After the disappearance of her parents, a heartbroken child is sold to the Doll-Maker who promises to revive them. In return, she is to travel from cemetery to cemetery, unearthing graves and collecting skulls.
Description:
Published: November 17th, 2015
Cover Artist: Yosbe Design
In a world in which children are exploited, monsters are saviors, and dark magic is constantly at play, a little girl will go to any lengths to be reunited with her lost ones.
After the disappearance of her parents, a heartbroken child is sold to the Doll-Maker who promises to revive them. In return, she is to travel from cemetery to cemetery, unearthing graves and collecting skulls.
While doing so, she must avoid the Violinist and his crows, who are determined to steal the skulls she has painstakingly gathered.
As she travels across the province, with her life in constant peril from vengeful policemen to furious villagers to strange creatures, the little girl must use her wits to succeed in her macabre mission.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Our story begins
in the cradle of a little girl's
anguish and despair,
without which there
would be no tale to recount.
On a dark, stormy night, like on many others, we find her wailing
inconsolably under the warming caress of a street light by the side of a
nameless, muddy road. She cries, for her parents mysteriously vanished
not a week ago, leaving
her utterly, miserably
alone.
As was the way of things
in the quiet province she inhabited, should one disappear without first
declaring it to the town hall, by way of application, one's entire estate and
contents would legally pass to the proper authorities. This instance being no
different, the little girl's home had been seized immediately and locked three
times by its new owners.
Alone in the world, the little girl had looked to
the police sergeant for help.
“What is it?” he had barked.
Fighting to hold back her tears, the little girl had mustered
nothing more than, “...Please, sir,” as she’d clutched dearly to the only
possession she had left: a stuffed bear once given to her by her mother on her birthday.
The police sergeant
had watched her briefly then, with softening
eyes and a wry smile peering
through his bushy moustache, he’d said, “I have a girl about your age.”
He’d knelt down beside
her and patted
the damp hair on her shivering head a little
too hard.
Times being harsh for most and kindness deemed an ugly myth, there was no room for noble gestures or acts of
compassion. This instance being no different, the police sergeant had suddenly
snatched the little girl's teddy bear from her freezing fingers.
“My daughter will love this,
she will,” he’d said, as he stood and walked
away from her to the police cart. “Let's go, boys!”
The sound of whipping cracked the air and the horses at once began
to gallop, sending a thick spray of mud from the wheels flying all over the
little girl.
As tears flowed down her muddy, sodden cheeks, two glowing eyes
emerged from the dark stillness of the night. Unblinking, they watched her a while, hanging
like tiny, yellow
orbs.
A moment later, the eyes began to etch closer and closer, until the
shadowy figure of a thin man was revealed. His shabby attire was matched by an
old cloth cap he wore on his head, which shrouded all facial features except
his somewhat bulbous nose.
“What
'ave we 'ere, then?” he enquired. “Why are you crying, lil' girl? Why all alone?” As he spoke, he seemed unaware
that he was rubbing his hands together.
Her parents having taught her not to speak to strangers, the little
girl felt hesitant about replying to him. As if reading her mind, the scrawny man said, “Oh, you can talk to me, lil' girl, I won't
'arm ya. I'm just a concerned ci'izen looking to 'elp ano'ver.”
Wanting to
believe in the inherent good in people, the little girl replied, “My...My
parents are gone, and I have nowhere to go, sir.” At her final word, the little girl burst into tears once again,
as if her statement had somehow made events as cold and real as stone.
“Ooh, there, there,”
said the man, drawing slowly
closer to her. “Don't you worry your lil' 'ead.
Squidge is 'ere to 'elp. I just so 'appen to know
someone who can 'elp ya, if you'll
follow me.”
The little girl hesitantly considered his words and came to the
conclusion she had no other choice but to follow him.
“That's my girl!”
exclaimed the wiry man contently, as he offered her his hand to hold.
As much as the little girl wanted
to trust the wiry man, she felt uncomfortable with the idea of holding his
hand, especially as the last one she had held had belonged to her mother, and
she wanted to keep it that way.
“Suit you'self, Love.
Come this way,” he grinned.
He led her into the cold
darkness of empty streets to the tenebrous hollow of Midnight Forest,
known throughout the province to contain terrible
things beyond the mere imaginings of mortal beings. As such, a certain understanding was said to have been devised in times
when magic and myths were created, that, should people refrain from crossing
the boundary that led into the forest, no evil within would flow into the land of the living.
That was what they believed
and seemed to be content
with.
“...Isn't
this the forest we are not supposed to go into?” asked the little girl, tentatively. “Oh, this? Nah, they's just
superstitions, they is. Load of cod’s wallop, if you ask me!”
The little girl walked as fast as she could
to keep up with the man's long, bandy legs, each stride of which like four of her own.
“Come on! 'Is place isn't far—if you know where you're goin', that
is. 'E doesn't like bein' disturbed, see?”
Endlessly into the forest they seemed to walk, as wooden pillars,
like ever-reaching fingers, twisted in around them at every step and enormous
toadstools shielded them from the moon's gaze. As the little girl struggled to
keep up, she tried not to focus on the
strange crunching and squelching sounds underfoot, as she sliced her way through a dense sea of lightly blue fog.
The further they walked, the denser the forest appeared
to be. Just as the little girl felt as though
she would collapse from exhaustion, the man she followed came to a stop and announced,
“'Ere we are!”
Nearly walking straight into the back of his stringy legs, she felt
a combination of relief and anxiety at the sight of what stood before her. An old, ramshackle structure
appeared to barely
stand, as the trees and brush
coiled and climbed and covered most of its rusted corrugated walls; its roof was utterly smothered by a blanket of dead
and dying leaves. Though the structure appeared dilapidated, it’s windows were
whole and clean, a detail the little girl found quite odd. Beyond the windows,
a flickering light somewhere
within made shadows
dance upon the walls and ceiling inside.
The thin, shabby man suddenly turned with a wide grin and gleefully
spoke. “This, lil' girl, is the Doll-Maker's
workshop.”
About the author:
Paris Singer was born in Brussels, Belgium. He has lived in the U.K. and in various places in Spain, where he currently resides.
At university, he studied English law and Spanish law. He didn't like it. He then studied translation and didn't like it, either. Currently, he is an English teacher in the south of Spain.
He has far too many interests, he's told, a few of which being sports, playing his old guitar, learning Japanese, painting, reading and cooking. Not a day goes by, however, where he doesn't write something, be it under a palm tree or on a bench at a bus stop somewhere.
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