horror

Tale #48: The Old Lady And The Crows

There was an old lady who lived in the woods. People said she was a witch, and that she had amassed a great fortune which she kept hidden within her home.

A woodcutter came to her house one day, for although he did not believe in witches, he did believe in treasure, and he had decided to take it for himself.

The old lady was in her garden planting seeds, and behind her sat a long line of crows, pecking at what which she had sown.

The woodcutter said to her, “Old lady, I hear you have great riches stowed away in that old hut of yours. Give them to me or I shall chop you up into kindling. And then I shall take it from you anyway.”

The sound of his voice startled the crows, and they flew up into the sky and settled on the roof of her house, covering it with a blackness as dark as night.

The old lady replied, “I’m an old woman who lives on my own. I have no riches apart from the crows that help me sow my seeds, and the flowers that together we grow.”

The woodcutter said, “Then I shall chop you up into kindling and let your blood fertilise your flowers and your flesh feed your crows. And the riches in your house I shall take as my own.”

He took out his axe and chopped her into pieces and left her there in a pile upon the lawn. And then he went inside her house to find her fortune and closed the door behind him.

The crows came down from the roof and surrounded the old lady’s body. They each took a chunk of her flesh in their beaks and slowly pieced her back together. When they had finished, she wiped the blood from their beaks and kissed each one of her friends tenderly on the tops of their heads.

She went to the door of her house and opened it as wide as it could go and looked in at the woodcutter, who was searching frantically for any sign of her gold. He looked up at her in disbelief and cried out in dismay.

The sound of his voice startled the crows, and in their thousands they flew past the old woman and into the house and they filled it with a blackness deader than night.

The old lady picked a rose from her garden, its stem long and thick with thorns, and she stepped into the darkness and closed the door behind her and then locked it ever so tight. And inside, in her own time, she showed the woodcutter the full extent of her riches.

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Notes:

1. Written August 4th, 2016
2. An alternate version of The Old Lady And The Woodcutter

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Tale #47: The Old Lady And The Woodcutter

There was an old lady who lived in the woods. Her house was all on its own in the middle of a vast forest, which over the years had grown up huge and dense around it.

A woodcutter stumbled upon her house one day as he was making his way through the thick undergrowth looking for a place to make his fortune. He cut a path to her door and knocked and when she answered he said, “I’m a woodcutter and I cut wood. Let me work for you for the next three days. I shall take what I cut to the market, and then great riches we can share.”

The old lady agreed and said, “What shall you cut down today?” The woodcutter replied, “I will clear away the new growth that has tangled itself around your crops and strangled the pretty flowers of your garden to death, and made it so that you cannot even leave your home.”

And he spent the day cutting through the brambles and the thistles and the thornbushes that surrounded her house like an impassable castle wall.

That night he picked up the bundles of twigs and branches and thorns and flowers that he had cut down and carried them back to the town, where he sold them to a merchant for a fair and equitable price.

The woodcutter kept half for himself and the next morning he showed the old lady the rest of the money and said, “This is what the merchant gave me for my work and your wood.” And he gave her half of what he held, and she put it in her purse.

“And what shall you cut down today?” she said. The woodcutter replied, “I shall cut down the old growth that has grown up so high and spread out so wide it has blocked out the sky above and kept your house in perpetual darkness.”

And he spent the day cutting down the old oaks and pines that grew up like guard towers around her house.

That night he loaded up the cart he had brought with him that day, and brought the huge piles of wood back to the town, and he sold it all to a shipbuilder for a vastly inflated price.

The woodcutter kept two-thirds for himself and the next morning he showed the old lady the rest of the money and said, “This is what the shipbuilder gave me for my work and your wood.” And he gave her a quarter of what he held, and she put it in her purse.

“And what shall you cut down today?” she said. The woodcutter replied, “I shall cut down the deadwood that lingers in this house like an old and rotten stump, and with it breathe new life into this cold, dead house.”

And he took his axe and chopped the old lady into kindling. He took the kindling inside and put it on the fire and set it alight and let the flames from her body heat his new house.

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Notes:

1. Written August 4th, 2016

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My Malevolent Mother

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Notes:

1. Written in November 2012
2. While I was trying to be Edward Gorey
3. And failing, somewhat

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The Boy Who Had Too Much Blood

Simon was a young boy, much like any other. The sort of child so bland and ineffectual, so devoid of inspiration or spirit, you can hardly even see that they’re there. If he had not suffered from a rare affliction it is doubtful even his parents would have remembered his name.

For you see, Simon simply had too much blood. If it wasn’t flowing from his nose it was weeping from his gums. If it wasn’t dripping from his fingers it was seeping through his shoes. But his body would not stop, and it kept producing more and more whether it was needed or not.

The doctors tried to help him. They covered him in bandages one time, but they quickly became absolutely sodden and useless, and he had to be washed clean in the garden, his father hosing him down while the neighbours curiously peered over the fence.

Next the doctors tried covering him completely in wax, leaving no hole or cut uncoated. They held him by the ankles and dipped him head first into a huge bubbling vat of the stuff and at first it appeared to work, until they noticed Simon’s face slowly expanding and everyone had to frantically scrape the wax away before he burst like a birthday balloon.

After that it was thought best to try a treatment of leeches, but they gorged themselves too quickly and exploded with a sound like gunshots. And so eventually the doctors tired of Simon and they let him go home.

His parents covered the carpets in plastic, moved his bedroom to the cellar, and let him drip where he pleased.

It was on the third night that they found him drowned in his bed. And yet his blood continued to flow even though he no longer lived.

His mother began to cry. Poor Simon, she thought. But her husband was made of sterner and, ironically I suppose, in light of poor Simon’s condition, more heartless stuff.

“Stop your crying, my dear,” he said. “This could turn out to be the best thing that has ever happened to us.” He wiped away her tears and leant in close and whispered his plan into her ears.

Two weeks later they opened up a shop, the finest sausage house in the whole of the county. Their signature dish was their Black Pudding, and people came from miles and miles around just to try it.

“Come in, come in,” Simon’s father would say to the hordes gathering at the doors. “And try the finest family-made food you will ever taste.”


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Notes:

1. Written on August 31st, 2006
2. And illustrated by Hugh Paterson
3. Around about the same time

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Asleep In The Park






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Notes:

1. Written on 3rd April, 2015
2. But once again I don’t actually remember writing it
3. At all
4. I assume I’d just read The Gannets by Anna Kavan
5. Or was at least thinking of it again
6. Like I do once a week or so

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Support An Accumulation Of Things

If you like the things you've read here please consider subscribing to my patreon or my ko-fi.

Patreon subscribers get not just early access to content and also the occasional gift, but also my eternal gratitude. Which I'm not sure is very useful, but is certainly very real.

(Ko-fi contributors probably only get the gratitude I'm afraid, but please get in touch if you want more).

Thank you!