The
Skull Collector
Paris
Singer
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Booktrope/ Foresaken
Date of Publication: November 17th
ISBN: 978-1-51370-450-0
Number of pages: 134
Word Count: 43029
Cover Artist: Yosbe Design
Book Description:
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.
Twitter: @dakukarasu
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