The Hours of Creeping Night - a Collection of Dark Speculative Short Fiction by Sophie Playle Page B
Authors: Sophie Playle
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panicked whispers. Just as Dante knew of the forest, the forest also knew of Dante from the voices carried on the wind.
Dante got straight to work. He collected fallen branches and made himself a shelter. The trees watched on, rustling with curious unease.
Once his hut was built, Dante sat by the stream and drank from his cupped hands. He picked up a stone, smoothed by the water’s caress, and began to sharpen his blade.
The sun was setting, but Dante still had work to do. He raised his machete. The trees trembled, the trees thrashed. He brought the sharpness down upon their limbs. The red sun bled into the horizon and the trees screamed.
On the second day, he remained in his dead-wood hut with his collection of severed tree limbs. His machete was propped up against the wall. Instead, he wielded a small whittling knife. He began to carve away at the wood, which whimpered in his hands.
~*~
Spring turned to summer, and the forest swelled with heat. Outside the hut, carved monstrosities were piled like firewood. Womanly curves, at odd angles and wrong proportions. Lopsided faces and stiff blocks of hair. Brittle and broken limbs interlocking. Faces in the mud.
When storm clouds gathered, rain filtered through the thick canopy of leaves and landed on the discarded carvings, the droplets running down the grooves in their faces.
This is the one , Dante thought as he sat in his hut and listened to the rain. He stroked the wood with his knife. He laboured until the rain stopped, though he did not notice. And he continued to labour, until the rain evaporated and rejoined the clouds once again.
He’d learned from his mistakes. This time her limbs were correctly proportioned. Her curves were perfect. He spent the evenings lovingly polishing them until they were completely smooth.
One hot afternoon, he took her outside so that he could see more clearly in the bright sunlight. Her body was almost faultless – just the way he remembered her – and now all that was left was her face.
He pushed the blade over her chin, carving out the dimple he remembered so well. He refined her long nose, and sand-papered her cheeks. Then he took the point of the blade to her eyes, and carved in the sweeping lashes, the flecks in her irises, the pupils. As soon as he finished, she blinked.
Her eyes slipped sideways, staring at the pile of dry, splintered bodies by the side of the hut. The discarded bodies juttered and creaked in pain, moaning in low despairing voices.
~*~
Dante brought her to bed. He ran his fingers over her curves and felt her tiny movements. Every so often, her fingers twitched, the wood creaking.
But she kept her eyes closed, and prayed silently to her family.
Eventually, Dante’s breathing became heavy and steady. A name played across his sleeping lips. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. The blankets were in a tangled heap on the floor. A gnat sang through the dry, still air.
There was no breeze. Yet the trees swayed gently, whispering. The swaying became thrashing. Until their wooden limbs slid against one another, becoming hotter and hotter in the dry night.
The forest filled with smoke. The smoke filled Dante’s lungs and dulled his brain. The flames did not awaken him. Nor did the screaming of the carved women, and the crying of the trees.
Gretel’s Nightmare
T he morning light is trapped by the London smog so that it hangs lifelessly in the thick air. Down a narrow alley, Gretel runs from the confines of a crowded rented room, the slam of the door ricocheting off the bricks. The city opens up around her as she makes her way through its capillary streets; people bustle on foot or on horseback, hackneys and omnibuses clatter down cobbled roads. The stench of condensed life burns the back of her throat and, as she passes a grated vent, she thinks about the sewers that weave below the surface of the city like the veins of a dying thing. Ships chug through the brown waters of the
Dante got straight to work. He collected fallen branches and made himself a shelter. The trees watched on, rustling with curious unease.
Once his hut was built, Dante sat by the stream and drank from his cupped hands. He picked up a stone, smoothed by the water’s caress, and began to sharpen his blade.
The sun was setting, but Dante still had work to do. He raised his machete. The trees trembled, the trees thrashed. He brought the sharpness down upon their limbs. The red sun bled into the horizon and the trees screamed.
On the second day, he remained in his dead-wood hut with his collection of severed tree limbs. His machete was propped up against the wall. Instead, he wielded a small whittling knife. He began to carve away at the wood, which whimpered in his hands.
~*~
Spring turned to summer, and the forest swelled with heat. Outside the hut, carved monstrosities were piled like firewood. Womanly curves, at odd angles and wrong proportions. Lopsided faces and stiff blocks of hair. Brittle and broken limbs interlocking. Faces in the mud.
When storm clouds gathered, rain filtered through the thick canopy of leaves and landed on the discarded carvings, the droplets running down the grooves in their faces.
This is the one , Dante thought as he sat in his hut and listened to the rain. He stroked the wood with his knife. He laboured until the rain stopped, though he did not notice. And he continued to labour, until the rain evaporated and rejoined the clouds once again.
He’d learned from his mistakes. This time her limbs were correctly proportioned. Her curves were perfect. He spent the evenings lovingly polishing them until they were completely smooth.
One hot afternoon, he took her outside so that he could see more clearly in the bright sunlight. Her body was almost faultless – just the way he remembered her – and now all that was left was her face.
He pushed the blade over her chin, carving out the dimple he remembered so well. He refined her long nose, and sand-papered her cheeks. Then he took the point of the blade to her eyes, and carved in the sweeping lashes, the flecks in her irises, the pupils. As soon as he finished, she blinked.
Her eyes slipped sideways, staring at the pile of dry, splintered bodies by the side of the hut. The discarded bodies juttered and creaked in pain, moaning in low despairing voices.
~*~
Dante brought her to bed. He ran his fingers over her curves and felt her tiny movements. Every so often, her fingers twitched, the wood creaking.
But she kept her eyes closed, and prayed silently to her family.
Eventually, Dante’s breathing became heavy and steady. A name played across his sleeping lips. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. The blankets were in a tangled heap on the floor. A gnat sang through the dry, still air.
There was no breeze. Yet the trees swayed gently, whispering. The swaying became thrashing. Until their wooden limbs slid against one another, becoming hotter and hotter in the dry night.
The forest filled with smoke. The smoke filled Dante’s lungs and dulled his brain. The flames did not awaken him. Nor did the screaming of the carved women, and the crying of the trees.
Gretel’s Nightmare
T he morning light is trapped by the London smog so that it hangs lifelessly in the thick air. Down a narrow alley, Gretel runs from the confines of a crowded rented room, the slam of the door ricocheting off the bricks. The city opens up around her as she makes her way through its capillary streets; people bustle on foot or on horseback, hackneys and omnibuses clatter down cobbled roads. The stench of condensed life burns the back of her throat and, as she passes a grated vent, she thinks about the sewers that weave below the surface of the city like the veins of a dying thing. Ships chug through the brown waters of the
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