DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
In a house so clean, no footprints could be seen, lived a girl named Molly Red, who wished her parents dead.
Why would a little girl ever wish such things? Well, have a seat, lend me your ear, and I will tell you what this tale brings.
As I said, the house was impeccably white, so utterly spotless, there was not a speck of dirt in sight. Playing outside in the dirt and grass was a favorite pastime of Molly Red, who happily played as evening fell, not yet desiring her parents dead. But when she went inside, greeting Mom and Dad, she forgot to remove her soiled shoes, and when they saw what they brought, they were far from glad.
Off to her room, she was sent with curses and swats, she kicked and punched in protest, but never got a clean shot. In her muddy shoes, sitting in her room, she faced the wall while Mom and Dad cleaned the space of toy and book and loom. The last they took was made for a girl who was sweet of smile and gentle of heart, Granny had told her when Molly looked at the curious machine, not knowing where to start.
Now it was gone, like all her things. Molly swore on her grave yet to be dug, justice soon she would sing.
The carpet the only thing to pull in ire, she gripped it her hardest until her fingers burned with fire. And burn they did but something more: A prick to her finger, which she drew to her mouth after she swore. Copper she tasted on the tip of her tongue, like a bitter and sour penny from where she was stung.
Back to the carpet she went, determined to remove every last strand until it was rent. She dyed the carpet red with her blood to give it her name, her hate, her wish of death with lack of shame. But after so much time, her fingers sore and numb, the carpet lay there like carpet does, frayed and still and dumb.
Cry she did, holding her face in her hands, wishing and wishing and wishing she could come up with a plan. Once her tears had dried and her voice was hoarse, she heard something strange: A voice from her beneath her muddy shoes, muffled and coarse. She moved her feet aside to see a single carpet strand standing up tall, all the way to her eyes. If she were standing she’d fall.
She leaped back in fright from the bloody worm that was sure to bite. But bite it did not. It wound into the semblance of a mouth, then a nose dripping with red snot. No, she thought, a mustache was what rested upon those yarn lips that would not clot.
With a quiver and twitch, those lips spoke in a hitch: “Hello, Molly Red, who wants her parents dead. I am called Captain Thread, and I owe you a wish, which I can grant, even if it goes unsaid.”
“I want no such thing!” Molly said with shock. “I love Mom and Dad, and take it back or I will turn you into a sock.”
Captain Thread answered with glee, “I can see right through your lies, wee lass, and if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be me. Now give me a hand, like Granny said you would, so I may complete the task you demand, which I should.”
Something flipped inside Molly, and she turned on a dime. Was Granny speaking to her from a realm beyond space and time?
Hypnotized Molly was, or so she thought, for she weaved quite the creature, so much more than the thread that used to be a simple jot. It formed a man, squat and surly, mustached with a Captain’s hat, claws for fingers, and a middle quite fat.
“Ah, now that is much better,” Captain Thread beamed. “‘Tis grander than I could have dreamed. Now climb on my back, for I need your will to kill and sack.”
Molly did as she was told, soon tangled in wet and cold.
They trampled out of Molly’s room, Captain Thread, and the girl, scratching walls and thrashing halls, muttering in time wishes of doom.
“Slice ’em up good,” Molly said. “Slice ’em up messy, until they’re dead.”
“I am yours to command, sweet Molly Red. Show me to their chambers, so both our bellies can be fed.”
Molly told him and told him good. When they burst through the door, old Mom and Dad were in quite the mood. Angry at first, then faces full of fright, Captain Thread tore into them with grim delight.
He spattered the walls with the gooey insides of the dreadful offenders, one would think they were soup from a blender.
Captain Thread had grown fatter, and Molly could feel she was no longer cold, heat pumped through Captain Thread and her by means so bold. She felt anew, and so did he, for they both cackled a song of revenge and victory.
The house once so clean was now spattered with Mom and Dad, quiet and empty, made Molly a little sad. It didn’t take her long to get over that, strung to Captain Thread, grisly and fat.
He spoke, “Freed me from a prison you did, and I suppose I did you. Perhaps we are clear to part ways, our slates cleaned anew?”
“But you’re fun,” Molly said. “I’m not sure I can let you go. I’ll be alone in this house, wandering to and fro.”
“Quite true,” the Captain said. “I’ve become attached. We are a pair, an unbeatable match.”
His joke made Molly laugh, and so did he, friends for a long time they knew they’d be.
“So tell me, Molly Red, surely there are others who’ve done you wrong. We can hack them to pieces like they should have been all along.”
Molly Red told him, indeed, and off they went to make more bleed.
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