Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1)

way. The portcullis is firmly closed, and I stand on the outside, peering in. Why should this be different than anywhere else? Only as I stand there, the iron gate levers up with the groan of ancient metal, just enough for me to venture in, if I dare. The sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears drowns out everything else when I cross that foreboding threshold. With no idea what awaits me, I press forward anyway because there’s nothing for me in town. My stepmother thinks of me as another mouth to feed, and my da didn’t contradict her. My sisters love me, but they’re wee girls, who might survive only if I’m not there.
This truly is a fortress. I pass into a neglected courtyard, broken stones and withered vines with ice crystals formed all over them. This place was beautiful once, but it’s suffered from ages of neglect. The ice statues are uncanny in their precision, so lifelike that I expect the people to speak. Two doors lead out of the courtyard, and I have the eerie sensation that someone is watching me silently, monitoring what decision I’ll make. Mayhap my survival even hinges on my ability to choose.
I study both options and find the handle of one more worn and the hinges are oiled. The other doesn’t seem to have been opened in years. Without reflecting too much, I choose the former because I want to meet the monster, don’t I? I have no interest in finding a corner and holing up to starve. It would be best if we could communicate first, but if this beast intends to kill me, let it be quick.
The handle turns readily and the door swings inward with smooth, silent precision, revealing a dark corridor. Though I didn’t expect lamps in such a place, I shiver anyway and force my feet to carry me farther into enemy territory. It smells a bit dank from decaying fabrics and mildewed stone, as if the cold can’t keep the decomposition at bay. What if this place is empty? That would be the ultimate irony, if superstition robbed us of desperately needed supplies. I suppress a small, desperate chuckle.
No, there’s someone—or something—here. Otherwise, how could the crates be inside? Nobody from town enters the keep and comes out alive. The mysterious denizen also opened the jaws of the keep to let me in, swallowing me whole. Possibly I shouldn’t think of such metaphors, but it does feel as if I’ve been devoured and my essence will be absorbed, a little at a time, into the grim hunger of this place.
It still feels like someone is watching me.
I pass through chill and empty hallways, explore the kitchen and larder, which is shockingly well-stocked, thanks to our annual donations. Some of the supplies have spoiled, and I embrace a fortifying wave of anger. To hell with my unseen host. If the monster prefers to play at hide-and-seek, then I’ll elect not to participate. It’s been six months since I saw this much food.
The kitchen is massive, heavy stone walls with an immense worktable in the center, a few stools, and open shelves made of split beams that hold containers of dry beans, peas, and lentils. Other bins contain dry spices, salt, sugar, flour, and cornmeal. Pots and pans hang from the edges of the shelves, other cooking implements as well. Baskets of rotten food line the walls, and sacks in the pantry have gone bad too.
I bang around the kitchen, cleaning, then I make even more noise lighting the enormous stove. This must have been installed later, as it’s more modern than the rest of the room. A kitchen this size is meant to feed an army, and from the oldest stories, this keep used to garrison at least four hundred. As to where the soldiers all went, our legends are unclear. Some say that there was a great battle and they died protecting the lord of this place, who was later cursed for attacking a cantankerous warlock. Other accounts allege that the beast slew all the warriors and took this citadel as his own.
Right now, I don’t care what’s true. All I know is that I have everything I need to make a hearty bean and barley soup. I can even bake some bread with what I’ve found. Bread and hot soup? Beyond luxurious. For a moment, I think of my sisters and their pinched faces. Somehow I doubt the beast will let me leave as easily as I came in, especially if I try to take food I’ve pilfered from the pantry.
Defiantly, I light every candle I can find, until the kitchen glows with brightness. I even build up a fire in the hearth, using bits of broken furniture scattered throughout the keep. I might as well be full, toasty, and comfortable when I perish, if that’s my fate.
Oddly, I’m not terrified. They say that familiarity eases fear, and maybe that’s true because now that I’m inside the keep, I decide that it might just be a neglected building. Perhaps the same is true of the mysterious master who dwells here?
The sense of scrutiny never lets up as I work, but I finish cooking without seeing anyone. The bread is dense and heavy, as the ingredients aren’t fresh, but it still tastes good dipped in my soup. I eat every bite with gusto, and as I’m cleaning my bowl with a crust, someone speaks from the shadows, a menacing rasp that chills me to my marrow.
“Who are you? And why have you invaded my home?”
Spinning in a slow circle, I square my shoulders and try to face the general direction the words came from. “My name is Amarrah Brewer. And that is most unfair, sir. You can scarcely call it an invasion when you let me in.”
“That was none of my doing. The keep does as it pleases.”
I raise a brow. “Are you saying that this place has a mind of its own?”
“Does that surprise