The following short story is fiction.  It is a retelling of a Grimm Fairy Tale.  It was selected from a list of Grimm Fairy Tales with a random number generator.  You can find the original story here.  The original picture below I found on creative commons.  You can find it here.

This is Part Two.  If you haven’t read Part One, the following story won’t make a lot of sense to you.  Click here to read part one.

Hunter stopped and sat atop the old brick wall before dropping over into the strange back yard.  The yard was narrow, like the house, and only thirty feet deep.  The un-gated, thick brick wall ran all around it creating a green oasis in the middle of the city.

All the house lights were off.  Through the windows of the back door, Hunter could make out the green glow of a security pad on the kitchen wall.  ”One problem at a time,” Hunter mumbled to himself.

The only obstacle in the back yard Hunter could see was a large, muscular dog asleep on the back steps.  Hunter didn’t know dog breeds, but he knew it wasn’t a pit bull.  All the gang bangers had Pit Bulls, so Hunter was familiar with them.  This dog had the muscles of a Pit, but it’s nose was pointy.  Hunter had no doubt it was deadly.   He scanned the yard for something, anything he could use against the beast if it awoke.

Hunter grabbed the wall tight, to keep from falling forward.  One of the three gang bangers in the alley was nudging him from behind.  Hunter glared back.

“Hurry up, boy,” Nate mouthed.

“There’s a dog,” Hunter whispered loudly.

The three thug giants stared back at him with apathy.

Hunter shook his head in anger.  He could see the fear in their faces.  Too afraid to do the deed themselves, but not too afraid to send in a kid they didn’t know into the arena.   Hunter looked along the wall and saw something he could use.  Confident, he let himself down the other side of the brick, trying not to make a sound.  He grabbed a flat head, iron shovel that was leaning against the back gate to the right.  He gripped it tight with both hands, ready to swing it in case the dog woke up.  He tip toed through the yard, trying to keep down the squishing sound of his shoes in the mud.  He kept both eyes locked on the dog.  It lay on its stomach, snoring.  He timed his steps with the rise and fall of its belly.  The animal looked peaceful, completely unaware.

It stirred and Hunter froze mid-step.  He was to close now.  If the dog awoke and came after him, there would be no escape.   Hunter commanded his heart to stop pounding.  He’d never owned a dog.  As he inched forward he wondered what having pets would be like.  He thought he’d like having a dog, but not a big one like this one.  Maybe a small one.  But it would have to be smart.  He’d have no patience for a stupid dog who slept through home invasions.

Hunter was upon the beast now, standing over it.  He watched it snore, unaware of the danger.  Hunter raised the shovel above his head with both hands until the blade was even with his eyes.  He inhaled deeply and then held the air in his chest.  With all his might he released his breath and brought the blade down on the animals neck.  There was no bark, no yelp.  The animals eyes popped open with terror as its spine was severed.  It’s legs flailed for a brief second, an then went still.  Blood sprayed across Hunter’s legs.

Hunter was disappointed.  It was the first time he’d taken a life.  He thought there would be more to it, more return on investment.  Looking at the dog he wondered if it was more peaceful sleeping or in death.

Hunter tossed the shovel into the grass behind him and walked up the back steps, stepping over the dog’s corpse.  He surveyed the back wall of the house.  There was a strong looking door with six small windows in it and a small dead-bolt.  He moved closer and looked through one of the glass pains.  The alarm panel read “DISARMED.”  He strained to see the dead-bolt.  He couldn’t get a clear view, but it looked like a simple turn latch on the inside.   This all seemed to easy.  Could he really just break a window and unlock the handle?   Hunter decided against it.  It needed to be harder than that.  To the left of the door was a thin alley. Tucker glanced down it.  The other end was blocked by a tall, black, iron gate.  On the opposite side of the gate, he saw one of the three gangsters standing, arms crossed, glaring at him.  Having no desire to have his every move scrutinized, Hunter choose not to investigate the side of the house.

Next to the door on the right, about three feet over, was a small, thin window several feet off the ground.  Hunter deduced it probably sat above a sink.  He pulled over a black, metal patio chair and stood on it.  Pressing up with his palms, he tried to force the window open.  To his surprise, it moved with ease.

This gave Hunter pause.   What type of person felt so secure at night in downtown Baltimore that they didn’t lock their windows or set their alarm?  Whose house was he breaking into exactly?

He hoisted himself up onto the window ledge with both hands and then shimmied through the small window head first.   He slide across a white marble sink and crashed onto the floor.  Hunter lay still on the black stone tile, waiting to see if anyone had heard his clumsy arrival.  The house remained silent.  He stood and took in his surroundings.  The kitchen was immaculate.  There was a long black granite counter top under ornate white wooden and glass cabinets.  The counter ended in a massive silver refrigerator and freezer.   In the middle of the room was a black granite kitchen island.  Various pristine appliances were spread out along the counter-top: a large silver blender, an fancy looking coffee pot with over ten buttons, a block filled with gleaming silver knife handles.  Hunter stood and soaked it all in.  He wondered what it was like to live in such a fancy castle.  ”These people get respect,” he thought, enviously.

Beyond the kitchen was a large dining room, then a living space with comfortable couches and chairs, then stairs and a bathroom.  Past the stairs was another living space and the front door.  Hunter spent time in each.  He was in awe of the pictures from strange places, the beautiful lamps, and the soft rugs.   The owners of this home knew luxury the likes of which Hunter had never seen.  He felt like a five-year-old left alone to exploring City Hall.  Everything was delicate, and strong, and valuable, and specifically placed.  He could have simply opened the front door and finished his work for the evening, but he wanted to see and feel more.  Quietly, he ventured up the stairs.

On the second floor he found two large rooms.  One was a large office.  Excluding the front wall, which was dominated by two windows looking out onto the street, the room was wall to wall books in dark wooden shelves.  There was a giant desk in the middle of the space with a leather rolling chair behind.  There were no papers on the desk – just a lone pen in a thin holder.  On the other side of the desk were two identical wooden chairs.  They were thin and straight.

The second room appeared to be a workout room.  The floor was white, but padded.  It gave slightly as Hunter walked across it.  He’d never stepped on anything like it.  The walls were mirrors with a brown hand rail in the middle.  In the far corner was a weight bench and a rack of free weights on either side.  Just as Hunter was thinking about trying out the weight bench, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket.  He took it out and read the text.  It was Nate.  ”HURRY THE F UP,” it read.  Hunter ignored it.  He didn’t want the gang-bangers coming in until he’d  taken in all there was to see in this magical place.

Hunter continued upstairs.  The third floor was not what he expected.  It was one large room.  The carpet was soft under his shoes.  It was difficult to tell in the dark, but the walls appeared to be some shade of pink.  To his right was a king sized, white canopy bed overflowing with white rumpled sheets and pillows.  On either side of the bed were small white end tables filled with knick-knacks, an alarm clock, and small jewelry boxes.   On the right side of the bed was another door.  Hunter bet it led to a walk-in closet housed over the kitchen.

To Hunter’s the left was a white desk.  On both sides of the desk were matching white book cases filled with books of all sizes.  Under the windows on the wall adjacent to the desk was a long, padded bench.  Hunter thought about going to try it out, but he was worried the three thugs would see him in the window.  On the opposite wall from the desk hung a huge flat screen TV.  In front of it was a brown, leather couch with purple throw pillows.  Hunter couldn’t help himself.  He went and sat on the couch, stretching his arms out along the back.  He imagined what it would be like to watch a Ravens game  on the massive screen.  He put his feet up on the small, round coffee table in front of him, closed his eyes, and laid down a quiet beat on the leather with his fingers.

Another text buzzed in his pocket.  He set forward and retrieved it.   “WHERE THE F R U?” it read.   Nate again.  Hunter put the phone back in his pocket and re-assumed his position of comfort, imagining again the couch and TV were his.

A stirring to his right startled him.  Hunter sat up straight, alert and ready to run.  His heart was pounding. It was all he could hear.   He slowly looked over toward the rustling.  Then he saw it.  How had he missed it?  There was someone in the bed.

Hunter stood and walked over.  Mixed into the sheets and pillows was a girl.  She had long blond hair and smooth, untouched skin.  She was stunningly beautiful.  Hunter stood, admiring her.  The girl couldn’t have been to much older than he was.  She was a work of art, like a marble statue of a sleeping goddess.   Hunter thought she should be put in a glass case and placed in a museum for the whole world to appreciate.

Instinctively he knew this is what the three men outside had come for.  This was their prize.  The perfect princess in the pink room.  They wanted to spoil her, to put their hands on her, to ruin her.  Violent men like them were always destroying beautiful things.  Hunter knew he couldn’t allow it.  Determination built in his soul.  Racing through scenarios and possibilities, a plan began to assemble itself in his mind.

Forgetting about exploring the fourth floor, Hunter strode back to the stairs.  He paused before heading down.  He needed a trophy.  Something he could hold and remember the luxury and beauty of the magical castle.  He walked over to the first white book case and scanned the titles.  He ran his fingers across the books, strumming their bindings.  His eyes fell on one that appealed to him: “The Talented Mister Ripley” by Patrica Highsmith.  Hunter took it and then marched toward the stairs.

“All clear.  Come in small window in back,” he texted.

“OPEN THE F-ING FRONT DOOR,” his cousin replied.

“Cant.  Back window,” Hunter sent back.  Then he waited.

He heard them whispering about the bloody dog.  They were laughing.  He prepared himself.  He heard the first of the three grunt as he lifted himself through the window.

“What if they don’t come in head first?” Hunter worried for a brief moment, but it was to late to turn back now.

He saw the Hispanic gang-banger’s hands on the sink.  One more second.  ”Wait for the 666 tattoo,” he told himself.

Hunter gripped the metal kitchen knife so hard it bruised his palm.  As soon as the top of the thug’s head appeared, Hunter struck.  He leapt up from his crouch next to the sink and  jabbed the blade with a single hard thrust into the base of the bangers skull.  The man’s body went tense, then limp.  Hunter pulled him through the window as he returned to his crouch.

Unable to see what had happened to the first, the second thug grunted and wheezed as he lifted himself up in the same way the first had.  Hunter’s plan was working perfectly.  He waited silent and still again until the man’s head appeared.  Again with a single motion he drove the knife through the base of the man’s skull.  And again the man fell without a sound.   Only Nate to go.

In the days to come, as he reflected on the night’s events, Hunter would wonder why he felt no remorse driving the knife through the base of his cousin’s skull.  The first two he did not know and cared nothing for, but the third was kin.  It troubled him that he’d hesitated more when he killed the dog than he did when he split his family’s blood.  Looking in the mirror later that morning, as he washed the blood spatter from his face, he was surprised by his lack of remorse.  ”Maybe this is my thing?” he asked himself.

Before leaving, Hunter riffled through the pockets of the three men.  He left their wallets, watches, knives, and guns.  None of these things had any value to him.  All he took were their cell phones.  He needed proof he’d done the deed.  Digging out the phones was messy work.  He slipped and slides in their blood as he turned their bodies over.    Once the phones were in hand, Hunter stepped back to admire his work.  Each gang wore different colors, but they all bled red.  He felt like an artist.  He needed to sign it.  Like a kindergartner finger painting, he scrawled in blood on the floor, “The Hunter Was Here!”

Hunter looked at the window, worried he might get hurt if his blood soaked hands and shoes slipped on the sleek sink.  Then he laughed.  ”No need for a window when you can walk out the door,” he said aloud to the three dead men.  He strode over to back door, undid the latch, and stepped out into the night without looking back.

It was raining again.  The cool drops on his face soothed him heart and made him smile.  He stretched his hands over his head and let the rain hit him in the face.  Then he grabbed the patio chair, carried it to the back wall, and used it to help him climb over.

To be continued…