Little Wooden Boy

This is my telling of a favourite fairy tale, with a little bit of a twist.

This story begins and ends with tragedy, as some stories must.

It all began in a small house, in a village whose name has been lost to the pages of time. The sky was black with ominous clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind was cold and harsh, twisting the branches of the trees into submission. The trees, bent to harsh fractals, snapped their fingers free.  It rattled the wooden boards that covered the windows for the night, trying to intrude on the scene that was unfolding.

The room was barely lit, with only a few meagre candles to keep the darkness at bay. The light flickered and danced, casting demonic shadows around the room. In the room was a single bed, and beneath the covers that were twisted with blood and sweat was a woman. Her back arched suddenly, and a strangled cry escaped her lips as she lurched on the bed. The woman bucked again, her right hand gripping a knot of the sheets, the other clutching at the hand of the man that was beside her bed.

The man stroked her hand, watching at a loss as the woman screamed again, the sheets staining a deeper red as she thrashed beneath them. He turned, rage and pain in his eyes as he rounded on the woman that was crouched at the end of the bed.

“Do something!!” He yelled as the woman in the bed bellowed with agony.

The woman straightened her spine, her crooked fingers soaked bright crimson. Her face was set hard and straight, failing to let any emotion breach her expression.

“I cannot save both of them,” the woman said. “You are going to have to choose between her and the baby.”

The man looked down at his wife as she thrashed about on the bed, her face tight with pain. He opened his mouth to answer before he gasped as her hand clamped down harder onto his. His head swivelled, looking back down at her before she gritted her teeth and pulled her torso up off of the bed. Her entire body shook with the effort, her muscles tightening as she gritted her teeth and hissed.

“Save the baby,” she gasped, her voice almost a guttural snarl. “I choose the baby.” She jerked, her entire body moving as she extended her hand to him. Within her sweat slicked palm was a little wooden lion. She gasped, offering him the toy that he had carved for their child. Her eyes were wide and wild, and she jerked again, letting it fall to the ground with a tiny clatter.

The man gripped her hand tighter, feeling hot tears gathering in his eyes. “No..” He stuttered “No..”

Even as he said it the woman shook her head, her face contorted with agony. “Save the baby,” she said. “Please, save my baby.” Then her back arched, as if she were being pulled towards the sky from the middle of her spine, before an inhuman howl escaped her lips. The sound grew in intensity and the man reeled as if he had been punched in the face, before he turned to the woman at the end of the bed. Tears poured down his face, and all he could do was nod before the woman started to work.

As the thunder drew ever nearer, her screams grew louder with intensity as more blood soaked the twisted sheets of the bed. Suddenly, a new voice joined the chorus of shrieks as the woman pulled forth a blood covered child. Its small maw was open, and it screamed its distress to the world as the woman wrapped it quickly in dirty cloth.

For a moment, there was no sounds other than the baby’s cry. The woman had stopped, listening in silent agony as the cries of her baby permeated the air. She lifted her head, the effort of the action evident on her face as the woman knelt next to her. The baby squirmed in her arms like a maggot, still covered in her blood, but still the woman smiled. She reached up, her fingers brushing the baby’s fragile skull.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, as the baby continued to cry.

Then, she suddenly snapped back onto the bed, her eyes open wide as she sucked a breath deep into her lungs. Each of her muscles tightened, her entire body locked in painful tetanus as her eyes stared into the nothingness above her. The breath in her lungs dribbled over her lips, and her muscles unknotted letting her body fall limp onto the bed. Her eyes, remained open, staring unseeingly towards the stars.

The man gripped her hand tightly, even then feeling the warmth leave the fingers of his beloved. His eyes swam with tears, flooding his face with hot sorrow. His body slumped forwards, burying his face onto the side of the bed as he sobbed. His body heaved with paroxysms of pain and sadness, as he cried for his loss. Through his tears he could see the blurry outline of the toy that had been dropped and his fingers closed around it. His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white as he was blinded once again by his tears.

The only thing he heard was another gasp, and he turned. His vision was blurry with tears, but he could see the woman looking down at the baby in her arms.

“What is it?” He asked, standing and taking hold of the bundle. As he looked down, he felt bile rise in his throat. The baby’s skin was mottled with large blots of blue and purple, as if it had been dropped in a vat of blueberries. The baby opened its mouth, its blind blue eyes wide with terror and confusion as no sound breached the air.

“Do something!” The man yelled, holding the baby out so the woman could take it back.

The woman looked at the baby flabbergasted, watching as it opened and closed its mouth like a landed fish. “I… don’t know what to do,” she said, as tears started to leak down her face. She held her blood covered hands in front of her, as if warding the baby away.

The baby turned deeper blue, its eyes turning crimson as blood vessels burst in its eyes. Then it stiffened, straining hard, before the baby fell slack in the blankets that surrounded it. There was a moment of silence, as the candles flickered in the small room. The thunder rumbled, and a flash of lightning flashed, illuminating the room a little more for a fraction of a second. The woman backed out of the door and out into the storm, leaving it open as the first droplets of rain started to hit the ground.

The man stumbled backwards, the baby still in his arms. His mind was searing in his skull as he turned and placed the baby on the bed. He straightened, looking down at the bodies that were smothered by the bloody sheets that held them.

The next thing that he knew he was out the door and into the storm.

The wind and the rain lashed his skin, intensifying the agony that the man was already in. He ran blindly, unable to see through the rain and the tears. Shadows latched onto him and tried to pull him down, but he shrugged them off and continued. He had no idea where he was going, all he knew was that he wanted to get away.

Away.

When he finally stopped, his legs were shaking, and he fell to his knees in the mud. As the storm raged around him, he tipped his face to the sky and roared back. His voice rasped with the pain of his loss, tipping his body forwards onto his hands. The rain beat him down to the ground, slamming into him over and over again until he had nothing left. He sobbed quietly as the wind stole his voice, just as fate had stolen his wife and child.

Then he opened his fingers, letting the small wooden toy that he had clutched in his fingers fall to the ground. For a fraction of a second the little lion looked at the world with innocent eyes, before it was swallowed by the mud.

That is how the story of Jepetto the happy toymaker ends.

That is how our story begins.

 

 

 

Years later, the man sat behind his counter, watching as people passed in front of his shop. He could only watch as their murky shadows passed by the dirty glass window. All day he would do this, watch helplessly as people passed the toy store by. Once it had been magnificent, brimming with bright colours and streamers, and he created the most wonderful toys for miles around. All of the children had lined up, fighting like irritated geese before they stepped into his store to look upon the new wonders he had created for them.

All sorts of wonderful toys had lined the store, sporting their bright cheerful paint and their chipper smiles. The children had fallen in love with the man and his magical store, and for a while he and his wife had been happy. Everyone had been happy, with the toys and the magic of the little store.

After his wife and child had passed, everything had changed.

The people of the town suddenly became indifferent to Jepetto and his toy store, acting as if he and the building had disappeared from the face of the earth. The children of the town were gone, and the magical toys that lined the shelves became covered with layer after layer of dust. Their happy eyes and their bright paint lost their lustre over time, and so did the magical man that had made them.  As the time grew longer Jepetto grew older, watching helplessly as his life slipped away. Dripping endlessly like water from a leaky tap, waiting patiently until the well finally ran dry. 

Jepetto sat perched on his stool, his glasses barely hanging onto the edge of his nose as he looked down again. Between his withered fingers he held a small piece of wood, and his hand shook as he pressed the sharp edge of a knife to it. He felt the edge of the blade catch, and it held for a moment before the blade sheared a piece of the wood away, spiralling it like a ribbon. Jepetto flicked the shaving away with expect ease, letting the blade of the knife bite into the wood again.

He quickly wittled the piece of wood down, stacking a pile of shavings on the floor before he put the knife down and grabbed a piece of sandpaper. He clutched the rough tool between his hands and rubbed vigorously at the harsh edges that he had created until they were smooth. Dust filled the air, and he had to stop and sneeze, blowing a puff of sawdust across his counter. He sniffed, drawing his hand across his nose before he put the sandpaper down, looking at the small toy that he had created.

The plain wooden eyes of a small soldier looked back at him, and he sighed before he set the small man on the counter. He would have to wait to be painted. Jepetto sighed, the corner of his gaze catching the rest of the set. They too, also lacked the lustre of colour, and they all looked at him reproachfully from their perches.

The sky had long since grown dark, and the candle that lit the room was burning dangerously low. Jepetto stood, straightening the kinks out of his spine, before he ran a hand through his silver streaked hair. Turning, he cast his gaze towards the far wall. Bolted into the walls were shelves that extended from the floor to the ceiling.

Resting upon the shelves were the puppets.

The flickering light of the candles cast shadows on the puppets faces that had not been painted there. As Jepetto stretched their unwavering eyes watched him, calculating his every move in silence. Their smiles stretched across their faces, white teeth forever snapped closed. Their hands rested on their laps, never to move until they were chosen to be taken home by a happy child. They were to be forever reminded of their eternity by the layers of dust that coated them.

Jepetto turned his gaze away, knowing that the dust was a reminder to him as well. He grabbed the candle that illuminated his way, careful of the dripping wax as he slowly ascended the stairs. Every step creaked and groaned, complaining at the same resonance as his tired muscles as he slowly walked up the stairs.

As he finally reached the top, the light from the candle illuminated his loft. The only things that were in the small room were a small bed, a stove, a small sink and toilet and a small table. Jepetto crossed the room and deposited the candle on the table before he grabbed an iron kettle and filled it. Then he grabbed a handful of wood from the small pile that he had stacked next to the stove, and started a fire. He then set the kettle on top of the stove before settling onto his bed.

Then a sound, a whisper, tickled the air around him.

“I’ve got no strings, to hold me down,” a voice said, lilting like the waves of the ocean.

Jepetto straightened, adjusting the glasses on his nose. “Is there someone there?” He asked, his cataract stained eyes searching the shadows for anything that could have been the source of the sound.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

Then it whispered again, tickling his ear. “to make me fret, to make me frown,”

The old man stood, fear trickling up and down his spine as he shivered. “Who is there?!” He yelled, backing into the wall. “Show yourself!”

Nothing….

Then, there was a loud snap. The man flinched, his hands flying to protect his face as another loud snap permeated the air. Something continued to click and snap, before the first stair creaked loudly. The man pressed his back against the wall, his eyes widening as whatever it was continued to snap, breaking something loudly as the next stair creaked beneath its weight.

Then the next one creaked ominously, followed by the next one, and the next one.

The man’s eyes were locked on the stairs, as his heart hammered impossibly fast in his chest. His withered fingers clutched at the walls, as he searched blindly for anything that he could grab as a weapon. His bare apartment bore no weapons, and he could do nothing but listen as the last of the stairs creaked loudly.

Then, the noise stopped, and the only thing the man could hear was the blood roaring in his ears.

A shadow ever so slowly reached over the crest of the stairs and into the light. The old man watched, not believing his eyes as the small wooden hand grasped the floor, joints clicking loudly. Then the stairs creaked and the contours of an arm delved out of the shadows, streaked with faded smears of paint. A small wooden foot slapped the wooden floor, pushing the rest of the body up and off of the stairs into the light. The thing swayed there for a moment, its head hanging down on a wooden neck before it lifted its head. The movement made it snap loudly, as the man gasped. 

What stood in front of him was one of his beloved puppets, but there was something terribly wrong. The paint that was once bright was faded and dark, and pieces of it were chipped away revealing the dark stains of wood beneath them.

The most disturbing however, was its face.

The cheery smile that had once been painted there had been transformed into a demonic grin, running over the sharp contours of its carved face. Its nose jutted out from its features at an odd angle, the end of it rubbed away as if by sandpaper. Its eyes, once wide and happy were nothing more than red slits, leaking streaks of paint down its white face.

It remained motionless for a moment, before it collapsed onto the floor with a loud clatter. The man flinched again, a small yelp escaping his lips as the puppet toppled onto the ground. They both remained motionless for a moment, before the man slowly gathered his courage and peeled away from the wall. He inched across the floor, his eyes locked on the puppet as he moved as close as he dared. His hands reached out, before pain flared hot in his fingers and he cursed. The kettle that he had reached out to grab, teetered and fell splashing scalding water everywhere. There was a loud sizzle as the water hit the candle on the table, making the flame waver violently.

Jepetto held his breath, watching the flame of the candle as it started to sputter. Just as the light sputtered the room went dark for a fraction of a second, and as the light flashed the puppet moved. It twitched ever so slightly, before it was doused in darkness for the second time. The last flicker of light the candle gave before it died, illuminated the room for a brief moment.

The puppet was gone.

Then the room was plunged into darkness.

Jepetto dropped to his knees, feeling around for the kettle to use as a weapon. His heart throbbed in his chest and his breath rasped in his throat. His hands found the handle of the kettle and he lurched to his feet, holding it out in front of him. All he could hear was the roar of his breaths rushing in and out of his chest, before something tickled his ear again.

“I had strings, but now I’m free,” the voice snickered, impossibly close. Something brushed the man’s arm and he screamed in the dark. He swung blindly, but something caught his wrist and bit deep into his skin. Jeppetto bellowed, feeling the kettle slip out of his fingers as his other wrist caught flame as well. He struggled in the crushing blackness, hooked like a fish as something tightened around both of his ankles, hoisting him into the air. He felt as if he were being ripped apart, and the smell of rotting flesh filled his nose making him wretch.

He screamed with pain and terror, thrashing in his unseen bonds, before something closed around his throat. The scream drowned in his lungs, and he fought to be free of the bonds, but his struggling was useless. His mind seared, his lungs were about to explode and he flinched as light suddenly filled the room.

The door of the stove had opened, the flickering flames filling the room with a dancing light. The light reflected off the floor, which was now covered with dark stains. The streaks and smears of liquid caught the light and reflected it darkly, illuminating every spatter. Jepetto realized that the floor was covered with a bright sheen of crimson blood, but he could not scream. In the middle of it all was the small wooden lion, looking balefully at him with blood speckled eyes. He instantly felt sick, his body jerking as he heaved but nothing came.

His head turned slightly, moving of its own will so that he was looking at his arm. Looped around his wrist was a coil of wire, and it disappeared deep into his flesh. He could see the bright slick sinews of his muscle as the wire continued to cut deeper every time he moved. Blood poured out of the wound to join the rest on the floor, and Jepetto didn’t need to look to see the rest of his limbs were wrapped with the same wire.

He struggled weakly, unable to voice his agony, before his eyes locked on the small shadow that was slouched against the wall beside the stove. The flickering light illuminated its demonic face, and the roll of razor wire that was clutched in its small wooden fingers. Jepetto could do nothing more than watch as the wooden head slowly started to turn towards him, creaking loudly.

The eyes flashed with the light of the fire before it whispered one last time.

“There are no strings on me.”

Then the door of the stove slammed closed, and the room was drenched in blood.  

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Let me know if you liked it! Or if you hated it.
I am not against people pointing out errors with my grammar, or the story, or anything in general.
I also am not a huge fan of the title.... but close enough right?

Reviews

[Nusquam Esse]

Yet another gruesome contorted piece of fairy tale nightmares you got here! You should try writing a story based on some foreign stories; maybe some Japanese folklore, or even Russian...? If I was to narrow the issues here to a core problem, it would be too much telling. The story narrates itself too much (which to be fair, most fairy tales do; but you want this to be a horror story more than a fairy tale, so your goal should be immersing the reader--for that you need to show. Fairy Tales never really get me shivering.) Now... the showing I am talking about isn't from a lack of description, but rather from the voice you use as a writer; I will do my best to help you narrow it down. Try combining your descriptions so that a sentence contains more than just a single sense, that will help your descriptions to flow more naturally without feeling so choppy (I advise also considering semicolons). Find ways to remove words like 'the' 'it' ''he' to make the sentences portray something more than just telling it. You overuse passive voice, and it makes it harder for a reader to get emotionally connected (which is very important for horror), try and make your sentences more engaging, and easier for a person to connect with. Ask, "How would I say this if it was actually happening to me?" Take the reader into the characters rather than just watching from afar; the horror will be much more real that way--even if you left your descriptions the same, they would be more powerful with that attachment. If you need more specific details, I can attempt to elaborate; I recommend checking out the story I mentioned, because as I said earlier, I think it has the best balance I have managed to achieve. While the genres are different, see if you can't take away some of the technique in giving details in a more active voice.

[Darkimmortal]

As always, thank you so much for your comments and suggestions! In the future I will be sure to try and implement these suggestions and narrate less in the future, and I apologise for not wanting to change this story but I am very partial to the way that i wrote it and want to avoid ruining it. However, i will be sure to send you the next one i write to see if i can accomplish this in the future.
Thank you again my friend.
keep penning!