The devil in the chimney

Beauty always comes with a price, and some prices are higher than others. When a downtrodden scullery maid gets the chance to change the course of her life, she must make a terrible choice. Racheal Jones sweeps us away in ‘The devil in the chimney.’—a tale brimming with fiery vengeance. Make a wish. Who knows, it might even come true.

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The devil in the chimney would not shut its mouth, and its whispers were driving Murdag mad.

Take the shoe out of the chimney, it said as she added wood to the kitchen fire. Take the shoe out of the chimney, as she carried heavy buckets of water. Take the shoe out of the chimney, as she chopped onions, swept ashes, scrubbed the floor, and scoured so many pots and pans that her rough hands ached with chilblains.

She’d heard the voice for a week, but no one else had. Not Cook nor the upstairs maid, Jane. Not the Lady of the House. Murdag pretended nothing was wrong. She was a scullion and only thirteen, but not stupid. If they knew the truth, they’d toss her onto the icy street or accuse her of witchcraft.

So it was, take the shoe out of the chimney when the curfew bell rang. It was, take the shoe out of the chimney when she banked the fire, stripped to her shift, and climbed into the sleeping nook built into the kitchen’s stone wall.

‘What shoe?’ Murdag mumbled. ‘Be quiet, demon.’

I knew you could hear me!

Murdag sat up with a yelp, bashed her head against the low ceiling of the nook, and tumbled onto the kitchen floor.

What was that? Are you hurt? You can’t die before you help me.

The voice was a woman’s now. Were there lady devils?

Murdag stood with a wobble and asked, ‘What are you?’

Oh, good. You’re alive. I’ll explain everything, but first, I need you to take the shoe out of the chimney. It’s trapped me inside, and I’d rather talk someplace less cramped.

‘If a shoe trapped you in the chimney, you’re a witch, and I won’t help you.’

Very sensible, but such tricks can trap other magical folk. I’m not a witch. I’m a fairy.

‘Fairies kidnap babies and leave squalling changelings in their place.’

That’s just an excuse for parents to kill their annoying offspring. Fairies are good. We help in the garden, purify water. Some of us even grant wishes to those who do us favors.

Wishes?

Murdag sat on the stool by the hearth.

Before she’d been plagued by the voice, she’d been plagued by dreams of a better life, of finery and luxury. They were hopeless dreams. How could a scullion rise so high?

‘You grant wishes?’ she asked.

Yes. What is your name?

After a pause, she said, ‘Murdag.’ If she decided to help the fairy, she didn’t want her wish granted to the nearest Mary or Catherine.

And what is your age?

‘I just turned thirteen.’

I’ll state this plainly, child. If you take the shoe out of this chimney, I will grant you any wish within my power.

The word yes sat sweetly on Murdag’s tongue, like a fingertip of stolen sugar. She wanted to say it, but wasn’t it dangerous to make deals with devils, witches, or fairies?

‘I need to think on this. After a good night’s sleep.’

Of course. Pleasant dreams.

The voice was silent that night, and Murdag dreamed of wearing a silk dress in a moonlit garden. The next day was wretched. Her head hurt. She burnt her knuckles, and Cook boxed her ears. Jane laughed at her grease-stained apron and called her Mur-dog. The smelly fishmonger grabbed her hips and groped her bottom. Murdag made her decision before afternoon tea.

At midnight, when the house was quiet, she left her sleeping nook and lit a candle stub. She tied her shift’s hem into knots and stood as close as she dared to the white ashes of the banked fire. With the fairy’s guidance, she reached into the chimney and found a hard lump on a ledge within the chimney breast. It was a shabby, leather, child’s shoe. Laughter echoed inside the fireplace, followed by a grunt. Soot rained down, and Murdag stepped back.

‘Please don’t be the devil,’ she whispered, clutching the old shoe to her chest.

A slender, bare foot, black with soot, lowered from within the hearth. A filthy, ragged petticoat followed as the big toe touched stone with an unnatural click.

‘Watch for the coals under the ashes,’ Murdag said.

Balanced on the big toe, the foot turned as smoothly as a weathervane. Another black foot appeared before the fairy crouched low and stepped out of the fireplace. Murdag squealed and scurried behind the kitchen’s wooden table.

The fairy was tall and slender in the frightening way a house spider was tall and slender to a fly. Her matted hair reached her knees. Black soot covered every bit of her but her honey-brown eyes. Where were her wings?

The fairy reached out her black, bone-skinny fingers and said, ‘A broom, please.’

God’s hat! She is a witch.

The only thing that stopped Murdag from running away was the word please. No one had ever said please to her. They just gave her orders and, sometimes, a hard slap. Murdag fetched the broom from its corner and laid it on the table between them. The witch gathered pinches of ground cinnamon and pepper to sprinkle onto its bristles. She poured walnut oil into her palm, then smoothed it over the broom’s handle, whispering strange words. The broom straw twinkled with silver specks.

The witch extended one leg and swept the bristles from her toe up. Soot was replaced with a yellow slipper and a stocking so white it glowed in the dim kitchen. Red satin ribbon tied the stocking above the knee. The witch continued sweeping until she was a fine lady in a stiff yellow gown embroidered with red roses. Her face was the most beautiful Murdag had ever seen, without a single freckle or scar on it. Only her hair remained grimy.

‘It’s grown quite long, hasn’t it? I’ll need your help sweeping it.’

‘I won’t take part in any witchcraft,’ Murdag said.

‘My dear, don’t you know you’re a young witch?’

‘I am not!’

‘Hush, now. You don’t want to wake the household.’

‘I’m not a witch. Witches are evil, and they hang.’

‘Do they now?’ The witch scratched a fingernail against the broomstick. ‘Murdag, I don’t know how long I’ve been up that chimney, but I sensed you, so I talked, and you heard. That means you’ve come into a bit of power, but I have great power. So, put down that vile shoe, and sweep my hair.’

The command felt like a rope tightening around Murdag’s neck. Gasping, she dropped the shoe and took the broom with shaking hands. As she swept the long hair, it became clean, black, and shiny. The pressure on her throat eased, as did her trembling. Her palms and the soles of her feet grew wonderfully warm.

Was this her bit of power? It felt good.

The witch smiled, showing straight, white teeth, then wiggled her fingers in the air. Her black hair floated up in dozens of strands that braided themselves into a large bun. When the witch donned a yellow cap trimmed with pearls, Murdag frowned.

‘What? Am I not elegant?’

‘It’s just… Ma’am.’ Murdag curtsied. ‘That’s not how the Lady of the House wears her hair.’

‘What is the year?’

‘Sixteen thirty-three.’

‘Sixteen?’ the witch hissed.

The pearls in her cap melted like hot fat. Rats and mice ran from their hiding places, squeaking. The witch swiped liquid pearls off her cheek and said, ‘Still.’ All the creatures collapsed. Murdag didn’t know if they were alive or dead until the witch waved a hand. Then the rodents flew into the fireplace, and the flames blazed up. Murdag wrinkled her nose at the odor of burning fur.

‘Don’t tell me you’re sentimental about rats,’ the witch said, tossing her ruined cap in the fire.

‘No.’

‘Good, because I will see all the vermin in this house burn.’ The witch sat on the stool. ‘Now, what do you want, dear? Tell me your wish.’

Murdag sighed.

She wanted so much. A bed with soft pillows. A bathtub filled with hot water. Soft, lovely hands and soft, lovely feet. To smell like roses instead of onions. She wanted pretty dresses and shoes, carriage rides to balls and dances with handsome gentlemen in moonlit gardens.

She wanted a cat. She wanted to be beautiful. And she never wanted to wash so much as a spoon ever again.

‘Speak,’ the witch said.

Murdag confessed her impossible desires before adding, ‘But I don’t want to burn in Hell for taking wishes from a witch.’

‘That’s quite a list. I can grant all that if I make you beautiful and help you marry a rich man. Perhaps a nobleman. Is that acceptable?’

‘What about not burning in Hell?’

‘I don’t know if you’ll burn in Hell or not. I don’t consort with the Devil.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. Never met him, but I hear he wears a dashing hat,’ the witch said with a wink. ‘So, is this deal acceptable?’

‘Yes,’ Murdag said. ‘If my husband is handsome and young.’

‘Kind and generous would be better.’

‘How about kind, generous, handsome, and young?’

‘Oh, is that all? Shall I make him a prince, too?’

‘Can you?’

The witch cackled loudly, and Murdag tapped her finger against her lips.

‘Oh, don’t worry about rousing anyone. I rendered everyone else in the house still when I disposed of the rodents.’

‘Still? Are they…dead?’

‘No. Just still.’

‘Can they hear us?’

‘Only if we’re loud,’ the witch whispered. ‘Shall we be loud?’

She stood, picked up a copper cauldron, and tossed it onto the stone floor. The crash was tremendous. Then, like a madwoman, she threw pots, pans, kettles, meat forks, and skimmers. Murdag had never heard such a commotion. When the metallic echoes faded, she held her breath, expecting shouts, footsteps, and a beating.

Nothing happened. The household was still.

The witch swept her broom through the air, and the objects on the floor clanged close together. They melted, forming a large puddle of metallic liquid. When the witch whispered her odd words, the puddle became hard, silvery, and reflective.

‘Is that a looking glass?’

‘Yes. A mirror fine as any made in Venezia.’

Murdag didn’t know where that was, but she marveled at the reflection of the kitchen ceiling in the glass. Every oak beam was magically doubled. The witch picked up the mirror and pressed it against the wall, where it stuck. She admired her face in the glass.

‘So, dear, have you ever gazed into such a clear mirror?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not. Prepare yourself. You are not comely.’

‘I know,’ Murdag mumbled. She wasn’t allowed in the Lady of the House’s room, with its mirror. She’d only seen hazy images of her own face by staring into buckets of water and windowpanes. But nobody noticed her in the street or in the market, so she knew she was plain.

But that wasn’t true.

When she stepped in front of the witch’s mirror, she flinched. Her round face and small eyes made her appear dull-witted. Freckles and moles covered her pale skin. She smiled to see her teeth, then closed her mouth and covered it with her hand. Her eyes glossed with tears.

She wasn’t plain. She was ugly.

‘Don’t fret,’ the witch said. ‘I’ll make you gorgeous.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes. Take off your shift.’

‘I cannot. It’s indecent.’

‘Your rich husband will see you naked. You’ll need an enchanting body to match your enchanting face.’

Murdag discarded her shift and stood naked in front of the mirror, flushed with shame. The glass reflected every flaw. Despite the fire, chill bumps covered her skin. She looked as plucked and pink as a raw goose. Purple bruises, from the fishmonger’s fingers, dotted her hips.

‘You’re dreadfully thin. I’ll add some curves and years. You shall be sixteen, a rosebud newly bloomed. Do you want to watch, or would you prefer to be surprised?’

‘I don’t know.’

The witch stroked the broom’s sparkling bristles down Murdag’s bare arm. The warmth returned, but when she saw ripples under her skin, wriggling like worms, she screamed and closed her eyes.

‘Peculiar, isn’t it?’

‘Horrible,’ Murdag said.

‘Transformation often is.’

The witch cast her spells, as Murdag kept her eyes closed tight and clenched her fists. The broom swept her arms, breasts, belly, and legs. Her front and back. Her face. She never felt the worms, but she imagined them writhing inside her. What if this was all a devilish trick? What if the witch changed her into a hideous monster as punishment for her vanity?

But, as she worked, the witch cried out ‘Lovely!’ or ‘Incredible!’ so Murdag took shuddering breaths and waited. Trust was her only choice now.

‘Turn away from the mirror. Right here. Open your eyes so I can change them.’

Lashes longer than Murdag had ever possessed clung together before she blinked them apart.

‘What color would you like your eyes to be?’ the witch asked. ‘Blue as a bluebell? Green as a frog?’

‘Can they be honey-colored, like yours?’

‘Of course. Now, eyes are tricky. We don’t want them spinning around like marbles at your wedding, do we? So, hold still.’

The word still was a spell, but Murdag didn’t collapse like the rats and mice. She stood motionless instead of recoiling, as the witch’s fingers pried her eyeballs out of their sockets. It didn’t hurt, but her vision went red. Something wet and warm, like watery porridge, dribbled down her cheeks. She remembered the yellow cap’s melted pearls and whimpered.

‘Patience,’ the witch said. ‘Almost done.’

She pressed Murdag’s eyes back into place and closed their lids, before turning her back around. When the word unstill released Murdag, she sobbed into her hands.

‘You took my eyes.’

‘I put them back. Stop fussing and look. I’ve done so well!’

Murdag opened her eyes and saw a beautiful, naked woman in the mirror.

That can’t be me.

But the vision in the glass matched her movements. They both touched their throats, and Murdag felt hot skin.

The woman seemed made of light, glowing like the windows in the cathedral, like an angel made of colored glass. She had golden hair, pink lips, and honey-brown eyes. A long neck, womanly curves, and breasts the size of apples, not Murdag’s little strawberries. The woman smiled, revealing white, even teeth. There were no bruises on her hips. She was flawless, except for one hand.

Murdag looked down. The right hand was soft and lovely just as she’d wished, with clean, pink nails. The left one was still a scullion’s hand— red, rough, and dirty with ash, its burnt knuckles scabbed over.

‘I’m not finished,’ she said.

‘Of course not. I don’t know the latest style, but I assume it’s not walking down the street naked, no matter how exquisite you are.’

After a flurry of glittering broom sweeps, Murdag wore a pale blue, satin gown. The toes of blue slippers poked from under the hem. A white ribbon wove through her hair, and crystal earrings, tiny as raindrops, shivered at her earlobes.

‘I meant this,’ Murdag said, holding out her ugly hand.

‘Ah, yes. That’s your sealing hand.’

‘My sealing hand?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does it seal?’

‘In simple terms, it seals a deal. It seals my spell work.’ The witch stood behind Murdag, taller than her. Their identical eyes met in the mirror. ‘Think of sealing like baking. Without heat, what is a pie?’

‘Unfinished.’ Murdag understood and shivered. ‘Are you saying, without sealing, I’ll always have this awful hand?’

‘Yes, and the rest of the spell will fade.’

‘When?’

‘In a few hours. A day at most.’ The witch shrugged. ‘But don’t worry. You won’t fade to nothingness. You’ll just become yourself again.’

‘I don’t want to become myself again!’ Murdag looked at the beautiful woman in the mirror, saw desperate tears in her eyes. She even cried prettily, unlike Murdag who got red-faced. ‘I want to be her forever. How do I seal the deal?’

‘Easily,’ the witch said, smiling. ‘You set this house on fire.’

‘What? I…I can’t.’

‘You set this house on fire,’ the witch repeated, her smile gone. ‘That is the price of this magic.’

Murdag gazed at the snapping flames in the hearth. The black, burnt bodies of rats cooked on the embers.

‘What about the Lady of the House and Cook and Jane?’

‘I told you I would see all the vermin in this house burn. They trapped me in that chimney for nearly a century.’

'They didn’t put the shoe in the chimney.’

‘It’s their house.’

‘But murder is a sin. Let me seal the deal another way,’ Murdag begged. ‘Please.’

‘No. Remarkable magic requires a remarkable sealing. If you choose not to act, I’ll burn down the house myself, for vengeance, and you, dear, will be free to make your way in this world however you wish.’

With all her wishes undone.

She would be ugly again, thirteen, a penniless scullion without employment or a home. The only survivor of a house fire in wintertime. She’d become a beggar, then a whore.

What were the distant punishments or rewards of Eternity when compared to the dangers of this life? This very night?

Murdag looked back in the mirror. Beauty would change everything. It would give her choices, make her safe. Only a suffering saint would make the virtuous choice.

She took the broom from the witch and lit its bristles in the fireplace. She walked up the kitchen’s stone steps, through a dark corridor, and into the dining room. She hesitated at its red velvet curtains, staring at the fire’s light, trying to remember if the stilled rodents had shrieked when they burned.

‘Remember,’ the witch said, behind her. ‘You can always ask God for forgiveness.’

Murdag shoved the fiery broom into the curtains, and the fabric ignited. She dropped the broom and stepped back, as the hungry fire consumed wallpaper birds and ornate plasterwork.

‘Well done,’ the witch said. ‘We should probably leave.’

They ran out of the burning house and down the street. Showers of hot fire rained down. The witch laughed when the screaming began. Not the screams of a household, but the screams of a neighborhood built of oak and thatch. The light of the crescent moon disappeared behind thick, gray smoke. Murdag coughed. Tears chilled her cheeks. She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop running until they’d crossed the bridge that spanned the city’s wide, icy river.

‘Look at that!’ the witch said, her wild eyes reflecting fire.

‘I can’t.’

'Look.’

Compelled, Murdag turned. The far shore of the river and half the bridge blazed with flames as tall as Prisoners’ Tower. Church bells rang in alarm. Burning people jumped into the river. They would drown or freeze. Others would roast.

‘How many souls?’ Murdag whispered. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me.’

‘What a magnificent sealing!’ The witch raised her arms and spun in circles. ‘You will be a beauty for the ages, a beauty deep into your years. You will inspire poets, have any man you desire. Look at your hand. Look! It’s done.’

Murdag gazed down at two trembling hands, right and left, both soft and lovely.

‘It’s done? I won’t change back?’

‘Never.’

The hands—her hands—were beautiful. Made to wear jeweled rings and hold roses and receive the adoring kisses of a handsome prince. She touched her blue gown, her golden hair, her pink lips, her smooth skin. She turned away from the fire.

‘When I’m rich, I will give to the poor,’ she vowed. ‘I will be good. I will do good works.’

‘Of course, you will, dear, but first, let’s find an inn that’s not burning. I’m starving. Aren’t you starving?’

They walked toward darker, colder streets and found The White Pidgeon. It served delicious beef stew, bread, and cheese. Between delicate sips of red wine, the witch said, ‘You must choose a new name, Murdag. Yours is dreadful.’

Murdag finished her third mug of wine, feeling warm and pleasantly dazed. Her vision and her conscience blurred at the edges. The screams inside her head, the screams of the burning, had almost faded away. Overheard whispers replaced them.

Beautiful. Ravishing. Angel.

On the night of a devastating fire, everyone in the room talked only of her. Some gazed openly, spellbound. A delirious joy simmered inside Murdag, as if her blood were broth.

Beauty wasn’t just choice. It wasn’t just safety. It was power.

‘I like the name Eleanor,’ she said.

‘Excellent choice.’

The witch looked at the tall gentleman standing by the hearth. Knowing he appreciated bold women, she dared a wink. When he laughed, the feathers in his dashing hat gleamed red in the firelight.

Racheal Jones has been published in Spider Magazine, the Black Hare Press Dark Moments, and has short stories in two anthologies: Heartsick by the Edinburgh Writing Awards and The Jerboa Lit Anthology #1. In 2023, she self-published 26 Tiny Tombstones, a collection of original short stories and illustrations inspired by Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies. She lives in Texas with her husband and their cat, Minion.