The Weaver in the Woods

 

The Weaver in the Woods

Deep in the forest, where the trees whispered secrets and the air shimmered with unseen magic, there lived a creature known only as The Weaver.

She was not human. She had never been.

Legends spoke of a woman cloaked in darkness, her form shifting between the trees like a wraith. They said she had no face, only a curtain of impossibly long, flowing hair—black as midnight, glistening like spun silk. And those foolish enough to wander too deep into her domain would never return.

But it was not their lives she wanted.

It was their hair.

The Weaver had been watching the village for weeks, unseen in the shadows.

She always sought the same kind—young women with long, unspoiled locks. Not cut by human hands, not tainted by the crude metal of their kind. The purity of untouched hair called to her, an irresistible melody she could not ignore.

Tonight, she had chosen her prize.

Lena, the baker’s daughter, was known for her beauty, but it was her hair that set her apart. A river of golden silk, reaching past her waist, catching the light like woven sunlight. It was perfect. It was meant to be taken.

And so, when Lena wandered too far from the village, the Weaver struck.

Lena awoke in darkness.

She could not move—something soft yet strong bound her wrists, her ankles. Panic gripped her as she realized what it was.

Hair.

Not her own.

It slithered across the stone floor like living vines, wrapping around her like a cocoon. And then she saw her.

The Weaver.

She stood at the edge of the dimly lit chamber, a towering figure draped in a gown of woven hair, her face obscured by endless black strands that swayed as though breathing.

Lena whimpered. “Please… let me go.”

The Weaver tilted her head, strands of hair parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of something—lips that did not move, eyes that did not blink.

“You are beautiful,” came the whisper, not from her mouth, but from the walls, the floor, the hair itself. “You will be part of my collection.”

Lena thrashed, but the silken binds only tightened.

The Weaver approached, her hands delicate, reverent, as she traced her fingers through Lena’s golden locks.

“So rare… so pure…”

A flash of silver. The scissors gleamed.

Lena screamed as the first lock was severed.

The Weaver sighed in pleasure, watching the golden strands fall into her waiting hands. She stroked them lovingly, whispering lullabies in a language long forgotten.

One by one, the golden strands were cut, woven into the endless tapestry that lined the chamber walls—braids of every color, every texture, remnants of those who had come before.

When the last strand fell, Lena sobbed, her once-glorious hair reduced to nothing but ragged remains.

The Weaver stepped back, admiring her work.

Then, slowly, the living strands around Lena began to move.

They wrapped around her again, tighter this time. Her body stiffened. Her breath came in gasps.

And then… stillness.

The Weaver gently lifted a newly formed braid of golden hair and wove it into the great tapestry.

She smiled.

Another masterpiece added to her collection.

And the forest whispered once more.