, there’s gonna be a ghost lady.  Bitches (by which I mean everyone on tumblr including myself) dig ghost ladies.

Now, I have seen a common complaint about the archetypal Beauty and the Beast story, which is that in most its iterations, the story is about a male monster being redeemed by a woman. “Why can’t a man see past a woman’s outer monstrosity and into the goodness within?”  I hear you cry.  “Must it always be a woman who bears a man’s darkness?  Cannot a man love a monster for who she truly is?”

Well good news, kids: There is in fact a folktale that reverses the dynamic.  As with most fairy tales, there are several different tellings, all valid.  But I intend to share with you my favorite version, known popularly as “King Henry”, but re-imagined by myself as “King Doormat”.  Why King Doormat?  Oh, you’ll see.

Once upon a time in Ye Goode Olde Dayes, there lived a monarch called King Doormat.  He was a paragon of chivalry in the Dark Ages and something of a moron, which is no doubt why he was so beloved by his subjects. When he wasn’t busy being chivalrous and a moron, he liked to go out into the forest with his entourage and hunt, because you’re not expected to be chivalrous to deer, something that his courtiers probably spent quite a while getting King Doormat to understand.

The king and his followers were having a jolly good day in the royal forest not being chivalrous to deer, when suddenly a storm blew in.

“Hey, said King Doormat, “This looks like it’s a real wicked pissah.” He was the King of Massachusetts, apparently.  “Why don’t we take shelter in that hunting lodge?”  The king gestured to nearby Doomdeath Hall, which had stood abandoned for half a century after the last Lord Doomdeath, Gerard Squiggleby, had been eaten alive by ghost monsters.  The king’s retinue, who were less chivalrous than their liege but not much smarter, agreed.

They’d barely managed to break into the wine cellar when suddenly the storm outside got even worse. There was a flash of lightening, a sudden darkness, which is the opposite of lightening, and then a hideous screech that combined all the charm of nails on a chalkboard with the understated dignity of a cat stuck up a chimney.  And then who should come stamping into the hall but a ghost monster?  A lady ghost monster, even.  Let’s let Steeleye Span describe her, because heaven knows I can’t be bothered to invest much energy in this story given I know how it comes out:

Her head hit the roof-tree of the house Her middle you could not span Each frightened huntsman fled the hall And left the king alone Her teeth were like the tether stakes Her nose like club or mell And nothing less she seemed to be Than a fiend that comes from hell

King Doormat, being so exceptionally chivalrous, did not run away, but instead offered her some food.

“I hope venison is OK,” said King Doormat fretfully, “Only my advisors tell me if you let peasants eat venison they turn to stone, so I hope you’re at least, like, a baroness—"

“I wanna eat your horse,” said the lady ghost monster.

“…My what?”

“Your horse.  Kill your horse so I can eat it.”

“Oh, said King Doormat,” realization dawning, “You’re a French ghost.  Well, no judgement here, my father always said it takes all kinds to—”

“Less talking more killing,” growled the lady ghost monster, her teeth lengthening and her hair catching fire.

So off Doormat went to kill his horse, and presented its carcass to the lady ghost monster.  She turned to mist, crawled in one of its nostrils, and ate the whole thing from the inside-out, leaving only its skin.

“Well, that’s literally the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen,” said Doormat, “But at least it’s sort of overwhelmed the feeling of guilt I had for killing my favorite horse—”

“I wanna eat your dogs now,” said the lady ghost monster.

“…Wat.”

“Did I fudging stutter?”

“…But there’s still deer though.”  Doormat gestured helplessly to the three deer carcasses lying in the corner.  “I mean you could probably eat some organ meat without turning to stone, I hear most peasants—”

The lady ghost monster unhinged her jaw like a snake, bent all her joints backward, and made a sound like a foghorn being murdered by an ambulance siren in the king’s face.

“…OK, you can eat my dogs,” squeaked the king.

The lady ghost monster helpfully supervised the king in slaughtering the four dear hunting dogs he’d raised from puppies.  Then she ate them.

“So,” said King Doormat, weeping uncontrollably, “I don’t want to be rude, but—”

“Gonna eat your hunting hawks now.”

“…OK.”

And so the lady ghost monster ate his hunting hawks.  Of course she had him kill them himself, because she didn’t want to break a ghost nail or something.  Then she made him sew up his horse’s hide into a giant wineskin and fill it with wine. The king was thankful for that home economics course he took once, especially that one class where they practiced sewing up horse hides into giant wineskins.

After she finished her drink the king fully expected her leave, because in these backward times ladies and gentlemen usually parted company after dinner, but she just hung around, staring at him with her great big scary lady ghost monster eyes.

“Nice… weather,” the king hazarded, “I mean, I usually prefer sunshine, but I imagine being a ghost monster storms are a bit more your jam, and I can kind of appreciate—”

“That’s racist,” the lady ghost monster said, “No go out and gather heather to make me a bed.”

So he did.  Because of course he did.  He wouldn’t be King Doormat if he didn’t.  He picked all the heather he could outside, in the rain, by himself.  He dried it by the fire, and offered her ermine mantle as a blanket.

“Now get naked and lie next to me,” said the lady ghost monster.

“Yes, lady ghost monster,” said the king, unlacing his tunic.

“And promise me you’ll marry me tomorrow.”

“I promise, lady ghost monster,” said the king, finishing taking off his clothes.

“I’m your fiancée now so you can call me Janet.  And don’t hog all the mantle, I get cold easy.”

“Yes, Janet.  No, Janet,” said the king lying next to her and thinking of England.  Which was a bit weird considering we’d established that he’s the king of Massachusetts, but that’s hardly the strangest thing about this story.  I’d like to remind you that this lady passed up eating three deer, just in case you forgot.  They’re still there, the dead deer.  Uneaten.

The next morning, the sun was shining and the birds were singing.  The air smelled like pine, and lavender, and cotton candy, and honestly it was hell to someone with chronic rhinitis but King Doormat didn’t have that problem. He woke up pretty early but pretended to be asleep for a while in order to postpone acknowledging the terrible reality of his life, and in that moment truly appreciated what it was like to be the 99%.

“Open your eyes,” lilted a beautiful voice next to him.  King Doormat did so, and what should he behold but the fairest lady in all the land.

“Oh goodly king,” said the lady, her voice like sweet music and kittens, “Thou hast broken the curse that ‘twas ‘pon me.  Truly thou art chivalrous, giving me all I asked.   I shall be thine own true love for all thy days, such love that only the bards sing.  What say thee, good king Doormat?  Am I not the most perfect woman for which a heterosexual man could ask?”

And King Doormat replied, “Bitch, you ate my pets.”

No, actually, of course he married her, but frankly I like my ending better.  I mean, everyone gives the miller’s daughter in Rumpelstiltskin a lot of grief for marrying a guy who had repeatedly threatened to kill her, but at least she had the excuse of having basically no choice.  I mean, would you turn down a marriage proposal from a guy who was both the reigning monarch and perfectly happy to kill people for incredibly petty reasons?  Maybe she got to poison him and rule as Queen Regent after the business with Rumpelstiltskin was settled. That would have been a happy ending.

…what was I talking about? Oh, right.  This story was Motif D732 in Stith Thompson's motif index, “The Loathly Lady”.  Gender-inverted Beauty and the Beast.  Not all versions of the story have a protagonist this spineless—I mean, “chivalrous”.  I hope it tickled your spooky bone, and remember: If this night of All Hallows Eve you find yourself in the company of any lady (or gentleman) ghost monsters, be smart and don’t feed them your pets and then agree to marry them.  Odds are they’ll actually get where you’re coming from and leave you alone, because life isn’t like fairy tales.  And frankly some people would prefer to date ghost monsters instead of fair ladies, so no need to break any “curse”.

Happy Halloween!