The Cobbler's Gift

“They tell the story so the children know they are never alone. They tell it so the adults remember their cruelty is never unseen.”

— Mara Snow, wandering archivist

They say there was once a cobbler who lived alone at the edge of a valley. He mended boots and carved toys. He had no wife, no children, and no one to carry his name. He was quiet, but he noticed the children others ignored. He saw bruises that were hidden beneath sleeves. He saw little ones who would not speak. He saw the ones who flinched when their fathers shouted or when their mothers looked away.   The dolls began to appear. Each one was made of cloth and wood, stitched from scraps, carved with care. They had faces, but they never had eyes. A child would lie down with nothing, and in the morning a doll would be waiting. No one saw the cobbler leave them. They were simply there. The children who held them said the dolls helped them sleep. Some said the dolls listened when no one else would. A few whispered that the dolls moved when the room was dark.
  Then the wrong people began to disappear. A teacher. A traveling cleric. A merchant. A man everyone avoided but no one accused. Their houses were left undisturbed. Nothing was stolen. Nothing was broken. Only a doll remained. It was always still warm. Sometimes it was scorched. Sometimes it was torn. Sometimes it held a piece of what it had done.   The townsfolk stopped saying the cobbler’s name. Some said he had died. Some said he was taken by witches. Some said he was never real. No one agreed on the man. But they all agreed on the dolls. The dolls never stopped.   The story says the cobbler was a witch of the old kind. He would visit the grave of a child who had died in fear. He took only a thread, a tooth, a fragment of what lingered. He carved a vessel and asked the spirit if it wished to protect another. Some answered yes. Some were silent. Either way, he stitched them into dolls. The dolls were guardians, but they were not merciful. When a frightened child spoke the truth, the doll listened. If the hurt was small, the doll stayed still. If the danger grew, it moved. If the pain was too much, it called the others.   That is when the real horror began. People were found torn to pieces. Others were never found at all. Always a doll remained, sitting in silence. Always it was still warm.   No one knows how many exist. Some were hidden in attics. Some were locked in trunks. Some were buried again in secret. But they're still out there. Waiting.

---