Story 1014: Stitcher’s Curse

They found the village sewn shut.

Windows sealed with sinew. Doors stitched with wire and skin. The streets were eerily silent, and the wind carried the sound of thread scraping bone. Gideon Moth gripped his rusted shovel tightly as they passed the last untouched sign—burnt letters barely legible: "Thimble Hollow."

“What stitched all this?” muttered Nara Hexley, flicking a black flame from her fingers for light.

Talia Grimm clutched her sketchbook, trembling. On the page was a figure—long-limbed and crooked, with a needle for a hand and button eyes that wept red.

The Stitcher.

They found the first body in the chapel—hung like a puppet, eyelids sewn shut, lips puckered with thread. Words were scratched into the walls:

“I lied. I bled. I begged. I paid.”

Solomon Wraith ran his fingers over the carvings, reading deeper meanings hidden in the phrasing. “It’s a curse,” he whispered. “A pact gone wrong. Someone tried to cheat the Stitcher.”