Uncanny Valley

The villagers didn't go near the forest in the valley. There was another village there, deep in its heart. Those who lived there were... weird.

They were human-shaped, but their eyes were too glassy. Their movements were smooth when they should have been jerky, and jerky when they should have been smooth. Their smiles lingered dead around their mouths.

One day, in late Autumn, a young traveller ventures into the forest. The good village folk had warned him against it, but he'd slung bravado around him like a cape, and scoffed at their fear. Bow on his back, and knife in his belt, he whistles for his hound, and sets confident feet to the path.

The deeper into the forest he goes, the chillier and stiller the air until he reaches a clearing. Realisation settles on him that silence had fallen. Thick, soft, and oppressive, like a heavy snowfall. There are no animals here. No birds chirrup, no insects scurry. His faithful hound has proved less than faithful. They knew. They knew by instinct what the villagers learned the hard way, and he'd ignored in his folly. Even the wind seems to avoid this place.

A crumbling stone house stands in the clearing, walls both decimated and held together by ivy. Legs shaking, but determined to prove his bravery was more than a chest full of hot air, our hunter approaches. Inside, he finds portraits lining the walls. They look ancient, and lifelike to an unsettling degree. Their eyes follow him. Frozen smiles look more like grimaces.

Light fades, eerie shadows lengthen. Was that a whisper, or leaves rustling? His heart pounds faster, breath coming in little gasps. He is face to face with a row of... we might call them mannequins.

One turns its head slowly to face him. He freezes, hypnotised by the dead-looking eyes that blink too little, and too slowly.

The creatures move, joints creaking like old wood, or is that the trees? He turns, he runs, but their footsteps sound close and closer behind him.

They are the reason we fear what looks human but isn’t.

They waste nothing. Every part of the carcass is used. Strips of flesh are dried against the coming winter.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Thursday 21st November at 21:43

The story behind the story: Why do we fear what looks human but isn't?

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 326 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY FORTY DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

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