Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep34: Episode 34: Twisted Fairy Tales

Episode Date: June 17, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/   Today’s nightmarish tale of terror is ''18 years in a Ginger-bread Basement'', ''The Beggar Prince'', ''Over the River and Through the Woods'', and ''The Tower in the Fog'', all original works by McSinister5674, shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and read to you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/McSinister5674/

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexavers.cavers.caps. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Ah, fairy tales. They are considered to be more than true, not because they tell us that dragons exist,

but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. Well, most of the time, four delightfully twisted versions of classic fairy tales for your listening delight this evening, all from the pen of Muck Sinister, 5674. Now as always before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin.

Eighteen years in a gingerbread basement. Most kids have heard of Hansel and Gretel. Of that long walk they took through a dark forest where they shouldn't have gone. And of that damn gingerbread house with his frosted roof and its dark secrets. I won't go into a boring retelling of the parts everyone knows. Instead, I'll talk about the bits that the children's books couldn't. Instead, I'll talk about me and my mother. Mother never really gave me a name in the traditional way,

because she was a mother only in a loose sense of the word. Now that I'm old enough to think for myself, I see that in her eyes I was not her child, but rather her tool. not something to cherish but rather something to help her get what she wanted what she wanted was roasted human flesh i was her bait and her lure my job for as long as i could remember was to go out into the forest find people and get them to follow me back to mothers in any way i could thinking back on it now there was a certain fiendish cleverness in that most people would question a strange woman alone in the deep woods. But very few people question an innocent-looking young child,

especially one that was as good an actor as I was. The stomach churning as it might have been. When I was a boy, my mother was all I knew, and I, like any child, craved her approval and affection. So I worked as hard as I could to get her what she wanted. I had a practiced routine. Every time mother sent me out into the forest, I'd walk the trails, keeping an eye out for the telltale signs of other people. If I came upon a grown-up, like someone out hunting or gathering herbs, I'd start crying. When they approached, I'd tell them I was lost and scared and needed help finding my mother. Well, this worked nearly every time. If they asked me questions I couldn't answer, I'd go back to playing the hysterical child.

and the questions would always stop. If I ran into someone my age or younger, I'd just go up to them and make friends. We play games and be foolish as children often did, and when daylight turned into dusk, and invite them back to mothers for supper. Not all of them accepted, as children are sometimes wiser than adults,

but most of them did. As terrible as it may sound, I always hoped to run into people my age when I went out hunting. Life at mothers was often bleak and lonely. I spent most of my time alone in the basement level of her sugar-cloted layer of murder and deportery huddled next to the furnace for warmth,

using its dim light to read books she'd long since grown bored of while I waited for her to pass me scraps of her meals to eat through a hole she'd carved in the door. Water let me out so I could clean up and go hunting. Because of this, I was always overjoyed for a chance to wander the wood. and find friends to play with. Even if it was all pretend,

I loved it dearly. Mother loved to pretend as well. Whenever I return to the gingerbread house with someone, she would always be waiting on the porch, with the warmest, kindest smile spread across her pudgy face that she never showed when it was just the two of us. The kind of smile I imagine normal mothers show their children all the time. I knew it wasn't real,

that she was acting as much as I was. but I loved that warm smile of hers nonetheless because it meant that I could go and live like a normal child that night at least for a while once my part was done mother had a routine of her own if I brought her a grown-up she'd run off the porch and scoop me up in a tender embrace

and shower me with kisses telling me how worried she'd been about me and chastising me for leaving her sight she would then turn to the stranger I brought with me thank them for returning her beloved boy to her and insist that they stay for dinner. With children my age, she was not as theatrical, but just as persuasive. After short introductions and small talk, she would tell us we were just in time for supper and usher us into the exquisite dining room.

I've always believed that mother commanded some kind of magic. If she didn't, she was at the very least an artistic genius when it came to food. every time I went into that dining room a luscious banquet would be laid out on the table plates stacked high with frosted sweets of all kinds pies freshly baked loaves of bread silver trays of succulent fruits pictures of apple cider

large pots of savory stew and so many other things I never got to eat when we were alone eating mother's fresh cooking was a necessary part of putting her victims at ease and a reward for doing the task she'd given me. This was the unspoken understanding between us. I always stuffed my face as much as I could those nights, as I never knew when I'd be allowed to eat that way again, but I always made sure never to look at the oven while I did.

I could never really bring myself to do so. It wasn't the look of the thing that was terrifying. It was just a regular cast iron oven, though it was quite large. What made it terrifying? is that I know what she did with it. I saw it in all my nightmares. After dinner, we would go into the parlour and sit by the fireplace. Their mother would bring out the drinks and blankets, a strong-smelling alcohol for the grown-hucks and hot chocolate for the children. Once we were settled,

she would sing for us. Mother's voice was captivating beyond words. She was a true demon with the voice of an angel and every song told a story. Some stories were of brave knights and fierce dragons. Others were of far-off forgotten lands and powerful magic, but all of them were wonderful. I love those stories as well. They made me forget about the terror I lived with, if only for a little while. Inevitably, either through the power of mother's voice or something she put in their drinks or maybe a combination of the two, the strangers I brought home would fall asleep and the music would stop. Mother's face would turn hard and cold and her black eyes would roam over our sleeping house guests like those of a lioness, calculating and appraising. She would sit on a chair

like that, sometimes for hours, before she quietly got up with all the silent skill of an assassin and went into the kitchen to retrieve the axe. I'd always run back into the basement before she came back. Get as far away from her as I could and shrink into a corner while I'd covered my ears, trying to block out what I knew was coming. It never worked. We always heard the shrieks of sudden agony and confusion,

the gurgling cries of the dying, the wet thud of the axe as it chopped through flesh and splintered bone. I would always stay like that until daybreak. the whole time hoping that whatever mother was doing upstairs had satisfied her and that she'd forgotten all about me what she always did life went on like that for years try as I might

I couldn't tell you how many people I brought home to die at mother's hands dozens at least maybe even hundreds I hate myself friends but I cannot remember all their names or even their faces they all blend together. The only two I can recall with absolute clarity while that brave and tenacious pair of twins that wandered into the dark part of the woods

on the morning of my 18th birthday. Life had been looking rather bleak for me for quite some time at that point. I was getting older, and the ruse of the lost hysterical child was getting harder and harder to pull off. More often than not, I had to improvise, but mother never tolerated failure for long.

I was worried that my time was running shots. I'd caught Mother a few times in the month leading up to this day, staring at me with that cold, a praising expression I'd seen her use on so many of her victims when she thought I wasn't looking. It filled me with icy dread. What would she do to me if she thought I couldn't do my job properly anymore? I knew it wouldn't be anything good.

I thought about running away. but had no idea where to go. The woods and the gingerbread house were all I knew. More I thought about it, the more I came to the realization that if I were to survive, I'd have to kill her first. The thought made me sick because I wasn't sure that I could do it alone. Even in her later years,

Mother was as fierce and imposing as she's always been. The thought of raising her hand to her, turned my knees to jelly. Doubt and fear had begun to infest my every one. waking moments, and at every opportunity she gave me, I began spending as much time away from the house as possible. I've been wandering the trails at the edge of the forest for nearly a full day when I first laid eyes on the twins. The girl had stepped through the tree line first. The light of the twilight sun at peek through the forest canopy reflected off her golden hair, giving it a soft

glow that made her hard to miss. Her face was tense and she looked agitated, like she'd just walked away from an argument. She didn't seem to have noticed me right off, so I spent a few moments thinking about how to approach her when a voice broke through the silent stillness of the forest. Gretel, Gretel, I'm sorry, please come back. It's dangerous to be out here alone, it said. The voice sounded like it came from a boy not much older than me.

A moment later, a boy did step through the tree line. It was immediately obvious that the two were related. they looked like they were cut from the same cloth. Both had shining blonde hair and eyes that were a deep blue. The boy was a bit bulky, not like some of the other men I'd seen in my life, but it was clear he was no stranger to hard labour. The girl, by contrast, was very thin, but carried herself with a confident grace I'd not seen in anyone else since.

The two argued back and forth with each other for several minutes, apparently about the best way out of the forest without taking any notice of me. As I watched them argue, an insane idea hit me. These two were what I needed to get rid of mother. They were perfect. They were young enough to be the kind of victim she loved, but still old enough to help me overpower her when the time came. It was brilliant, but I had no idea how to do it.

How would I get them to help me? Well, I couldn't tell them outright. They'd just think I was crazy. I stood there puzzling with myself on the best way to approach them, when the girl noticed me first. Hey, who are you? She'd asked me in a startled and incredulous voice. I stood there dumbfounded and unsure how to answer.

The boy whirled around and regarded me with a surprised expression, before stepping defensively between me and his sister. A tense quiet fell between us for several moments while I thought about what to say. I'm lost. I mean, what's your name? I don't really have one.

What do you mean? Everyone's got a name. I don't. What kind of person doesn't know their own name? The boy chimed in. His voice thick with mistrust. Oh, things were going badly already. I decided I'd have to stick to my usual routine for now

and come up with a plan as I went. Whatever else happened, I needed these two to come back with me to mothers. Someone like me, I guess. Well, don't you try anything funny, or I'll put you to the ground. The boy warned, though. It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than me.

Ansel! The girl hissed in a sky. golden tone. She was clearly the more diplomatic of the two. She brushed past her brother and walked up to me with her hand extended in some gesture I didn't recognise. I'm Gretel, and this is Hansel. It's nice to meet you. My reply was somewhat crude in hindsight. Yeah, you too. Gretel was quiet a moment, as if thinking of something. Her face then lit up as if she'd had an epiphany. Red, she said.

What? Well, I've got to call you something, don't I? I can't just call you boy or you. That'd be silly. So I'll call you red after your hair. I absent mind only ran my hand through my hair as she said that. I was amazed at her profoundly simple proclamation. I'd never had a name before.

That was something other people had. and, well, just like that I had one. Why hadn't Mother ever named me if it was that easy? Yeah, that works. Okay, really? Seems like we're all lost out here, so we have to try and stick together. Why don't we start from the beginning? Where do you live?

With my mother? Where does she live? In a house of gingerbread? Hansel laughed aloud. What a load of nonsense. It's true. I can show you. I spat back indignantly.

I thought you were lost. I am, but I know it's not far. All right. All right, you two. Calm down. We need to help each other out right now, said Gretel, cutting in before asking a question of her own. Do you think your mother would know the way out of the forest?

I pause for a moment before answering. Yeah. imagine she would. Then why don't we find her first and see if we can get her to help? Hansel opened his mouth to object, but Gretel turned and shot him a glare, so he said nothing. All right, I said, quietly. We spent the next hour or so talking and wandering the trails together, partly because I needed them to believe I was actually lost, and because I needed time to plan the inevitable confrontation with Mother. Hansel said little during our own. He wore his distrust for me on his sleeve, and I didn't blame him for it. In fact, I admired his

sharp instincts. They'd come in handy when it was time to do what had to be done. Gretel, on the other hand, was a regular chatterbox. She talked excessively about anything that came to her mind, from her favourite childhood games to how annoying her father was. I thought her stories were charming because of how normal they were, not at all like mother stories. I could have listened to them for hours, but the grim reality that was clear to me was that I would need to take them to the house soon, or mother might get suspicious. I artfully guided them through the woods until the familiar smoke from the gingerbread house's chimney came into view before I stopped. I felt nauseous, and my face had taken on the pale color of someone who was terrifying.

Gretel seemed to notice this because she stopped in her tracks. What's wrong? For a moment I said nothing, though. My expression said that I desperately wanted to tell her something. After a few moments, I looked between both the twins with a defeated expression and simply said, When we get to the house, follow my lead, don't eat or drink anything she offers you. It sounded more ominous than I'd intended. The twins looked back and forth at each other, clearly put off by my instructions and my sudden

shift in mood, but they nodded in understanding. Without another word, we approached the house. I'd seen it countless times before, but perhaps because of what I knew had to happen tonight, the innocent-looking structure with its frosted roof and candy-cane window-frames seemed all the more sinister. A single lantern hung by the door, casting a dim glow over the porch and rocking chair that sat right next to the door. Like always, mother was sitting on the chair as we walked up. She wore a black dress, as was her custom on nights like that one. She smiled that kind, liar's smile of hers as we got closer. Like always, she was already in character. Oh, goodness me, there you are, child. How many times must I tell

you to never wander off so close to dark. He'll kill your poor mother with worry. We'd acted out this exact scenario with each other countless times before. But I'd been distracted that night, and the way she worded her greeting sent a chill down my spine. I told myself to act natural that there was no way she could know about my plans, but that was easier said than done. I'm sorry, mother, I lost track of time because of my new friends, I said nervously. She nodded and looked over to Hansel and Gretel. And the average person probably wouldn't have been able to tell. But I knew my mother well enough to know that she was very pleased with my catch of the day.

She had a giddy spring in her step, but she waved us over and ushered us into the house. Well, come now. Oh, it's freezing outside and supper's getting cold. I looked over to Hansel and Gretel, and it was clear that they didn't know what to think. I gave them a look of caution and gestured for them to follow me inside they reluctantly comply inside I saw the feast mother

had prepared for us like she usually did and took my seat at the table Hansel and Gretel followed my lead and sat down but none of us started eating mother sat at the head of the table and it didn't take long for her to notice go on dearies help yourselves no one goes hungry in this house

she said with a smirker she passed the apple cider over to Hansel. I'm not hungry, he said bluntly. A look of annoyance passed over Mother's face for a brief moment, and she opened her mouth to respond, but Gretel cut her off. This house is amazing. How did you even make something like this? It's simply marvellous, she blurted out. The appeal to her vanity made Mother's smile,

but not the false smile she wore for her victim. but a genuine one that was sly and cat-like. Let me tell you all about it, dear, she exclaimed gleefully. Over the next few hours, that's exactly what she did. I listened half-heartedly while they talked. Instead, I sat at the table and looked around the kitchen, trying to figure out where Mother kept the axe. I knew that wasn't the only thing I could use as a weapon,

but he would have the most reach. And when the time came, I would rather it were in my hand. Hansen has. Why doesn't your son have a name? asked Hansel, interrupting Mother's monologue. I almost gagged audibly at his question. No one ever questioned her like that. She turned to him with an incredulous look on her face.

Excuse me? Your son? Why hasn't he got a name? For a few short seconds, the character of the kindly old lady she played so well fell away completely, and she glanced over at me with cold, dead eyes that made my stomach sink. Oh, did he tell you that, dearie? That's just his sense of humour. He's a bit simple-minded, always saying things he shouldn't. What's his name then? Pardon me? His name. If he's got one, then what is it? Hansel pressed. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

For several moments that felt like an eternity, Mother said nothing, and then an icy smile spread across her face. I've just about had enough of you, you nosy little shit. Mother! I started to say as I stood up in my chair. And you! She yelled as she turned to me, her voice suddenly booming and furious. I knew you would betray me sooner or later. I'm grateful little bastards like you always do. suddenly in a display of speed and strength that i didn't think was possible even for her she flipped the table over and wrapped her long bony fingers around my throat before i could respond

time seemed to move in slow motion as i struggled and gasped for air while mother continued ranting as hansel and gretel looked on in dumbfounded horror you think i don't see your greedy little eyes looking for my axe what do you think you're going to do with it boy kill me After all I've done for you? She hissed in a low, venomous tone. I tire of these ridiculous games, and I tire of you, boy. I curse you. May you never leave this forest alive, and may the beasts and maggots of the earth feast on your wretched little bones. The whole house seemed to shake with her words.

I could hear the crack of thunder from outside, even though the sky of being clear a moment ago. My vision started to blur. darkness covered the edges of my sight and somewhere behind me I could hear the sound of that terrible oven door as it opened and felt the sweltering heat of the flames that awaited within. I knew it was all over. I resigned myself to the death I always knew I would have when the sound of mother's piercing scream snapped me out of my despair and the feeling of air rushing back into my lungs as she dropped me, brought me back to reality. When I looked up,

I saw Mother's face contorted in agony as she clawed at the kitchen knife now lodged in her shoulder. Behind her stood Gretel, who had tears streaming down her face. In the blink of an eye, Mother whirled around and punched Gretel so hard in the temple I could hear the sickening sound of her skull cracking before she crumbled to the floor.

The sight caused Hansel to snap out of his stupefied state of horror, and he lunged at Mother with all the rest of her. rage of a man who'd seen his family gravely wounded. They both fell to the floor like a pair of vicious tigers. I've never felt so helpless before or since. It's been so many years since then. I couldn't tell you how long I watched the two of them struggle with no idea what to do before clarity hit me like a lightning bolt, and I knew exactly what to do. I jumped up as quickly as I was able, grab an empty pan off the intact kitchen counter and bashed my mother across the head with it. Once, twice, three times.

The sounds of the pan hitting her skull becoming duller and wetter with each swing, like a pumpkin squishing under too much pressure. Before long she stopped moving enough for Hansel to get out from under her where he'd been pinned. When he was on his feet, I looked at him and said only one word. It required no explanation. Often, without another word between us, we worked together and dragged mothers hulking, groaning form over to the other, as she herself had taken so many others and threw her in.

I still hear the scream she gave off in my dream sometimes. It haunts me to this very day. It tore through the house and blew out the windows. The whole structure seemed to shake at the sound. as if it were aware that its master was dying. We scrambled to carry Gretel's wounded form out in time before the gingerbread house crumbled to the ground. Once we were out of the house,

I watched it crumble and rot before my very eyes as relief washed over me. It was short-lived, however, chased away by Gretel's pained groans. I turned to her and Hansel. He was desperately trying to keep her conscious. He turned to me with despair in his eyes. She needs help.

I know the way out of the forest. Come with me, we still have time to get her help. He didn't ask me to explain why I suddenly knew my way around. Didn't ask for an explanation for anything. Just nodded in acknowledgement. And with Gretel in his arms, we both ran. Ran until we could hardly breathe and then ran some more, until we reached the forest's edge, the very edge of my world.

The trees began to thin, and the lights of the town beyond the woods came into view. I stopped in my tracks, for reasons I still can't quite explain even now. Hansel might not even have noticed that I'd stopped if I hadn't called out to him. Hey! He turned back, the look in his eyes saying everything his words could not. Thank you for everything. He nodded, and turned and kept running far off into the distance, out of my sight.

It's been many years since that night. I ended up returning to the house to find it completely destroyed, almost as if it had never been there. All that remained was the oven, perhaps out of a sense of duty, perhaps out of regret about the evil I was an accomplice to, or perhaps because of my mother's old curse. I have kept watch over that oven of hers ever since.

I haven't seen the twins since that night. Part of me wants to go find them, and see if they're all right. As sad as it may sound, they were the closest I've ever had to real friends in my life. I won't leave the oven, though. Well, if nothing else, my 18 years in that gingerbread basement taught me that mother was a creature beyond my understanding, maybe even beyond human understanding. I'll never know if she truly died that night, but I can make sure no poor souls. ever disturb her cursed bones.

It's the least I can do. Well, there is no moral to my story, no life lesson I can impart. In the end, all I can say is that I hope the twins are still out there somewhere and that they live long, happy lives filled with joy and kindness. That thought alone keeps the nightmares away.

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The Beggar Prince. I once thought I knew what it meant to be human. Throughout the course of my many years upon this earth I'd seen and heard it all, that the nature of life, death and suffering was as clear to me as the words in one of the many books that adorn my bookshelf. I thought I knew what the autumn of my life would hold, that I'd learned all the harsh lessons life had to teach. But that was before the boy, before the beautiful soul trapped in the body of a handmade toy, that I would come to call my son

came into my life. As I watched the first snows of winter coat the dead branches of the trees outside from where I sit in this desolate workshop, can I help but think back to that cold winter evening so long ago, when he sat beside me as I worked. His eyes alight with all the wonder

and curiosity of a natural-born child. Asking me questions, I was afraid to answer. What does it mean to be a real boy, Papa? He asked me in that fall. on thoughtful tone I'd come to expect from him. I had no real answer to give him. Silence prevailed over the two of us while I thought about what to say. He wasn't the first time he'd asked me that question. He'd been asking questions like that ever since he first asked if he could leave the house and go and make friends, and I told him that was impossible. I tried to tell him that the people

outside would not be kind to him, that they would fear him and that their fear would become hate. When he asked me why they would be afraid of him, I told him the truth that they would not see him as a real boy. He didn't understand why. Well, real boys are things of flesh and blood, as well as hair and skin. That was the only answer I could think to give, and he nodded in acknowledgement. He knew very well that he was not a thing of flesh, blood, skin and hair. He was a thing of wood, iron, paint, and very hard. old magic. He was a prayer to the old gods answered, my dearest wish, and now my most guarded

secret. But Papa, he said suddenly, confusion and frustration becoming more apparent in his tone, as if I had overlooked something obvious in my answer. He pointed downward to the wooden prosthetic that served as my left leg. Your leg is not a thing of flesh and blood. It is a thing of wood like me? Do the people outside fear and hate you as well? Do they not see you as a real person? I was taken aback by that. He was growing more intelligent all the time and his questions never got easier to answer. It's not the same, sir, I told him. How is it different? I was born of flesh and blood. You were not. That is why they will fear you. I cannot escape how I was born. They won't care.

But that's so cruel. I know it is, son. I know it's cruel and I despise it, but that's just the way people are. There's no changing it, and I'll have no more of this talk right now. I replied with a transparent tone of exasperation. He looked at me, with the green glass eyes

I'd painted less than a year before, with an undisguised expression of sadness that made my summit twist and turn with guilt, before they drifted to the floor, and he quietly said, Yes, Papa. I didn't want to leave it at that. When I spoke again, I tried to sound more upbeat. It was even playful, but my tone ended up sounding more apologetic than anything else.

I'm going to walk down to the bakery now. When I get back, I'll get a fire going in the fireplace and read you anything you want from my bookshop. We'll have ourselves a nice, relaxing evening. Isn't that sound nice? I asked him, hopefully. He gave me a small knot. I knew it was meant more to placate me

than to express any real feelings of excitement he might have had. Not knowing what else to say, I promised him I'd return soon, and I got up from my stool and made my way out of the workshop, down the stairs, past the hardwood counter that lay beyond, and then past the carefully placed marionettes that hung in the spacious window display, and then out the ornate front door of my shop.

I looked back at the marionettes in the window, appraising my work briefly as I walked. They were dressed in vibrantly coloured clothes and arranged in such a way that they looked like children playing together. They cost me a lot of money in time to make, and until very recently I'd taken a lot of pride in them. Now they were just subtle reminders of the guilt that now ate away at me. My son had been absolutely enamoured with them when he first saw them. he ran right up to them the metal hinges that acted as the joints of his limbs clicking and clanking as he went

introduced himself and asked what game they were playing it was heartbreaking to watch the confusion that spread across his face when the marionettes did not respond to him even more so when he then turned to me and asked why they weren't speaking to him and if he'd done something to upset them i had to explain to him that they were not alive like he was it was a first of many harsh truths I'd have to share with him in the coming months. As I carefully made my way down on the cobblestone street, I tried to look around for something to take my mind out of the mire of guilt I was swimming in, but everywhere I looked I only seemed to find reminders. As I passed through the stream of loud, boisterous drunks that were making their way out of the local

pub down the street, I was reminded that my boy would never be able to enjoy food or drink as they were. When I walked past a group of children playing by the street, I was reminded that my son would probably never get to play such carefree games with friends of his own. Then I spied a pair of young lovers on a park bench across the road, giving each other quick, desperate kisses when they thought no one was looking. I was reminded that my son would never know the tender, warm embrace of another, and when I walked past the boarded-up ruin that was once Madame Hecate's tea house, I was given a painful reminder of the cruelty of the world I brought my boy into. Madame Haquate had been a dear friend of

mine for many years when she was alive. Like me, she was one of the few in the city that still kept the old ways and revered the old gods. She'd been my friend since my wife's passing, and it was she who had first told me of the stars and their power, of when and how to pray to the beggar prince, the kindest god of the old pantheon, whose star shone brightest in the night sky, and who was known to grant wishes to the downtrodden. She could always be depended on to lend a sympathetic ear and warm cup of tea to those who needed it. And when I think back on what the church had done to her,

I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. The tall spires of the cathedral across the city seemed to cast a cold, looming shadow over me, with the help of the late afternoon sun, as the memory of the night the Inquisitors showed up at the tea-house with torches and chains, forced itself back into my mind. She told me that they were coming. I didn't want to believe her.

I tried to tell her that not even the fanatics of the cathedral would be so depraved as to actually follow through with the insane threats they'd given in their fiery sermons, that the people wouldn't stand for such atrocities against the innocent. I had been so naive. She'd given me a sad smile when I said that, but would hear none of my protests as she hurried me over to that cupboard with the false back panel told me to hide in the secret room that lied behind it and not to come out for anything until I was

sure they were gone the room had been small damp and dark the only light that filled the room poured in through gaps in the boards of the ceiling above I didn't see the inquisitors when they came but I heard them heard the heavy rhythmic thud of their booze and the chilling rattle of the iron chains they carried as they filled the tea house. I don't know how many of them there were, because only one of them spoke. Only one of them needed to speak. His voice was low, raspy, filled with a malice with someone who enjoyed inflicting pain on others for its own sake.

There's no doubt in my mind that if vultures could speak, it sound just like him. I trust you know why we are here this evening. madam he'd said still admire madame hakeats ability to keep a sense of humor even in the face of those wicked men oh i imagine you're here for the tea she replied the witty tone that was so like her her levity seemed to displease the inquisitor his tone became hard in accusatory you stand accused of the crimes against the one true god a foul wishcraft and the worship of heathen gods. You will accompany us to the cathedral to answer for these heinous acts. You break into an old woman's home with a dozen men in the middle of the night

with the intent to beat her and drag her away in chains in the name of this god of yours. Oh, it sounds to me like you're the one who worships a heathen god. She quipped. I heard her hit the floor after they struck her. It was painful to hear. I wanted to burst out from the room and savor, but terror kept me still. The beating went on for several minutes before I heard them drag her out of the tea house, barely conscious and wheezing, struggling to breathe, despite her undoubtedly crack ribs, out into the bitter, cold of the night.

Hot tears streamed down my face, and my own breath came in short, frantic bursts. Only when the tea house had fallen totally silent did I finally feel safe enough to burst. three from the room and run as quickly as one could with a wooden leg out of the door and down the cobblestone street back to the workshop where only after deadbolting the door locking all the windows and pulling back the curtains did I finally break down on the floor and weep like a child I didn't have the heart to attend her execution but I heard sometime later that they'd hung her with a rope that was much too long so rather than a quick merciful death by a broken neck which was the usual outcome when someone was hanged.

Madam Hacquate had been subject to a slow death by strangulation. The thought broke my heart all over again. Standing before the broken and dilapidated tea house once again filled me with an overwhelming sense of fear for my son. He wanted to see the world outside the shop, but he did not know it's evil like I did. How could I ever explain it to him? this troubling line of thought followed me all the way into the bakery so that even the smell of fresh bread or a warm smile of the baker could not lift my spirits well the baker was a much more perceptive and intelligent man than his rough and portly appearance would lead one to assume and he caught on to my sour mood quickly he knew i was lying but didn't press the issue ah i see what'll it be today sir our transaction concluded

quickly and without incident, ending with me once again pacing the cold cobblestone streets, trying to keep dark thoughts at bay as I went. Though this time I had the comfort of a warm sack of bread by my side, but I hardly noticed it at all. It was quiet on the street, which was to be expected since the last rays of sunlight had vanished beyond the cathedral a few moments earlier, painting the sky with the deep reds and dark blues of dust. In my state of deep thought, I believed I was alone on the street. I didn't hear the slow rattle of the chains, all the cadence of heavy boots as they moved across the cobblestone in silent pursuit of me. Wasn't aware of anything at all, until that raspy vulture's voice I'd hope never to hear again

spoke up from behind me. "'Good evening, sir,' it said. I spun around to see a man who looked to be in his late forties, wherein the expensive, embroidered red velvet garb of an inquisitor, leering at me. His eyes were a dark green, not unlike snake-skin, and his grey and blonde hair, not like it would have been long enough to fall over his eyes, were it not combed back. He had a pointed goatee and a thin moustache that curled upwards at the ends that looked rather comical in retrospect, though I made no mention of it. This was my first time seeing him face to face, but there was no doubt in my mind who he was.

I could never forget that voice. Evening was all I could manage to stutter in my surprise. I didn't mean to frighten you, but I happened to see you passing by, I thought I'd ask you a few questions. About what? About the state of the people's faith on these broken streets. He'd said with an air of unimpeachable confidence, I'm not sure I'm the man to answer such questions.

nonsense i believe you are the best man to answer my questions why do you say that you are the uh toy maker are you not you've lived in the city longer than most the people know you well and i'd wager they trust you completely he spoke casually but his words chilled me though he tried to hide it in his evasive manner of speech it was clear he knew who i was and I didn't doubt he knew where I lived as well. He wanted something from me of that much I was certain. I didn't know what it was yet, but the growing pit in my stomach warmed me that it was something vile. What are you getting at, sir?

I'd asked him as politely as I could manage despite the fast-growing anxiety that pulsed in my chest. What I'm getting at is that you are a man that people trust, and I'd like to know if the church control. trust you as well. How do you mean? There is an infestation in this city, sir, an infestation of cockroaches with human faces. We are beset by filthy heathens and heretics that pollute the very soul of the city with their wicked practices and seek to subvert the authority of true divinity. We have no way of knowing how far they have spread or how many remain

in the city. The church needs to know who they can trust in these dark times. Everything about this conversation so far was making me deeply uneasy, but I listened intently as the man spoke, limiting my speech only to basic responses. What's got to do with me? Perhaps nothing, or perhaps it has everything to do with you. Time will tell. I tried to end the conversation, I am I mean no offense sir but it's late and I need to make it home he looked slighted by my disinterest in his words but he said nothing rude instead as I began to walk away he cryptically said if you ever hear of any odd or strange happenings in the neighborhood I ask that you make a former report of it at the cathedral sir toymaker you'd be doing your

part to make our city pure and faithful again and the one true god always reward his faithful. I gave a half-hearted nod in his direction as I hurried off. I didn't look back at him as I went, but I was acutely aware of his green snake's eyes following me as I went down the street until I was out of sight and could sigh out in relief.

It seemed obvious to me that he'd had ulterior motives in speaking to me, but I couldn't fathom what they were. My first thought was that he knew my secrets and that his words had been veiled threats, but I knew that was unlikely. If he had known about me, or God's forbid my son, I would probably already be on my way to the cathedral in a slow, torturous death. He may not have said it outright, but it seemed clear to me after giving it some thought that he was asking me to spy for him, a disgusting proposition that grew all the more terrifying when I considered that I was most likely not the only one he'd approached with such an offer. this city had no shortage of desperate and unscrupulous characters that would be tempted by such things and i found myself wondering how many the inquisitor had already seduced into his service

mounting paranoia gripped me as i crossed the threshold of the front door of the workshop looking over my shoulder as i did the shop always did look a bit unsettling at night the flickering candlelight made the puppets cast long shadows that seemed to sway back and forth as they moved gently on their strings And tonight was no exception. I couldn't shake the feeling that their vacant glass eyes seemed to follow me as I ascended the stairs, calling out to my son as I went. He did not respond, which wasn't like him at all. Well, my mind went to the worst possible scenario, and I dashed up the stairs and into the workshop bracing myself to see something horrible, only to see my son perfectly all right as far as I could tell.

He sat at my desk as well as anyone his size could have, how I could see that he'd stacked a small pile of books onto the stool he sat on to give himself the sufficient height to read whatever it was you were so intently focused on. I was relieved to see him all right. My relief quickly turned to outrage when I saw the book he was pouring over. It was a thick volume of black leather with a cover that was blank save a faded illustration of a star, surrounded with ancient ruins meant to please the gods of old. It was, in fact, my grimroar, my most prized and dangerous possession.

It was this book that contained the spells that gave my son life, and in untrained hands it could bring about disaster. I'd hidden it away behind my bookshelf, and in my fear and outrage I didn't think to wonder how my son had known where to find it. What are you doing? I screamed at him. My son fell out of the chair in bewildered surprise at the sound of my voice. He sprung back up quickly and tried to offer a hasty explanation for his obvious transgression.

Papa, welcome home. I got bored of waiting for you to come home and read to me, so I started on my own. Get away from that book now. I yelled as I rushed over to the grimire and slammed it shut. I had a long sigh of relief and thanked the old gods above that I had a long sigh of relief that I I had returned when I did. I shudder to think of what Eldridge horrors could have manifested in my house if my son had been allowed to use it unchecked. I turned to him, my face, a stern, mask of disappointment and outrage.

What were you thinking, boy? Do you have any idea what you could have done? He didn't say anything right away, just kept his gaze fixated on the hardwood floor, before he quietly whispered, I just wanted to know "'Know what? What could you possibly need to know that you'd need to steal my grimace?

I didn't steal it. I was going to put it right back. I just wanted to know if I could use it to make myself a real person,' he screamed. He didn't have the ability to cry like natural-born children did, but I knew that if he could, tears would have been streaming down his fate.

His words caused all the guilt I'd been feeling throughout the night to bubble back up to the surface, and I had to sit down before I could respond. You are, your son, as much as anyone else. Am I? He asked me with a pensive look on his face. He wasn't looking at me, but rather at his own wooden hands, as he spoke. Am I really any different from the other toys in this shop? Do I even have a soul?

what even is a soul papa can you tell me because i don't know i didn't know how to answer him but i did my best to reassure him none the less flesh does not make the person son i have known countless monsters in my life born of flesh and blood that were people only a name and you are much more human than any of them you are more intelligent than most and you feel as much as any natural born person that's what makes me a man you are more intelligent than most and you feel as much as any natural born person that's what makes you are more human makes you real. The accusatory tone of his response told me he did not believe me. I thought that real boys were things of flesh and blood. Now you say they're not? If that were true, why won't you let me leave the house? If I'm a real person like everyone else, why do I have to live my life in hiding? We both living hiding. You don't understand the cruelty of people like I do, son. You've never had to watch friends die because of mindless hatred fueled by the lies of the powerful. It's not safe out there for you, son. If the church were to discover you,

it'll be a death sentence for us both. I sounded angrier than I meant to, but that didn't dissuade my son in the least. Then why don't we do something about it? He said, ominously. What? You're a sorcerer, power. With the spells in that grimwa, you don't have to answer to any church. And if they are as wicked and corrupt as you say they are, why don't we take power from them and run the city the way it should be? It doesn't work like that, my boy. The powers in that book are bloodthirsty and beyond anyone's control. They can only be bargained with, and the price of a bargain like that will be too costly and too cruel to consider.

I won't have that blood on my hands, son. Do not ask it from me. from me. What about the beggar prince? Doesn't he grant wishes to those in need? How do you know? No, the ritual's not without cost and far too risky to do with the eyes of the church on me. How is it any more risky than living with a talking marionette? Enough, I yelled in mountain frustration. My sudden outburst startled my son into silence. I took a deep breath before I continued speaking. I know you don't want to live your life cooped up in this shop. I don't want you to either, but this is how we must live if we're to survive in this city,

at least for now. One day that might change, and when it does, I swear we'll walk out in the sunlight together. Until then, I need you to trust me, and promise me you will never touch my grimoire again. My boy did not respond immediately. Instead he merely stared at the floor with a frustrated expression, before he quietly said, Yes, Papa, I promise. Maybe several months before I would discover that he had lied to me that night.

Several months of relative peace and tranquility between the two of us, as we went by our daily routines. I'd tend to customers in the shop below, and he'd keep himself busy in the workshop above, making toys and marionettes of his own. He was a natural at it. It would not have been an exaggeration to call him a prodigy. his craftsmanship was exemplary and his attention to detail almost put mine to shame in fact not long after i started selling his toys in the shop they sold better than mine i must admit i didn't mind that at all

I was happy that he had something to focus his growing intellect on that wasn't sorcery or the bitter unfairness of the world. Though I sometimes wondered if his skill had anything to do with the fact that he himself inhabited the body of a toy. I could never bring myself to ask him about it. He just didn't feel right to. Maybe I'd been naive to trust him the way I did. Maybe I was blinded by my own guilt and therefore couldn't see what he was doing behind

her back, though it seems obvious now. I remember the night I lost him with crystal clear clarity. I see it again every night when I close my eyes. The stars have been brilliant that night. Each one was like a shimmering jewel against a backdrop of pure black, and the brightest among them was the star of the beggar prince, his majestic glow bathing the city in a soft, comforting blue light. I was getting ready to close the shop up for the night, after a long day of working, as fatigue filled my bones, when I heard the front door opening, followed by the dreaded sound of heavy boots. I spun around just in time to come face to face with the pitch black hoods of the Inquisitors. There were at least six of them, far too many for this to be a simple social visit. Their leader's face was mostly obscured by his hood, but I could recognize that he was.

snake green eyes anywhere. Good evening, Sir Toymaker, he said to me with gleeful malice. My heart sank as I realized that the worst was happening before my eyes, and an icy chill began to spread throughout my body. My mind raced with a thousand questions in a matter of moments. How did they know? Who or what had given me away? Did they know about my boy? Where was he now? you have much to answer for sir i've no idea what you're talking about oh i think you know exactly what i am talking about he gestured to one of his hooded minions off to his right who in turn produced a stunningly well-crafted marionette that looked like a little girl in a dress from beneath his cloak one that i instantly recognized as having been made by my son i tried to keep an air of of nonchalance in my responses, despite the rapid pounding of my heart.

What of it, Inquisitor? Have you never seen a puppet before? Is it now blasphemy to make toys? The longer you play coy with me, the more you will suffer, toy-maker. Did you think the glyphs would go unnoticed? That the signs of your heretical witchcraft would go undetected? With another gesture of his hand, the man holding the marionette, open the mouth, of the toy with his free hand, revealing an intricate ruin that had been carved on its tongue.

I recognized it from the pages of my grimwa, but for the life of me could not remember what it represented. Life? No, perhaps rebirth. I had no time to think about it before the inquisitor's raspy voice interrupted my thoughts. Though your intent is unclear to us, it is clear that you are targeting the children of our fair city with witchcraft by way of these trinkets. Your assets are forfeit, and you will stand trial at the cathedral. Without any direction from their leader, two of the hooded figures seized my hands and bound me with chains, and I felt my body go limp with terror as they did. Could it all really end this way?

Was all of my struggle, all of my secrecy really for naught? I'd always known that this could happen, but my mind just couldn't accept that it was happening. In my depths of despair, I didn't even really hear the Inquisitor, as he barked more orders at his men. Search everything. Bring me more proof of his heresy. You never know what these heathens are hiding. I open my mouth to plead with them, or perhaps to confess if it would keep them from going upstairs and fighting my boy, but before I spoke, My concentration was broken by the sound of a guttural cry of shock and surprise from one of the hooded man, and I looked up to see that the heads of every marionette in the shop had turned abruptly as if by magic, and was staring at the hooded intruders with expressions of annoyance,

as if there were common pests that had wandered out into the open. What sorcery is this? Gassed the Inquisitor, his previous confidence in the world. now utterly deflated. So, you are the evil that Papa spoke of. How odd. You just look like a feeble, cruel old man to me, said a booming voice that seemed to come from the marionettes, all speaking in unison. I recognised it as the voice of my son, but it was much more menacing than I'd ever heard before. It should have comforted me, but I found it terrifying. The hooded men drop me immediately and backed away towards the door,

no, they didn't dare to run away just yet. The Inquisitor did not budge from his spot. When he did speak, however, fear was clearly evident in his voice, though he tried to disguise it. Silence, demon! You hold no power over the faithful. You cannot protect your master from retribution.

He managed to stammer weakly. Demon? I am just as human as you. you are, murderer, maybe even more. Do you know why? The voice of my son asked. The inquisitor disregarded the question and looked at me where I sat dumbfounded on the floor with an expression that was angry, but also full of fear of a man who'd realized that he had stepped into a situation he was not prepared for. He spoke to me slowly, deliberately, almost pleading with me. Toymaker, there is still time for you to do the right thing and redeem your immortal soul.

Call off whatever force you have conjured, and I can promise you mercy. His bargain was turned into a sickening gurgle by the loud hiss of something metallic, and I watched in horror as he rose into the air with the other hooded men as if by levitation. I watched all seven of them kick and struggle, suspended in the air in front of me, for at least a minute before I noticed the wires. They gleamed in the moonlight that filtered in through the shop window like the threads of a spider's web. They were everywhere. I'd no idea how I hadn't noticed them before.

They wrapped around the Inquisitor and his hooded minions tightly, wrapping around their throats and limbs, trapping them like flies or puppets on strings. No sooner than a moment after this revelation, the voice of my son rang out from the marionettes once again. Shall I tell you why, murderer? The inquisitor tried to speak, but the wires that constricted his throat didn't allow anything but hoarse gasps past his lips. Because I can feel, when I look out through the window and see all the normal people

living their lives, I feel lonely. When I create a toy that lights up a child's eyes as they leave the shot with it, I feel pride. When I hear the thinly disguised despair in my father's voice, as he tells the lies he believes will protect me, I myself feel despair. And when I see men like you that spreads suffering for its own sake, I feel anger. What could be more human than that? He said.

The inquisitor could not respond, but he still thrashed against the wires desperately, as did the rest of his men. He did them little good, though. I'm not sure if they could even process my boy's monologue, but that didn't seem to bother him one bit. What do you feel right now, murderer? Are you afraid? I was afraid once. Afraid of the loneliness, afraid of the world outside, afraid of the power within. But I'm not afraid any more.

And you shouldn't be either, because I am not like you, murderer. I will not take your life tonight. You will serve a higher purpose. Oh, the cold certainty of his word sent chills down my spine. As he spoke, I saw glyphs and ruins drawn all over the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and even the front door, and begin to give off a sickly pale glow as if on cue. and then I heard the familiar metal clunk of my son's joints as he descended the stairs. I half expected to see some horrible monstrosity, the likes of which should only ever be seen in

nightmares to come down into the shop, but only my boy came down the stairs, with my grimly in hand. He was shirtless, and upon his tiny wooden frame I could see the ruins that I myself had carved into him on the day of his birth, burning brightly as if they were wrong. on fire. They were much more intricate than the last time I'd seen them, as if he himself had added to them, both modifying and intensifying the magic they channeled for purposes I could only imagine. I said nothing as he walked past me. In truth, I was too terrified to. He cast me a reassuring glance as he walked by, though, and said something like, don't worry, Papa, it'll all be over soon. He then turned to. He then turned to. He turned out. He turned out. He said, he was a

his attention to the men suspended by the wires that he somehow guided with his own fingers. He looked back and forth at them in deep thought, as if he were trying to come to a decision, before looking out the shop window into the night sky and the bright stars that shone above, and simply saying, it is time. He then opened the grim-wire and produced a thin blade from his pocket, which he then used to make deep cuts into the skin of each of the intruders, almost all the way down to the bone, in the shape of the glyphs that covered his own body, reciting ancient incantations as he did.

The men squirmed, thrashed wildly, and cried pitifully as he did. I wanted to scream at him to stop, but no words came out of my mouth. I was a prisoner of my own terror. The light from the stars that shone in through the window seemed to grow brighter and brighter as he worked, until it filled my vision and became blinding. Once I was unable to see anything but the bright light of the stars, I could hear the screams. They were mangled and agonized, but I could recognize them as the voices of the intruders.

I heard the awful sound of bones snapping and flesh tearing, could smell the horrible metallic smell of freshly spilled blood flowing freely onto the floor, and felt the oppressive presence of the old gods as they worked whatever he, hideous enchantment my son had summoned them for. I was sure I would go mad before it was over, but then, almost as quickly as it had appeared, the light of the stars vanished, and my vision darkened. Silence filled the shop while I returned my senses. As my blurred vision came back into focus, the first thing I noticed was that all seven of the intruders were gone. I could see no trace of them, not even a drop of blood or scrap of clothing. The second thing I noticed was the

charred husk of my boy that laid on the floor, as if he'd set himself ablaze. I was beside myself with grief until I saw the unconscious young man that lay in front of my son's burned remains. I'd never seen him before in my life, and I was certain that he hadn't been in the shop a moment ago, yet at the same time he seemed so familiar. He could have been about twenty, he could have been about twenty. His hair was black and long enough to cover his eyes. He had no clothes and what struck me as the most odd thing about him was that he didn't seem to have any scars or blemishes of any kind on his body, not unlike a newborn baby. I was about to go over to him and see if he was injured when he shot up suddenly and stared at me with green, snake-skin eyes. He ran his hand through

his hair and down his face, looking like he was about to cry tears of joy. He was about to cry tears of joy. as he did. Instead, he just looked me in the eyes and said, Hello, Papa, son? I gasped in utter shock. A thin smile spread across his face. In the flesh. But, but how? You prayed to the beggar prince to give me life. I prayed for a body, and he saw fit to use those evil men's flesh to forge my new vessel. Even now I'm not sure why, but I couldn't bring myself to celebrate the deaths of those men. They may have been horrible, perhaps inhuman, but no one deserved a fate like that, and I told my son as much. You told them you wouldn't take their lives.

And I didn't. None of them are dead, he shot back as he stood up and dusted himself off with nonchalance. What are you talking about? I only took their bodies. Their souls have been placed in new bodies, ones that were render them incapable of harming anyone else ever again. Honestly, Papa, what kind of monster do you take me for? I...

I don't understand. Look over there. He pointed over to the display window with a sigh, as if you were trying to explain the obvious to a young child. I looked over to where he was pointing. I saw the marionettes that hung there, moving and jerking about frantically. Their once vacant glass eyes now alive with panic and confusion. Understanding then struck me like a battering ram.

You'd best get them out of the window before they scare the neighbours, he said with a smirk. That's so cruel, was all I could manage to say. Is it? Is it any less cruel? and what they would have done to you if I hadn't been here. I suppose not. You're a good man, Papa. A good man are always disturbed by such things.

I don't hold it against you. What happens now? Now I'm going to leave, and you should leave too. The church, no doubt, has more inquisitors to send our way, and this is not a situation you can talk yourself out of. I'll make plenty of noise on my way out of the city to distract them. You take whatever you need to and go somewhere safe. When the time's right, we'll meet back here again.

Before I could protest or really say anything at all, my boy who was once a puppet, now a flesh and blood man, turned and walked out the door as if he hadn't a care in the world. We went our separate ways that night. I packed everything I could carry, the marionettes included and left. as fast as I could. I haven't seen my boy since. True to his word, he made plenty of noise on his way

out of the city. He even set fire to the cathedral. I've heard so many stories and hushed whispers about him over the years in the taverns and inns I've visited in my travels. He has apparently lived a very full life and become something of a legend. The common folk called him the beggar prince, a defender of the weak and a punisher of the wicked. I wonder if they'd feel the same if they knew as I did. I've kept the puppets all these years as well. As cruel as they were in their old lives, I couldn't bring myself to hate them now.

I only feel pity for them. As I sit here in this abandoned workshop again for the first time in many years, I find that I haven't given up hope that I'll see my boy again. I know that things will never again be as they once were, but maybe that's for the best. Maybe something better will fill the void. Maybe we can be better this time around. I have so many stories to tell him, just like I used to.

I can see the prince's star shining brightly in the sky outside the window tonight, and I know what I'm going to wish for. Over the river and through the woods. Oh, my little one, what big eyes you have. The witch in the crimson red hood said as she tenderly caressed the cheek of my infant son in her arms. It might have been a touching sight, was she not standing over the savagely mutilated corpse of my wife? For I lay grievously injured on the dirt cabin floor.

I tried to plead with the witch, who wore the face of a young girl, to take whatever she wanted, even kill me if it pleased her, as long as she spared. my son. She paid me no mind though, didn't seem to notice me at all. She seemed to be off in her own world, completely detached from the atrocities she had just committed upon my family. Oh, I just know that Grandma is going to love you. She cooed, and she carefully placed my only son in the wicker basket she carried at her side and covered him in a blue wall blanket.

She then cast me a backward glance with her deep maroon-colored eyes as I struggled to struggled to crawl towards her, despite the deep wound she'd inflicted on me with her dark magic. She took only a moment to laugh at my suffering before turning and walking out the front cabin door into the blistering cold winter night with my son at her side, and then vanishing between the trees like a shadow. Well, if I'd been anyone else, my story might have ended here. The pain I felt was excruciating. I could barely feel my limbs. My vision blurred, and every breath I took was shallow and laboured. I have no doubt that if I'd been a normal human being, I would have succumbed to the agony and expired on that dirt cabin floor. I think the witch had

been counting on that. What she didn't count on was that I was no normal human being. I had a weapon that most humans did not. Summending the last reserves of my strength, I crawled along the dirt floor slowly as blood seeped from my wounds until I finally made it through the open cabin door and into the pale silver glow of the moonlight that awaited me outside. Moonlight had always been the bane of my existence. It was the reason I could never have a life in civilized society, why I chose a life of seclusion for my family out in these woods, where I thought we would be safe. Yes, moonlight had always been my curse. But now in my greatest time of need, I saw that moonlight was my only weapon in the fight to save my boy from the evil that had snatched him from me.

So for the first time in my life, I embraced it. The full moon shone against the black sky with unbridled brilliance that night. So the change came quickly. I felt my bones snapping and stretching as my body became larger, and my muscles expanded to nearly three times their normal size. Sharp carnivore's teeth grew out from under my regular ones, pushing them out of my gums and causing me to spit them out into the snow, along with thick droplets of my blood. My fingers grew long, as wicked-looking claws sprouted out from where my fingernails had been, and my raven black hair became thicker and thicker until it was a mane of jet-black fur that covered the entirety of my body. I felt the wounds across my body shrink and clothes, as the problem.

Pain melted away with the transformation. Before I knew it, the man I was had completely disappeared, replaced by the wolf, and tonight that suited me just fine. For I knew that when a man had failed to protect his family, the wolf would not.

It's difficult to describe what it's like to inhabit the form of a wolf. I was myself and at the same time someone else altogether. My human thoughts were intact, but they were quiet whispers compared to the primal cries of my animal instincts, specifically the ones that commanded me to track, hunt, and kill. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a disaster, but these were not normal circumstances. Tonight I needed to hunt, and there was no doubt in my mind that by this hunt's end,

there'd be plenty of killing to satisfy the wool. The witch's scent still hung thickly in the frigid winter air like a miasma. It smelled like lavender, incredibly distinct, but fading fast. I had to move quickly to catch up with her. I bounded after that lavender scent through the dark, unforgiving forest with wild abandoned, the mournful howls of the other wolves that roam the forest, filling my ears as I went. They might not have seen me, but they knew I was on the hunt. They always did.

The first time I caught up with the witch was on the banks of the river that divided the northern part of the woods from the south. She'd stopped, seemingly to pick flowers from a nearby bush that grew along the water's edge despite the harsh winter cold. She had the most carefree look on her face as she brought the flowers to her nose

and inhaled their scent. She looked like a young woman, a joyful evening stroll, rather than the murdering kidnapper she was. and even in my half-mad state of transformation, it infuriated me. The wicker basket that held my son lay beside her in the snow, where she knelt, and the wolf's keen ears could make out his steady breathing and the rhythm of his tiny heartbeat. Tipped me over the edge from fury into frenzy, and with one of the most savage, hate-filled growls I've ever given,

I abandoned all caution and lunged at the witch, with the sole intention of sinking my fangs into her throat and tearing her head from her body. That had been a mistake. She turned and saw me at the last second, utter shock and fear painting her features very briefly before she evaporated into a cloud of red mist, taking my sun with her and leaving me to claw at snow and branches. I looked around for her frantically, terrified that I'd lost her.

When I saw her materialise on the opposite side of the river, Thankfully, whatever sorcery she'd employed to turn herself into mist didn't seem to be able to carry her very far. She gawked at me from across the river for a moment, before that look of confident amusement that she'd had in my cabin spread back across her face. I rose to my full height and howled at her, if for no other reason than to show her that she would not get away with her crimes, that tonight she would face bloody retribution. She laughed at me mockingly before taking a deep breath and exhaling a huge black cloud of what I felt was smoke at first,

before it drifted towards me over the water with rapid speed as the buzz of a thousand angry black hornets reached my ears. The swarm attacked me with vicious ferocity, each sting burning like hot fire. I swatted and clawed at them as best I could, but they evaded my claws with ease. Seeing no other option, I dove into the freezing waters of the river to avoid the swarm, catching a glimpse of the witch fleeing into the woods beyond the river as I did. I allow myself to drift downstream long enough for the swarm to dissipate before I swam ashore. Had I been in my human form, I might have chastised myself for being so careless at such a critical moment, but the wolf had no mind for such things.

The wolf only had a mind for hunting. and the witch's scent was still strong. She seemed to be moving away at a much quicker pace now, which came as no surprise, because now she knew she was being hunted, and though she apparently moved much faster than most people, she wasn't fast enough to get me off her trail. I pursued her scent doggedly through the dark woods for hours

before she slowed down long enough for me to catch sight of her in that crimson cloak of hers again. This time she seemed to be in the company of someone else, He was a woodsman by the look of him, big and burly with a thick red beard hanging from his chin, and he carried a sharp-looking axe at his side. He sat on a stump across from a campfire, with a concerned look on his face,

while he spoke to the red-hitted witch, who clutched the basket holding my son close to her breast. I went low as I approached the campsites, determined not to make the same mistake I had at the river. This time I would be quiet. until it was time to strike. I moved in slowly and silently until I was close enough

to make out the words they spoke to each other. Calm down, my dear. There's no need to cry. What do you mean? A beast. A stream of crocodile tears flowed down the witch's face

as she replied. A wolf! Fur is black as night and fangs like races. It's following me through the forest. He wants to devour my baby. She cried. Oh, I understood her game immediately, and it made my blood boil.

How dare she claimed my son as her own, when his real mother lay dead and rotting by her hands. Oh, I wanted to leap out and rip her apart, but I restrained myself and kept listening. Why are you wandering the woods this late alone, dear? Where is the child's father? He asked to her. The witch let out a sharp sob at his question, as if it pained her to hear it. The boy's father is a miserable loud tool. Have nothing to do with us.

We only have my grandma, she wailed. Oh, it was quite the performance on her part. I could tell the woodsman was utterly convinced. Where does your grandma live, dear? If it's not far, I can travel with you until we get there, if it makes you feel safe. The witch cleared her throat. She lives in a cottage at the forest edge. I swear it isn't far.

Then let's get going. You and the little one stay close to me, he said, standing up. Are you sure? The wolf is so big and frightening. She asked him in a tone that sounded genuinely scared. I haven't met a wolf yet that I couldn't put down with this. He said as he brandished his axe, letting the moonlight refrauded.

of its silver edge. Oh, thank you so much. She said, as she put my son down long enough to wrap the woodsman in an embrace. It was more than a bit provocative. This was a problem. I didn't doubt that I could take on the hapless woodsman if I needed to.

I wasn't in the habit of hurting innocent people. I couldn't risk the witch making another escape while I was distracted with him. That silver axe he carried could do me serious, harm as well, so attacking outright seemed to be out of the question. For the moment at least, the witch seemed to have outsmarted me. As hard as it was, I restrained myself from obeying my instincts and came up with a plan. It dawned on me fairly quickly that this witch was out of my reach for the moment. Her grandmother, surely a witch herself, was not. Or if I could get to

the cottage before them, I could dispose of the grandmother. That way I would both eliminate whatever threat to my son she posed, and also attain the perfect point of ambush to save my boy when they arrived. That would mean I'd have to find a cottage, though, and, at the edge of the forest, wasn't much to go on. I had my nose, though, since it was safe to assume that the two witches lived together. If I could find a scent like hers and follow it to its source, I would find their lair.

After putting some distance between my senses, myself, the woodsman and the witch, I put my nose to the air and searched for a scent to follow. It didn't take me long to find it once I started heading south. The scent was like lavender, unmistakable. I followed it through the thinning tree line for what felt like an eternity before I came upon the cottage. It was innocent looking enough from a distance, just a single-story little wooden house with some potted plants scattered about on the porch, and what at first I thought were people, gathered in the front yard.

Once they got closer though, the house took on a much more eerie appearance, skins and hides from various animals like foxes, bears, cats, boards, and even walls hung all around the house. Some attached to the building itself,

others stretched over straw-filled scarecrows that filled the yard. It looked as if a pack of beast-like man stood guard over the house. And the human part of me found that deeply ironic. Hand-made charms that appeared to have been made from the bones of small animals hung over the front door doorway, and once I was close enough I could hear the chanting.

It sounded low and wicked, spoken in a language I did not recognize. The voice chanting sounded like that of an old woman, the witch's mysterious grandmother, I guess. He might have scared a human, but I was not human, and after everything that had happened to me tonight, I was ready to spill blood. In my haste, I hardly noticed how the hollow eye sockets of the scarecrow seemed to follow me as I approached. I didn't care. I burst through the front door and braced myself for a battle, but was met with only the steady crackling sound of a fire.

What I saw within the cottage sickened me more than anything I'd seen outside. Strange ruins drawn in blood covered the walls, and bones littered the otherwise. bare floor. Tiny bones. They were unmistakable as the bones of small children. There were hundreds of them. Some were intact, woven into some kind of handmade dolls or charms, not unlike the ones outside. Others have been broken, open with a crude hammer, and had the marrow scooped out of them for purposes I couldn't even begin to imagine. At the very back of the cottage, a fire burned within some kind of large bronze bowl,

and looked like the remnants of another age. A decrepit old woman clothed in the skin and fur of a large wolf sat on the chair in front of the bowl. She chanted over the fire. Her pale and cloudy eyes focused on the bones that burned within the bowl centre. She spoke in a raspy horse voice that made my skin crawl. There you are, monster. She said with a smile,

Your coming was foretold by the bones. Oh, I did not want to hear her speak. I stepped forward to rip the old hag apart. But she spoke as I approached nevertheless, laughing as she did. My death will be a hollow victory for you, Monster. You'll never hold that boy again. She said in between her fits of maniacal laughter. I didn't let her say another word.

After all I'd gone through with the red-hitted witch, I expected this one to put up a fight, but she didn't. She sat perfectly still as I wrapped my claws around her throat and broke her neck, stopping her dreadful laughter for good. Now all that remained was to ambush the red-hitted witch and her hapless protector and save my son.

I stuffed the witch's corpse in a cupboard, I found in her bedchamber to the left of the main parlour where she'd been sitting and took her place on the chair. Waiting in that den of evil was torture. I waited until I started to see the first signs of dawn in the sky through the window outside. I was starting to worry that the moonlight would fade, and I'd lose the blessing of the wolf before they arrived when I finally heard the familiar flutter of that crimson cloak, and the innocent-sounding voice of my mind. most hated enemy outside. Grandma, Grandma, I'm home, and you'll just love what I brought for you. I forced myself to remain still in that chair as she walked through the door with the woodsman in

tone. He seemed different somehow. The concerned look that painted his face at the campsite was gone, replaced with a distant and vacant expression, as if he were unaware of anything happening around him at all. I suspected that the witch had done something to him between there and here. I expected her to attack as soon as she saw me. But to my utter amazement, with only the dim light from the fire illuminating the cottage, she seemed unable to tell the difference between me and the fur-wrapped old woman she'd been expecting, at least for the moment. I said nothing as she approached. Grandma! She asked as she came closer with her. growing concern in her voice.

She was close now, but I needed her to get just a little closer. Is something the matter? She asked, stepping in close. Then, for the first time that night, my son started crying from where he lay in the wicker basket she carried. The sound caused her to take her eyes off me

for only a moment. I took the opportunity to sink my teeth into her throat. The metallic, taste of warm blood coated my lips as I bit down hard, determined to kill that red-hooded harpy once and for all. Her face was twisted in a mixture of shock and agony, and I could make out the gurgling sound she made as air escaped her lives. She crumpled to the ground as I grabbed the wicker basket from her hands. Never in my life have I handled anything with such care in the form of the wolf as I did that basket.

My son's cries had become all the more hysterical, but I didn't care. The fact that I had in my arms again after all that had transpired tonight made all of it work. The woodsman seemed to have snapped out of whatever trance the witch had placed over him

because he stared at everything before him with his mouth open in horror, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Well, Lord above, he started to say before going pale as something behind me caught his attention. Here, for I could turn to see what it was.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot up my back as long, hitched black claws pierced through my side. My, my, grandma, what sharp teeth you have, said the witch, her voice now distorted and demonic. I turn my head to see her more than just alive, but seemingly undergoing a transformation of her own. Her once maroon eyes now burned ruby red A fair skin had turned grey

And her hair began to wrive And twist beneath that hood of hers As if it were alive Black blood seeped from the wound on her neck That I'd given her And maggots poured from her open mouth As she spun Without thinking

I began pummeling the witch with my free claws Of cold numbness began to spread Throughout my body No matter how much I struck her no matter how much flesh I raked off her face with my claws, she did not let go. She bore the claw she had lodged in my side upward, cutting into my stomach and chest. The pain was unbearable. As my eyesight grew dark, I could see the witch reaching for the basket with one of her wicked black claws.

Before I saw the silver head of an axe, planted squarely in her skull, and the voice of the woodsman, which sounded in her. equal parts terrified and brave. He was swinging at her wildly in a state of panic, and the sight made me grateful that, at least for the moment, he seemed much more terrified of her than of me. The witch screamed out in agony, sputtering out half-formed threats and curses at the both of us

as we worked in unison to destroy her. As the first rays of dawn streamed in through the window, she finally went still. For a brief moment, I feared the woodsman might turn his axe on me, but he stood transfixed, staring at me as the form of the wolf began to fall away with the rising sun. I felt myself shrinking as I clutched the wicker basket and made my way over to the chair where that horrible witch had been sitting when I'd first come to the cottage. I felt a wave of satisfaction wash over me as I realized I'd proven her wrong. Despite the undoubtedly fatal wounds that had been inflicted on me,

I was holding my son in my arms once again. When my human hands had returned to me, I reached into the basket and gently pulled him into my arms and pulled the blanket from his face. Big, beautiful, brown eyes looked up at me in recognition, and his hysterical cries faded away. He smiled and reached for me with his tiny little hands. I'd never seen anything more precious.

What are you? The woodsman had finally got up the courage to ask in a timid voice. I didn't answer his question. Instead, I just gestured to the baby in my arms and gave the most desperately I had ever given in my life. He's my son. Please, when I'm gone, take him away from this awful place. I choked out.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just look between me and my husband. son in total silence before he nodded reassuring me I understand no other words were spoken between I may have lost my life tonight but I'd save my boy from whatever horrible fate the witches have planned for him and that was enough for me cradled him in my arms listening to the warm soothing rhythm of his heartbeat there's numbness spread over me and when death finally came to embrace me. I met it without regret. The tower in the fall. On a bleak hilltop in the darkest

parts of the wilderness, all but forgotten by man, where the shadows gather and the rest of spirits wander. There is a tower that rises out of the dense fog that blankets the forest. Few people who are still living have ever seen it up close, and of those few, even fewer will ever speak of it. One of those few people was my father, and even, rarely ever spoke of it without the aid of a strong drink. It's a wicked place, he used to say in a mournful, heartbroken tone that told me the memories of the place still haunted him, even though many years had passed since he'd last laid eyes on it. Father didn't know who'd built the tower. No one did. Some say that the moss-covered grey spire is merely the last remnants of a much larger

fortress built in ages past, left a wilt and wither under the weight of the passing centuries, while others say that it's a temple meant to honour dark and vengeful gods whose names were better left unspoken. Not my father, though. He was absolutely convinced that the tower was in fact a prison, though he would never say what or who he thought it was a prison for, and I knew better than to ask. He spoke of the looming structure on the horizon in hushed whispers the way a child might speak about the monster that lives under the bed. Oh, evil seeps that boy, always watching, always waiting. He never failed to stare directly at the place

when he gave that warning from where he sat on the porch of the log cabin he and I shared in my youth, which was quite a feat for him since a grievous injury had taken both of his eyes many years earlier. I found it so eerie when he got like that, and I never knew how to respond to him, just like I never knew how to calm him down when he would awaken in the middle of the night

screaming at whatever terrible spectre from his past visited him in his dreams. He would weep and beg and babble nonsense, though almost everything he said was always some variation of an apology. I'm sorry, there was nothing I could do. You know, I never meant to leave you, he would say. I always wondered he was speaking to in those dreams, but never found the courage to ask. I'd accepted that my father would, in all likelihood, take his secrets to his grave. And had he not called me to his bedside one night as a chilling autumn wind blew in from the

north and rattled the windows while a torrent of rain drenched the world outside, he very well might have. He had caught out to me so suddenly and desperately that for a moment I feared someone had broken into the cabin. When I arrived in my father's room, however, I found him alone, sitting upright in his bed and sweating profusely as his head darted from side to side, as if trying to spot danger despite his blindness. It was immediately clear to me that he was in the throes of one of his night terrors, and I relaxed ever so slightly as I went about the task of calming him down, as I had done many times before. I walked over to his bedside and reached out for his shoulder, but he grabbed my wrist with startling speed and turned to face me from where he sat. His grip was strong,

but I could feel his hand trembling as abject horror gripped him, and he spoke to me in a quiet whisper, as if he were afraid someone might be listening in on our conversation, even though he and I were very much alone in the cabin. My time is short, and I can live with the weight of this thing no longer. Please take my key and unlock the chest under the beds. I knew exactly what key and chest he was referring to. The key he spoke of was a gleaming gold trinket with a single tiny ruby at its base

that had hung from his neck for as long as I could remember. It was a beautiful thing made with craftsmanship, the likes of which I'd never seen before. I'd asked him once where he'd gotten it, and all he had said to me in response was that it had been a gift from my mother. It was the first and last time he ever mentioned her. The chest in question was a bulky iron box with a very intricate lock mechanism composed of small gears and latches.

It had been collecting dust under my father's bed for as long as I could remember, and though it should have been obvious to me that the two were connected. It never really occurred to me that one opened the other until that very moment. I took the key from where it hung around my father's neck gently, and with utmost care as to not further upset him, and then leaned over to try and pull the chest out from under the bed, which I must say was not an easy task, even for a fairly strong young man of 19 who was accustomed to doing all the chores and labours that came with taking care of a blind man in the depths of the woods.

The damn thing felt like it was full of bricks. When it was far enough out from under the bed, I knelt out of the bed. down and placed the golden key in the lock and turned it carefully. A strange clockwork mechanism that acted as the chest lock made a very audible clicking sound as it opened for what was undoubtedly the first time in decades, and my father flinched at the sound, as if bracing himself for pain. Inside the chest I found that I'd not been far off in my assumption that it had been full of bricks, crudely cut bars of silver and some kind of flower, wolf spain and think, filled the chest to the brim. What struck me is especially strange about this,

aside from the rather astounding realization that my father had kept a chest full of silver bars under his bed for what must have been decades at least, was the fact that the flowers looked and smelled as if they'd been freshly picked. And that just should not have been possible, given the amount of dust that had collected on the chest itself, and my absolute certainty that it had never been opened as long as I could remember. As I look closer into the depths of the chest. I saw that silver bars and wolf-sbane were not the only things it contained. Hidden near the bottom was a small wooden box that had been painted red and bore a strange crest that resembled a stag painting in gold on its lid. It looked completely intact to me, which was

somewhat puzzling when I considered that this box had to have spent a long time under the weight of several bars of silver. As you see the box, my father asked me softly, "'Yes,' I said. "'Open it.' When I did as he asked me, I found that contained within was a length of golden hair, bound up in a braid that glistened even in the dim candlelight. Of all the things I'd imagined

might have been hidden within my father's mysterious chest over the years. I'd never guessed that it would be human hair. I turned to look at my father, prepared to ask for some form of explanation, but his voice cut me off before I could give voice to my questions, and unconsciously reached toward the braid of hair within the box as I did. Don't touch the hair, he screamed at me, with startling volume, as if I were about to try and pick up a venomous serpent

rather than a simple, sethered length of human hair. His breathing had become fast and erratic at this point, like he was on the verge of panic. Once again he turned his head from side to side, as if searching for danger before speaking to me again. "'This thing has gone on far too long, son. "'It must end.' "'He said with the resolute certainty of someone

"'who'd come to a decision that they'd been dreading "'for a very long time. "'Father, what are you talking about? "'Why was their hair in a chest beneath your bed? "'Whose is it?' "'I asked him with unhidden astonishment "'and concern curiosity. "'If he had heard my question,

"'he didn't bother answering it. "'Instead he began to find, frantically give me instructions that were less than coherent through clenched teeth. You can't go on any longer, boy. It must end. You must be the one to end it. You must take the box into the wilderness to the north, follow the path of white stones to the tree with many faces. It is old and wise and will be your only friend in that dark place, as it once was mine. You'll know it by its white bar. Take the hatchet lodged in the trunk and then go left to the fork you'll see in the path deeper into the wood. He said, somewhat unsure of himself, as if he were trying to pry details

from very old memories. Well, try as I might, I could do very little to interrupt his fevered monologue, so instead I merely listened intently, despite having no idea at all what he was talking about. From there the hair will he be your guide. He'll reach out towards his master and show you the path whenever you open the box, but you must never touch it. Even severed pieces of her can do you great harm, or do not trust the trees. They are her servants just as the ravens are her eyes, and they will conspire to make you lose your way.

Follow the hair into the fog, and do not heed the whispers. Everything they say is lies. Once you cross the field of thorns, you'll find yourself at the tower's base. There, you must wait for the first rays of dawn to appear over the horizon. When they do, you'll hear her lullaby from the highest window at the tower's peak. Then, and only then, as dictated by the ancient traditions, you can call out to her,

bitter to let down her hair and let you ascend unharmed. Call out to her. Who? What do I say? I asked, somewhat instinctively. There is no time. You must listen. When the first light of dawn shines over the tower's peak,

you must call to her and say, Blood of my blood, let down your hair. You must then climb to the tower's peak sun, through the window where she'll be waiting for you. His frantic tone had broken into a hysterical sob at this point, and his words became choked with emotion, as if the words he spoke caused him physical pain. Then he must do,

Well, I could not, son. Use the hatchet. Give her the end she deserves. Put an end to the unending nightmare. He pleaded, before falling back onto his pillow and pulling his blankets over his face. Those were the last words my father ever spoke to me. When I went to check on him in the morning, I found that he had passed away sometime in the night. It was the most heart-wrenching thing I'd ever experienced in my life at that point.

I remember trying everything I could to revive him. I ran on foot to the nearest village, which was some distance away, to get him out, but to no avail. At the time I thought that losing him in such a way was the worst thing that I could ever experience. Well, I was wrong about that, but I digress. I'd like to say that I heeded my father's words, but in truth I'd forgotten nearly all about them in the wake of his death. When I did recall of them, often I gave passing glances to the tower on the horizon. and they seemed like little more to me than the fevered ranting of a man on death's door, both desperate and nonsensical.

Well, that was before the dreams began, of course. The first one came to me a little over a month after my father's passing. In the dream I stand in a spacious and elegant bedchamber, the likes of which could only have belonged to royalty. Fine tapestries of silk hung from the walls as faint rays of sunlight filtered in through a small window somewhere behind me. As I paced back and forth around the magnificent chamber,

a sickly sweet aroma of perfume filled my nose and a pleasing wordless melody filled my ears. Beneath my feet I could feel something soft that was unlike any carpet I'd ever felt. When I looked down to see what it was, I found that it was not carpet at all that lay beneath my feet,

but rather an impossibly long mass of golden hair. It covered nearly every inch of the floor and furniture that lined the chamber and piled up in heaps at the walls where it could grow outward no further. The very centre of the chamber was what appeared to be an enormous bed, though it was somewhat difficult to tell exactly what it was beneath all that hair.

Upon the bed sat what seemed to be a woman, clearly the source of all the hair, sitting upright and humming the sweet melody that graced my ears, as she brushed the long hair that obscured her face and body entirely, with a brush that was rather laughably unsuited to the... task. Her hands looked human enough, dainty and delicate even. Her nails

were painted at deep red, and on her finger I could make out the gleam of a golden ring bearing the emblem of a stare. I opened my mouth to try and speak to her, but no words passed my lips. Instead, I would gag and cough as I felt something rising at the back of my throat, and the sensation was so intense that I felt to my knees

unable to breathe. When I opened my mouth to vomit out, whatever bile had built up in the back of my throat, however, I looked on in horror as a long, thick length of hair fell past my lips, and when I looked down at the floor beneath me at the hair covering the floor, I saw that it no longer appeared pristine and soft. Instead, it was ragged and filthy. Mits of broken glass sticks, twigs, and what looked to me like the dead bodies of small animals in various stages of decay were tangled and threaded among the mass of hair. some of them were sickeningly fresh while others looked as if they'd been dead for quite a while

when i looked up through bloodshot eyes at the person on the bed from where i knelt choking and vomiting hair onto the floor my eyes were greeted by the sight of long black claws attached to deathly pale hands reaching out towards me and a pair of ruby red eyes that glowed like the fires of hell itself staring into my very soul from beneath all of the hair finish it A chillingly indifferent voice Whispers into my ear And then I awoke from the dream In a cold sweat

I tried to dismiss the dreams at first I rationalised them as manifestations Of my grief And did my best to move on with my life in the woods Eventually though As the months passed My nocturnal torment continued unabated I found myself recalling my father's dying words

More and more whenever I looked At the ominous stone tower in the distance When I couldn't tolerate the matter any longer. I set out one morning into the wilderness beyond the cabin with a decent-sized pack of food and my father's mysterious box in search for the path of white stones he'd spoken on. As I journeyed past the tree lying deeper into the woods, I found that my surroundings became darker and darker with every step that I took, despite the fact that it was still early morning, until only a few faint rays of sunlight penetrated the dense canopy of the trees above, and the path forward

was shrouded in near complete darkness. To say it was unnerving did not do enough justice to the cold dread that began building in my stomach as I walked. Another thing that struck me as unsettling about this part of the woods was the utter silence that filled it. One expects to hear all kinds of sounds out in the woods, whether they're made by animals, insects or even other people, but not in this part of the woods. I could hear almost nothing at all, not even the song.

churp of a cricket. It was this deafening silence that kept me from noticing the ravens for quite a while. They sat perched in the high branches of the trees along the path, following me with their cold black eyes as I went. They made not a single sound as they did. There were dozens of them at least, and their presence unnerved me all the more when I record my father's words. The ravens are her eyes, he told me. I found myself wishing. that I asked him to explain more that night. Who did he mean when he said, her eyes? Was he referring to the woman from my dreams?

Who was she? Was it she that had so tormented my father's dreams as she did now mine? Was she the inexplicable evil of the tower of which he had spoken so often? It seemed obvious that she was, though. Such knowledge did little to explain who she was and what exactly her grievances of my family could have been.

after walking through the dark of the wood for some time I found myself enveloped in a deep white fog that shrouded the path forward and very nearly obscured my vision entirely I didn't see the path of white stones father spoke of at first when I felt it felt the soft soil of the earth beneath my feet

abruptly changed into the hard cold surface of stone and I followed it until the mist that filled my vision thin just enough for me to see the narrow line of flat white stones that led further into the dark wilderness. To my eyes, they did not appear to have been there unnaturally, but by that I mean that they didn't see man-made. I saw no obvious tool marks or signs of excavated or displaced dirt that would leave me to believe that they've been placed there recently.

Despite this, each stone was smooth and polished and fit perfectly with the next one in the line like pieces of a puzzle. I followed this part until all the familiar traces of home were far behind me, and I was alone in the silence and the fog. I don't know when the madness first began to set in. The memory comes back to me now, fragmented like a dream half remembered. I recall pressing forward down the path, determined to reach its end, when I began to see human-like silhouettes in the fog all around me,

floating in the periphery of my vision, whispering to one another. I couldn't make out exactly what they were saying in the beginning. the further I walked, however, the clearer their words became. They whispered of my father and his suffering, of a nameless shame that had followed him to his grave, of my own failure to comfort him in his dying moments, and of a gruesome and horrible death that lay ahead of me. I tried to ignore them, but they would not be ignored. They floated above and around me as I walked, speaking in great detail of everything that kept me up at night. every failure, every doubt that has ever warmed its way through my skull,

every fear and insecurity that kept me from experiencing life in the fullest, was known to them and they used them like razor-sharp daggers against me. Were it not for my father's old box, I have no doubt I would have lost myself in that fog. It began to shift and jerk around in the pack I'd placed it in the further I went down the path, as if a small animal had somehow found its way within. In a fleeting moment of clarity amidst all the wall, whispers, I took the box out of the pack and held it in front of me, releasing the small

latch at the front of it as I did, and watched an amazement as the braid of hair that lay within rose out of the box and reached forward like a long, disembodied finger pointing into the pallid depths of the mists. I walked in the direction the hair pointed to almost as if, in a trance, only vaguely aware of my surroundings as I did. It was a sight of the tree of many faces father spoke of that brought me back to reality. It sat in a clearing devoid of other trees and further distinguished itself from the other plant life of the forest with its massive size and the fact it quite literally had countless human-like faces etched into its bark. Some were worn and ancient looking, others looked

freshly carved, but all of them looked sad. At the center of the trunk, directly at eye-level with me was the largest of the faces that resembled at a bearded old man, and below that face launched into the base of the trunk, I can make out the glimming head of the hatch it farther had spoken of. With some trepidation I slowly made my way into the clearing and over to the tree, where I then took hold of the axe with my free hand and pried it from its resting place. I nearly toppled over with terror when a deep sigh came forth from the mouth of the tree's largest faced in response.

The ancient branches of the tree swayed in the wind as the face's hollow wooden eyes opened and gazed upon me and the hatchet in my hands before the tree itself spoke to me saying only a few words that expressed centuries of sorrow please little one finish it it begged before closing its eyes once again falling silent once more i needed no more persuading at this point the truth of my father's words was clearly evident to me now as was my mission with the box in hand and the hatchet at my side I pushed onwards towards the dark spire in the distance with a renewed sense of purpose and strong desire to put down

whatever evil had cast its shadow upon my family as it would turn out my newfound enthusiasm would be short-lived well the forest was treacherous at the best of times and the closer I seemed to get to the tower the more turned around I got

just as father had said the trees themselves seem to conspire against me they defied my every attempt to use them as landmarks I would carve an X into the trunk of one only to find it missing when I turned round sometimes I would see the same tree in an entirely different spot than when I'd first laid eyes on it while this paired with the all-consuming fog

that seemed to cover everything the closer I got to the tower made navigation almost impossible the hair in father's box however remain consistent whenever I'd open the box, it would show me the way forward. After several hours of wandering, my destination and us, the end of my journey, came into view. The tower was much larger than I'd first believed. It stretched upward into the sky like a jagged blade jutting out of the earth and nearly

reached the clouds. It was majestic in a way, a gothic display of architectural brilliance and perhaps arrogance as well. I could only imagine the ambition and... work it must have taken to produce such a structure. The task of climbing up to its peak was daunting just to think about, and I hadn't even made it past the dense field of thorns that lay between me and the tower's bays. I don't know how I didn't die in that place. The journey through the fawns was more painful than anything had experienced up to that point.

The way four was cramped and narrow, and the thorns seemed to reach for me with a vicious will of their own. Each one was like a barbed hook digging deep into my flesh and refusing to let go. My clothes were torn and my spirit nearly broken when I finally crawled out onto the other side, broken and bloodied. Perhaps by luck or perhaps by the will of the gods, I had made it to that wicked tower, just as father had asked of me. But my woes were far from over. Fatigue weighed on me like a boulder and anxiety over what I had to do next filled me like a wave of icy water as the blood from my wounds seaked onto the ground around me. I was so exhausted. I must have lapsed in and out of consciousness several times by the time the ruby rays of the morning sun began to light up the sky above

me and the melody that haunted my dreams filled my ears. It was sweet and welcoming and spoke to the deepest parts of my soul, as if to remind me of a joy I'd long since forgotten. I rose to my feet at the sound of it, and with all of the strength I could muster, I shouted the words my father had spoken to me on the night of his demise. Blood of my blood, let down your hair. A short moment later, a wave of golden hair cascated down from the tower's peak like rain from the heavens, and settled at my feet.

I knew what I had to do next, though. Admittedly, I did so reluctantly. I took a hold of the hair as if it were a rope, and upon doing so I felt a surge of Hercules and vigor, the likes of which I had never felt before, and climbed, climbed for hours at the side of that stony monstrosity with a singular purpose. I climbed until the sun was high in the sky, and the air that filled my lungs was thin and cold. I didn't know what awaited me at the top of the tower, only that I had to reach it, if not to avenge my father then to put an end to my own nightmares, and those of all who had lost themselves in the fog in search of this

accursed place. When I reached the peak at long last, I found myself on an extravagant balcony of polished obsidian, before me was an open door from within which the hair seemed to grow like vines. The lullaby was much closer now. I could hear it coming from close by, and with the hatchet in hand I proceeded through the door. What awaited me within was a sight much more ghastly than anything from my dreams. Worn, weathered and broken furniture lay scattered about all around, what once must have been a regal bedchamber, and the thick, pungent stench of rotting flesh hung in the air like a dark cloud.

At the room's centre was the bed from my dreams, but rather than a single woman alone upon the bed, there was instead a trio of corpses at its foot. The first was vaguely recognisable as that of an old woman. It wore a tattered silk robe, embroidered with glyphs and symbols beyond my understanding, and on one of its fingers, of its skeletal hand, despite the ring imprinted with the emblem of a stag from my dreams,

glowing a deep red as if by some form of sorcery. The other two corpses were clearly that of two young children. I couldn't bear to look at the sight of them for more than a moment, but the true horror of that room was on the bare, bed itself. Upon the bed I saw a haggard and pale-looking woman thrashing about like a wild animal, trapped in bindings fashioned from her own impossibly long hair. It wrapped around her arms, legs, neck, and also the bedposts. She clawed it desperately, trying to escape. In just the few moments I'd been in the room, I saw her rip her hands free with her own teeth

and then desperately tried to tear herself away from the bed by pulling her own head. out by the fistful, but to no avail. No matter how much she tore out, it would grow back before my eyes in moments, and the bindings would retie themselves. It was as if the woman was a prisoner of her own hair. She stopped abruptly when she heard me approach. As I got closer, she turned her head to face me with her crimson red eyes to the best of her ability, given the state she was in, and spoke to me in a voice that was sweet, sincere.

and comfortably familiar. Blood of my blood. Welcome home. I've waited so long to see you again, she said. Who are you? I asked, sounding much more timid than I'd intended. You know who I am, child. You've always known.

I am she who gave you life. She who watches over you from above, and she who sings to you in your dreams, she replied. You mean to say, "'You're my mother,' I asked her as the implications of her words shook me to my very call. "'Come closer so I may look at you.' I stepped forward slowly, keeping my hand on the hatchet at my side as I did.

"'You have your father's eyes,' she said. "'She said with reverence as I approached. "'What's going on here? Why are you like this?' I wondered aloud, despite myself. She gave out a long sigh before she replied. A curse of betrayal, blood of my blood, perpetrated upon me by my own mother and your father. She said, with growing bitterness in her voice,

as she gestured over to the corpse of the old woman at the foot of the bed. Why would they do something like this to you? Out of fear, little one. Fear of what? I asked, with growing incredulity. Fear of power? Fear of their own weakness. Fear of me. she hissed before her voice quickly snapped back into a sweet motherly tongue but none of that matters

any more blood of my blood you're here now and the betrayers are dead you can return my ring to me and set me free so i can give you the life you were meant to have that they stole from you she lamented and what life was that the life of a king of royalty among royalty you are the air to power the likes of which this world is never seen. Release me and I can show you, she promised. Who are they? I asked, gesturing over to the child corpses. She deflected the question. What does it matter, blood of my blood? They are dead and gone. Do not cry for them, for they will not cry for you. My father wanted me to put an end to you, I told her. Of course he did. He was a coward and would naturally want you to be a coward as well. but you are no coward are you send me free son i think's be as they should be she responded with calm assurance i'd like to say that i didn't consider her offer at all but that would be a lie though she seemed far from trustworthy her offer did have a certain appeal to it

my father was dead all that awaited me back home was an empty cabin and even though i wanted to deny it i knew in my heart that this thing was whatever it was, was the only family I had left in the world. It made the decision I knew I had to make much, much harder. You're right, mother. I am no coward. I told her, as I raised the hatchet and plunged it into her neck. She let out an agonized scream that shook the tower to its very foundations. Pitch black blood seeped from the open wound in her throat, and she glared up at me with those fiery red eyes of hers for but a moment.

before she chuckled at me as if I'd just told her the funniest joke, revealing a row of rotten black teeth as the long strands of hair that constricted her, tightened around her body as it began to wither before my eyes, until only her bones remained on the bed. All at once the wicked sense of foreboding that had overwhelmed me ever since I first stepped foot in the tower evaporated, and I felt more free than I ever had. I could have abandoned all sense right then and there and done,

for joy but then a horrible realization struck me I realized that in my zeal to avenge my father I had killed the only person who could have known how to get back to the ground below without that accursed thing that had called itself my mother I had no way of escaping the tower it was the magic of her cursed hair that allowed me to climb to this place to begin with and without it I did not know if I could make the climb back down without fall into my death Her look of bemusement as she withered away made sense to me now. She knew what I now knew, and it amused her. It was perhaps her final act of spite against those she'd terrorised for so many years.

If she could persuade me to join her, or kill me herself, well, if she couldn't persuade me to join her or kill me herself, she could condemn me to a slow death by starvation here at the peak of this awful place, far away from anyone who could help me and as it turned out she very nearly had her way can't remember how long i spent screaming over the balcony for help until i was exhausted or how many times i beat my fists against the walls and spit on her corpse as i paced the room desperately trying to think of a solution but to no avail hours became days and days became weeks i did my best to ration the food and water stored in my pack to prolong my survival but eventually all of it was gone, and I found myself waiting to die. At the end of the third day without water, I'd given up. I felt the cold, unfeeling stone walls closing in around me from where I sat huddled in a corner, farthest away from that awful bed and the demon that had died upon it,

waiting for deaths embrace, when the little ones came for me. I dismissed the ghostly apparitions as hallucinations when I first saw them, as I believe most people would have. After all, who in their right mind would believe that a pair of children could have found their way up into such an awful place. It was impossible, but they stood there before me nevertheless. A boy and a girl with soft expressions of pity

painted across their young faces. I asked them who they were and had they gotten up to the chamber, but they did not answer me. Instead they silently helped me to my feet in unison and guided me over to the corpse of the old woman at the foot of the bed. The girl then gently leaned down and removed the golden ring from the corpse's finger and placed it onto mine.

I felt an unnatural warmth spread over me as she did, and life returning to my body with it. I became something else in that moment, something that was still human, but at the same time not. Power, the likes of which I'd never known before flowed through my fingertips, and all feelings of hunger and thirst melted away. It became clear to me why my mother had so desperately wanted to be reunited with this ring, and I berated myself for not thinking of it on my own.

When I was strong enough to walk on my own again, I turned to the ghostly children that had been my saviors, and thanked them for their kindness. The first and last words they spoke to me were that this was what families did for each other, before they both evaporated like the morning mists. I still find myself missing them some days. I haven't left the tower since that morning, and that suits me just fine. With the ring in my possession, the tower was no longer a prison, but rather a fortress built with magic.

The very bricks and mortar of the place are now extensions of my will. I can move about freely within it, and there was so much more to discover. In the many years I've spent here, I've learned more of the world than most could ever hope to. I've found a vast library on the nature and practice of sorts of service. sorcery within the towers walls, the likes of which I doubt exists anywhere else in the world, and have spent some decades committing its contents to memory. I've learned of this world and the one beyond, of curses and of medicine, of science and superstition, and of course the prophetic power of dreams. I'm everything my mother wanted me to be. But I'm not as cruel and petulant

as she was. I am not a monster. I do not seek to rule. I do not seek to rule. or oppress anyone with the power I've collected in this place. It is my hope to protect this knowledge from people like her, as I know there are many out there in the world. I dream of a day when I won't have to anymore, when I can open this place to the people of the world without fear of terrible consequences. When that day comes,

I have no doubt that it will be the happiest day in human history, but that day is not today, and until that day arrives, I shall forever remain, The patient guardian of this tower in the fog. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen.

Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.