On a hill lived a young woman in a small cottage. Smoke wafted up from its tiny chimney every afternoon as the sun set, and the light from the fireplace could been seen from far and wide. The cottage was made from a dark red brick stone, and sported a hay thatched roof. If one spotted it they would describe it as “a very warm place”. Each day as the sun rose and fell, a number of small men would file in and out of the little house, singing shanties day by day. Every once in a while, the young woman would emerge from her little home and pick berries and flowers in the nearby forest. No one from the nearby village had been to the little cottage and knew nothing of its inhabitants, but all their experiences with it had been positive.
Only two people had ventured up to the cottage ever in the history of the village. An old woman, and a regal young man. Neither had returned, and neither had been seen since. Many of the villagers simply assumed that they continued on their travels after stopping at the cottage to barter for some food or water. Although there were those who had their suspicions. Suspicions, which found themselves dragging toward the dark and mysterious. One theory depicted the young woman as a scantily clad harlot, adorning her skin in dangerous and arcane symbols. She would use her wiles to lure demons from hell into the land of the living to cast down those who crossed her. Some even went so far as to accuse her of killing the prince and the old hag. Feeding their bodies to the tiny men she kept so close, and using their bones for her hellish rituals. This accusation of cannibalism has no grounds in reality. Simply fiction.
A second theory depicts the woman as a witch, cloaked in robes equally covered from head to toe in strange colours and pictures. Snakes that would slither across her body at their own volition, a beating heart covering her own, and an enormous cross emblazoned along her back and arms. One witness claimed to have seen the woman bleeding herself from her palms and feet, chanting into the dark of the night. Another, saw the woman sprinkling an odd concoction along the perimeter of the village. Causing allegedly, a ring of small cap mushrooms to grow in a perfect circle around the town. A terrifying discovery for the townsfolk to say the least, little do they know that a ring such as they had was a warden against bad spirits.
The final, and correct theory takes aspects from both previous estimates. She does in fact summon demons from hell, and she is in fact covered in strange symbols, she does not, nor will she ever, eat another human being. Murder, that’s an entirely different story. Inside the little thatched roof, red brick cottage, lies a woman in a nightgown. She is curled up in her cot, all but a single tattoo ridden arm covered in duvet. Her skin is white like snow, giving her name. Snow White. Her eyes open and she lazes out of bed to her feet. Through the silky nightgown, symbols with incredible colour shine, undulating with each breath. A snake serpentines through the swamp of motifs, arcing and spiralling around a bloody splintered cross arched across her back. She was once coveted for her pale white skin, but now, one would be lucky to set eyes on her without being blinded. Not by her looks, dear god no, but by a sharp stab to the eyes with a stiletto blade hidden under her garters.
Each morning a set of seven gold golems emerge from her lair to mine deep into the earth, searching for something. One certain days she herself leaves her cottage to scavenge for materials for a vast array of spells and incantations she cooks up within her abode. Herbicide rain, vampire sunbeams, and carnivorous russet roots among many. Often times she would collect the wings of fairies. Capturing them in nets and tearing off their limbs leaving them to bleed to death of be eaten by nearby predators. Unfortunately the most humane of her daily practices. It was miracle if a passing traveller wasn’t consumed by one of her magic traps, sending them to a place too terrible to describe. Leaving her with just a small phial of liquid, distilled from the person’s whole being.
She would use this phial of human juice to power one of her favourite and most powerful spell. A little bit of white cap mushroom powder, mixed with jade dust, scattered around the small village at the bottom of the hill, would give her the perfect shield to keep what she was about to unleash inside the confines her test area. She would then take the phial of human essence, and add a touch of snake venom keeping sure to slosh the solution until it was perfectly mixed. Lastly she would dissolve a single fairy’s wing in the mixture whispering an incantation as she did so. Having finished her spell she would place the small phial in the center of town, running as quickly as she could to the other side of her shield. Upon the breaking of day, as the sun struck the phial, it would shatter. Unleashing upon the town a plethora of creatures that would render many in multiple pieces. She would watch from her cottage grinning, her alabaster skin juxtaposed to her red lips dripping with bloodlust as she watched the townsfolk fight for their lives and fail. Every use, conjured up an entirely different set of monsters to tear upon the village. A lottery of sorts for her to cash in her incredible sexual desire for death.
Once every villager had been slaughtered, the creatures would dissolve and fall into dust, blowing away in the wind. The fairy’s wing now taking its part in the whole affair. The blind optimism and love streaming from the dissolved fairy’s wing coming into contact with the mushroom cap wall would reset the entire village to the moment immediately before the phial broke. Allowing Snow to continually torture and murder the village to her heart’s content. No villager has ever been up to her cottage because, none of the villagers ever survived the night.