Hi–I’m Elisabeth. It’s currently the early 1900s, I’m 13 years old, and I’m an orphan. My adoptive mother, Manorie Vale, was kind once, until her son died in a house fire.

She was the only one who made it out alive.

That night, something in her broke. The house stayed quiet except for her soft humming as she sewed in her dark room.

She told me she was “fixing the silence.” I didn’t know what that meant until I saw what she was making: small drops of her own blood pressed against the fabric’s mouth. I saw it move once, just slightly, and she smiled like a mother seeing her new born for the first time. She called it “The Stitchling.” I don’t understand why it wouldn’t be her son’s name.

Maybe she didn’t want to be reminded of his death.

That day, I came home from school and found her in her sewing chair – eyes widely open, mouth sewed shut with thick black thread.

The Stitchling was gone. The police said it must’ve been an intruder. But I knew the exact truth. I’d seen the way the doll’s button eyes followed me as I walked by, the way it seemed to twitch when the wind blew.

I searched for it, but it had vanished – leaving no trace – but only a few black threads tangled around my bedpost.

Sometimes, at night, I still hear a soft voice whispering from the shadows.

“Don’t cry, Elisabeth…. I can make you whole again.”

I never knew what that meant. But I knew it wasn’t her saying that. Was it The Stitchling? Was it actually Manorie? Who is making me this crazy? Or am I just making this up…

No! I know it’s true… I’m not going crazy. It’s true.

Weeks passed after Manorie’s death. The orphanage took me back, said the police found no trace of whatever monster I created in my head, no signs of a killer. But I knew better. I could feel it watching me.

At night, I heard the faint creak of floorboards by my bed. Once, I woke up and found a single black thread laid across my pillow – tied in a tiny bow – like the one The Stitchling had. 

The other children started whispering about their toys going missing. One boy cried because his stuffed bear had been “replaced” with something else – a small patchwork doll with one button eye and burnt cloth skin. I knew better than to say a word, not wanting to scare the others, or seem crazy. 

That night, I dreamed of Manorie. She was sewn in her chair, her head tilted, her stitched mouth opening trying to speak – thread came out – no sounds of actual words. I tried to scream, but the sound caught in my throat. My hands trembled, when I looked down – black stitches running across my wrist – something sewed itself on to me. My eyes follow the thread, then my eyes widen in horror. It was The Stitchling, I tried to scream, to wake myself up, but I don’t think it’s a dream anymore. I bit the thread trying to break it; I needed to escape to live and tell this story.

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If you’re reading this I’m probably dead…. I managed to escape but I know The Stitchling is coming for me.

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It’s only a matter of time before he comes and gets me.

It’s all Manorie’s fault; she offered it blood.

She started this.

I want to be the one to end it.

Airianys C. is an 8th grade writer.