The Needlewitch

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There was once a little boy who never listened.   When his mother called him in at dusk, he stayed out in the lanes, chasing fireflies and kicking stones. When his grandmother told him to keep close to the hearth, he ran through the house, making mischief. And when his shadow stretched long and thin in the lantern light, he never minded it at all. He let it pull behind him, dragging like an untied bootlace.   "You’ll trip on it one day," his grandmother warned. "Or worse—someone else will take hold of it."   But he only laughed and ran outside again, his shadow trailing far behind.   One night, as he crept back to his room after playing too late, he heard a sound—soft, like fabric shifting, like a loose stitch pulling through cloth. At first, he thought it was only the wind against the shutters. But then he looked down, and there, at the edge of his bed, his shadow was tied.   Thin, silvery strands stretched from his wrists, his ankles, his shoulders—threaded tight against the wooden floor. He reached to pull them free, but they would not break. He called for his mother, but his voice came out thin, tired, barely more than a whisper. His limbs ached. His breath was slow. And in the corner of the room, where the candlelight did not reach, something moved.   A figure stood there, long and thin, its arms bending like needles in the dark. It did not lurch forward. It did not grab him. It only tilted its head, as if admiring its own work.   By morning, the bed was empty. The sheets were undisturbed. The door was still locked.   But on the floor, where the little boy’s shadow should have been, there was only a tangle of frayed black thread, cut clean and left behind.   So sleep close to the fire, little one. Keep your shadow tucked tight. And if you hear the sound of thread pulling in the night—   Do not move. Do not breathe. And do not let her finish the stitch.

The Seamstress in the Dark

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There are worse things than the dark.   That is what the grandmothers say when they pull the shutters tight, when they mark the door frame with thread spun three times over. The night is no enemy—not the hush of it, not the weight of it pressing against the walls. The night is only a place, a space between things. It is what moves inside of it that must be feared.   The Needlewitch does not prowl the forests or linger at the edges of the road. She does not wait in the deep places where men refuse to tread. She does not need to.   She is already inside.   No one knows when she comes. She makes no sound, no whisper of footfall, no creak of the floor. There is only the stitch, drawn tight in the quiet hours, when the fire has burned low and the house is too still. It begins in the dark, when a child stirs in their sleep, when they turn too far and the light from the coals casts their shadow long across the floor.   In the morning, they are slower than they were before. Their steps drag, their limbs heavy as if the weight of sleep still clings to them. Their laughter is quieter. Their appetite fades.   Then someone notices.   A mother. A sister. A friend.   The shadow is wrong.   At first, it is nothing—nothing but a flicker, a hesitation, an outline that seems less eager to follow than it once was. Then it begins to settle. A child reaches for their mother’s hand, and the shadow’s fingers stretch just a moment too late. They run across the fields, but their shadow does not leap with them. It lingers, pulling at the edges, stretching thin, sinking lower, until one day, when they step forward, it does not follow at all.   That is when the threads appear.   Thin. Silvery. Stretched tight from wrist to ground, ankle to stone, shoulder to earth.   She is a patient thing, the Needlewitch. She does not steal children in the night, does not drag them screaming from their beds. She does not have to. She takes something smaller, something softer, something they will not notice until it is too late. She takes their shadow.   One stitch at a time.   At first, they can still move, though slowly. Then, they can only sit. Then, only lie still. And then, when the last thread is drawn tight, when the final stitch is complete, they vanish like an unraveling seam. No body. No cry. Just an empty bed and a tangle of frayed black thread, cut clean and left behind.   The old women know how to keep her away. A spool of thread placed upside-down on the windowsill. A silver needle left beside the door. A charm of knotted red string tied around the wrist. But the safest thing, the most important thing, is the thing all children are taught—never let your shadow drag behind.   Because if it lingers too long, if it stretches too far, if it pools where it should not—she will find it.   And the Needlewitch always finishes what she starts.