Each morning the toy maker would walk up the hill leading to the cemetery to visit the grave of his wife and then his son's. They had both been lost to illness many years back. Oddly enough, he seemed content with the fact that the love of his life had passed, but would refuse to accept that his son had gone along with her.
For 10 years now in his solitude, he has been searching for a way to bring him back to no avail. Although every try had been a complete and utter disaster, Geppetto was not willing to give up.
He has gone through seances, voodoo rituals, and many other forbidden magics. Only recently had he come across one that he believed might actually work.
Geppetto worked day and night until he had finished his masterpiece. The most brilliantly crafter wooden puppet that anyone had ever seen. He seemed to be the only one to recognize the uncanny resemblance to that of his long lost son.
Those who would walk into his shop would immediately be taken aback by such detail and effort put into this beautiful puppet. Almost everyone would ask his price for the wooden boy, and he would grow angry and ask them to leave his shop at once.
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On one clear night with the full moon hanging high, he knew that it was time for the ritual. He trudged up the steep hill once more, but instead passed his wife's grave, heading straight for his son's. Geppetto sat there for hours gently caressing the wooden boy as if it were a newborn, waiting for the blood moon to emerge.
Only a few hours before dawn, a deep, dirty red color began to shroud the creamy white that reflected off the moon. He began speaking in an ancient, almost forgotten tongue, repeating the verse until the the moon regained its paleness. As soon as the red dissipated, Geppetto heard a gasp.
His eyes rested on the form of the wooden boy laying in his arms. "Pinocchio?" He asked softly.
"Yes, Papa?" It responded in innocently.
"Is-is it really you?" He stammered, close to tears.
"No." The voice twisted with such macabre.
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The following morning, Geppetto was found at the sight of the grave, eyes wide, staring up at the sky. There wasn't any signs of struggle, but there was twine twisted together into a noose wrapped tightly around his neck.
It had been brushed off as a suicide; they had been expecting it for years now. Since he didn't have any living relatives the villagers took his belongings for themselves. The only thing that they really wanted, the puppet, was never found.
YOU ARE READING
No Strings Attached
ParanormalThis is one of the stories that I wrote for my Creative Writing class, my senior year of high school. I wrote a series of 5 short stories all telling warped versions if some of the famous classics such as Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunze...
