The Book of Lost Innocence
Nine dark, unforgettable tales of magic, love, honour, sacrifice and the blood-soaked cost of a happy ending.
A queen of the damned will burn the world to find true love.
A scarred woman trades her soul for fleeting beauty.
A young woman scales a forbidden hill to slay her fears.
A loyal warrior risks everything when he falls for the Emperor’s bride.
And five more haunting journeys where innocence is not just lost...it’s torn away.
If you love dark fantasy with a heart of tragedy—where fairy tales twist into nightmares and the choices we make define who (or what) we become—this collection is for you.
The Book of Lost Innocence
Nine dark, unforgettable tales of magic, love, honour, sacrifice and the blood-soaked cost of a happy ending.
A queen of the damned will burn the world to find true love.
A scarred woman trades her soul for fleeting beauty.
A young woman scales a forbidden hill to slay her fears.
A loyal warrior risks everything when he falls for the Emperor’s bride.
And five more haunting journeys where innocence is not just lost...it’s torn away.
If you love dark fantasy with a heart of tragedy—where fairy tales twist into nightmares and the choices we make define who (or what) we become—this collection is for you.
At the centre of a planet, strong by billions,
on a continent surrounded by water, strong by millions,
within a vast city, strong by thousands,
exists a village, strong by tens,
stands a man with the strength of one.
Here lived Jack. He was neither too nimble nor particularly quick—just a simple man with a simpler mind and the simplest of dreams. Those who met him would say he was below average at best—barely someone of note to mention in the recounting of one’s day.
If one came across an unfortunate soul who had had the displeasure of both meeting Jack and recalling their encounter, they would regale you with tales of the mad dreamer, through which he would tell every living soul that crossed his meandering path:
“I am Jack, the visionary. Remember my name, for it will be worth remembering. One day, you’ll entertain your children with the tale of the moment you met Jack. This face will not be mired in dirt but will be admired the world over. Obscurity is my enemy, and riches and fame are my mistress.”
Those who listened to Jack often left the encounter with laughter and derision, mocking the man with his boastful words and silly ideas. As time passed and the echoes of the conversation faded, most gradually forgot the exchange altogether, as if the very essence of their encounter slipped away like a dream upon waking.
In this regard, Jack was very much like his father—a truth he found far from comforting.
He was not ashamed of the man, but memories of his father selling produce at the market often lingered in his mind like a stubborn shadow.
His father had been a simple man—a farmer with rough, calloused hands who toiled daily in the fields, a man defined by quiet integrity and relentless work.
Week after week, he would set up his booth. The same customers would stop by, inspecting the ripeness of his fruit and the quality of his grain. They never called him by name—always “Sir”, “Mister”, or simply “Farmer”.
Jack’s father would laugh, poke fun, and say, “It is a pleasure to meet you again for the first time.”
After a lifetime, Jack failed to find the humour in it.
When he died, not a soul attended his funeral. Even Jack was late. A good man died forgotten—or even worse, never remembered.
So, by sheer will, young Jack refused to learn the lessons of his father’s dedication. He did not believe in hard work—a necessity for the riches and infamy that he sought. To Jack, effort was a hindrance to the creative process, not a prerequisite for success.
One fine summer day, as Jack lay on his bed dreaming of his next grand endeavour, a curious impulse stirred within him. Without a word, as if driven by an unseen force, he rose and walked. He walked for so long that he eventually reached the edge of his village. Yet, he did not stop—he kept going, past the fields, and before long, left the city, and soon after that, found himself aboard a boat, departing the continent.
And so, Jack’s adventures began. Spurred on by an inexplicable yearning, he wandered the world. Traversing scorching deserts, high mountains, frigid tundras, and lush rainforests. He wandered through cities large and small and those that fell somewhere in between—earning just enough money for food and further travel.
For years, he walked, until one day he found himself in the centre of a vast marketplace in a grand city on a massive continent.
What a wonderful place this is! Jack thought. It was full of strange new people, wondrous merchants, and fabulous bargains. And Jack, being the man that he was, loved a bargain.
He considered himself a master. During his travels, he had once bought beans from a woman for a pittance. However, it was the bitter month of January, and winter would not loosen its grip for another three months. Jack had lost those beans some time ago, but a great deal was still a great deal.
As Jack browsed the market, he stumbled upon a second, smaller market nestled within the larger one. The sun beat down heavily here, making the air humid. Cramped stalls, none wider than a meter or two, packed the area.
Jack caught sight of something unusual from the corner of his eye. In a doorway shrouded in darkness—within a place otherwise bathed in sunlight—stood a man. Or at least, what seemed to be a man. He wore a long black silk cloak, tattered and aged, yet adorned with intricate, swirling patterns that shimmered faintly. Jack did not recognize the markings.
The man lifted one voluminous sleeve and extended a hand, beckoning Jack forward. Jack studied the decrepit limb as it waved him over. If he had not known better, he would have sworn the hand was far beyond old—on the verge of decomposition.
The old man in the tiny doorway motioned again for Jack to come closer. Curious as ever, Jack complied.
As he approached the shop, his gaze fixed, entranced by the mysterious dark entryway, he failed to notice the beautiful woman who bumped into him.
“Hello there, handsome. Where might you be off to?” she asked sweetly, her alluring gaze sweeping over Jack.
Jack pointed. “To that shop,” he said, oblivious to her lingering eyes.
The woman frowned at the sight of the old man. “That shop? I would steer clear if I were you. Bad magic comes from there,” she said, gripping his arm.
“Really?”
“Yes. Anyone with a shred of sense avoids that place. Can’t you see? There’s a deep shadow around the doorway where he stands—but nothing to cast it. We’re out in the open. The sun is full. So where is the darkness coming from?”
“I don’t know?”
“And that, my powerful friend, is the concern. No one does. But I can offer you something a man like you truly needs,” she said, flashing a seductive smile.
“Such as?” Jack asked, returning her smile.
“Anything you wish. Perhaps something that feels as good as this against your firm body,” she whispered, seizing his hand and placing it gently on her breast. She guided his fingers, encouraging him to squeeze the supple flesh.
Jack obliged, feeling the soft curve of her bosom through the silky fabric of her dress. He smiled at her kindly—then stopped.
“Thank you, but I do not like silk—it makes me itch. I think I’ll see what that strange man has to offer. You never know until you try,” he said, removing his hand and walking away.
Left alone and dumbfounded, she muttered, “Okay?”
As Jack neared the strange doorway, a peculiar thought crossed his mind: how long had it been since he had been in the company of a beautiful woman? If only she had offered herself—rather than that ratty silk.
Jack pushed the notion from his mind; after all, the old man was waiting.
He was mere steps from the enigmatic shop when the old man spoke in a low, raspy voice, “Welcome, Jack. I’ve been watching you wandering wearily, wondering whether will or whimsy would lead you to this weathered warehouse. And here you are, waiting wistfully to see the wonderments within these worn walls. So, walk with me and witness the wonders that wait within.”
Jack thought the man spoke funny. But he stepped out of the warm sunlight and into the dark, ice-cold interior.
“Here, Jack, not only is this my humble hall, but it is also my home. Hence, I happily hold the honour of hosting you. Hospitality, after all, has always held high value for hosts with humble hearts. Haven’t you heard?” the man said, flashing Jack a crooked smile, his teeth stained yellow.
Jack simply nodded and shrugged. He was too awestruck by the inside of this man’s shop to be distracted by the friendly banter.
Its immensity amazed him. It was the size of a cathedral or stadium. He swore if he were to scream, it would take days before he heard his echo calling back to him. He could not understand how this was possible when, from the outside, you could barely imagine stepping into the meagre, cramped space of the store.
The old man gestured at the contents of his shop. “Please, Jack, proceed. Peruse, ponder, and pick your perfect possession. I have what you pursue; of that, I am positive.”
The shop contained everything imaginable—from the very old to the very new, from the smallest trinket to the largest artifacts, and from the exotic and strange to the most mundane—filling it from floor to ceiling. Curiosities, baubles, tokens, and keepsakes filled every corner, from every land and every era—even those yet to come.
Jack stumbled deeper into the immense shop. Looking for what, he was unsure.
“You seem unsure of what you seek, young Jack. Perhaps if you ask, I can help. But you must ask for my help,” the strange old man said from behind, placing his twisted hand on Jack’s shoulder.
As Jack felt the fingers curl around him, a chill ran down his back. He turned to face the old man, but no one was there. Yet, the sensation of a phantom hand lingered still.
“This way, friend!”
Jack spun to see the old man nearly two hundred yards ahead, beckoning him to follow.
Jack shook his head and obeyed.
He passed countless items that shone, glimmered, or sparkled —so many that it left him dizzy and unable to decide. When he reached the old man, he asked, “I need your help.”
“That is why I am here, young Jack. To help you with whatever you desire,” the old man said, flashing his crooked teeth. This time, Jack was close enough to smell the putrid stench wafting from his breath. “So regale me with your requirements so that I may retrieve this revelatory and refined rarity.”
With glee, Jack said, “I require something that will help me become rich and powerful.”
“Ah, yes, a man with the noblest of causes: himself.”
Jack followed as the old man shuffled through the maze of objects and valuables. He came across many things that he recognized out of myth and legends, and other things that his simple mind could not grasp. Such as a small object, made of gold, containing moving parts hidden behind a glass. It ticked as one of the movable parts slowly made its way around the flat, circular object decorated with numbers.
They trekked on till the old man stopped in his tracks.
He picked something out of a pile of shiny objects. “Ahhh, I knew I had it here somewhere.”
Jack craned his neck to see, but the old man crowded the object, holding it close to his robes.
The man smiled and produced the object hidden behind his cloak. The shiny pendant dangled in front of Jack, swinging back and forth, almost hypnotizing the slow-witted man.
“It’s beautiful,” Jack exclaimed, still gaping at the gold and silver object dangling at the end of a long chain.
“That it is,” the old man replied, his voice laced with a hint of exhilaration. “This mere metal is more than a mundane masterpiece of miraculous metallurgy. It is magic, Jack. You do believe in magic?” He leaned in, his lazy eye narrowing as he studied the boy.
The way the man spoke made Jack’s head swim. But Jack nodded and said, “Of course I do,” as he puffed out his chest and straightened his posture, trying to appear confident despite the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Good, Jack. Gloriously good. For it is magic, forged with forgotten gifts, that will guide you toward your grandiose goals. Yet, do you not fancy forging your destiny with grit, grace, and a fair dose of determination? Driven focus, faithful deeds—these formed the futures of daring dreamers before you.”
“No. I do not,” Jack said firmly.
“I didn’t think so,” the old man said with a sly smile. “You look far too clever for that. Yes, a very clever young man is what I concluded when I saw you in the market.”
The old man slowly extended his frail arm, the object dangling from his long, thin, wrinkled fingers. He held it out to Jack, the gold surface catching the faint light and gleaming brilliantly against the darkness.
Eyes transfixed on the bobble swaying before him, Jack asked, “How is it magical?”
“Now, that would be telling,” said the old man, hovering ever closer to Jack. “Let’s say, this brilliant bauble belonged to a bigwig, a true benefactor, beloved by all, and banded by bounty. It brought boundless blessings to him, and I believe will be a benefit to you.”
“How much do you want for it?”
The old man pulled the object from Jack’s sight, concealing it within his robes. “No. No. No. You can’t place a monetary value on this numinous nugget.
“But I will tell you what. When fame is found, and your name is known, when all you seek is fully shown, only then shall I descend and due be drawn—when your form fades, and purpose is gone.”
Jack blinked innocently, staring blankly into the old man’s placid eyes.
The man sighed. “When you’re dead,” he said, tossing Jack the trinket.
Jack nodded and smiled happily as he cradled his new charm.
“Oh, and one more thing. You will grant me permission to choose one item in your possession.”
“One thing?”
The old man smiled warmly. “Only one. When you are indeed rich, one thing will hardly matter.”
Jack did not hide his delight; his confident smile stretched from ear to ear. To him, this was a bargain—and Jack loved a bargain. He would be so rich, surrounded by jewels, gold, and diamonds, that whatever the one thing the old man chose would seem utterly insignificant.
“Then it will be so.”
“A bargain is made,” the man said, extending his decrepit hand—its nails long and jagged, skin hanging loose from the bone, appearing so frail it might fly away at the slightest breeze.
Jack hesitated, his nose upturned as he scrutinized the man’s hand. But he found the courage and reached out, shaking it. The man’s grip was much stronger than Jack expected—far stronger than Jack’s own—as if he were trying to squeeze steel.
“Excellent. Destiny calls to you, Jack. Do you hear it? Now, wrestle your weak will and wade into the wide, wild waiting waters. Wind your way westward, and there, wayward wayfarer, where the Wyrm waits beneath the warm, watchful wheel of the world, will you be welcomed and find what you wish.”
Jack smiled pleasantly, nodding to the man before gripping the pendant. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, sinking into a deep well of concentration.
The old man observed in astonishment as Jack remained motionless, his features a contorted image of deep strain. Minutes passed in hushed anticipation. The only sounds breaking the stillness were the peculiar grunting noises that escaped Jack’s lips, a mix of effort and determination.
Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, the old man stepped closer, his brow furrowed with wonder, and asked, “What are you doing?”
Jack slowly opened his eyes, his expression blank as he stared at the old man. Bewilderment quickly replaced his blank stare as he was surprised to still be in the shop.
Puzzled, Jack said, “I’m trying to travel to this magical land that you spoke of.”
The old man held his tongue. The pause between them was long and awkward.
“I’ll give you a tip, Jack,” the man finally spoke, a tinge of irritation in his tone. “Take a boat. There is one leaving in the next hour, headed for the land that I speak of.”
Jack thanked the man and rushed out of the mysterious store, the warm sunlight bathing him once more.
The old man stood at the threshold of his shop and watched as Jack, with a twinkle in his eye and the gleeful eagerness of a child, raced toward his dreams—toward the great destiny he had long craved—and in the opposite direction of the docks. With a heavy sigh and a slow shake of his head, the old man turned and stepped back into his shop.
Delete
Worry and weakness plagued Jack on the longship that carried him across the ocean. As the boat was tossed back and forth with little mercy by the raging storm outside, Jack sat alone in a corner, eating what remained of the gruel served to him nearly two days prior.
Ironically named Christmas Pie by the passengers, it had gone stale, and as the hardened mush touched his tongue, he recoiled in disgust. He lamented that his tastebuds still functioned well enough to distinguish how much worse the unappetizing food tasted compared to when it was first served.
Jack reluctantly ate it all, unaware of when the next unpalatable meal would come. He knew he could not starve on the vessel, for his destiny awaited him at the end of the voyage.
As the last repulsive morsel touched his lips, a passenger bumped into him. Whether by accident or not, he could not be sure, but the slight was undeniable. His bowl slipped from his hand, hit the floor, and rolled across the wooden deck, finally coming to a stop at the feet of the same offender.
“Oy, mate! Watch where you’re going,” said the short, stout man with an enormous head shaped like a bruised orange. His voice carried for all those within the cabin to hear.
“Pardon?”
“Are ye deaf? Ye nearly knocked me over.”
“But I was simply sitting here.”
The man thrust his barrel chest forward and stepped closer to Jack. “Are ye calling me a liar? Is dat it?”
Jack jerked at the putrid smell of the man’s breath.
“No, of course not. I simply said I was sitting here when—” Jack’s next words were swallowed with his blood as a powerful fist slammed into his jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor.
His head spun as he attempted to sit upright, only to have a dirty boot slam against his face, pinning him to the deck of the ship.
“Not so high an’ mighty now are ye, ye stinkin’ sod!” More curses flew from the enormous mouth of the little man. Jack understood only a fraction of what the brute said.
The passengers laughed and pointed at him. No one lent a hand to help. Jack reached into his shirt with his free hand and fumbled for his pendant, only to have the man above grab his hand before he could pull it free.
The man pushed Jack’s hand aside and pulled at the pendant around his neck. “Was dis den, huh?”
The man fixated on the shiny object, its tiny light reflecting in his eyes. “Oy, well, isn’t dis sometin’.”
He yanked it from Jack with such force that it left a bruise on the back of his neck.
“Dis will do. Yuir bloody lucky you had dis. I might ’ ave killed you den. Thanks,” said the man as he walked away, laughing, pendant swinging in his hand.
Jack slowly lifted himself from the floor. Bruised and bloody, he returned to his corner and sat silently.
His eyes blazed at the man wielding his precious trinket—the ticket to his riches and fame—laughingly.
“Oy, what’s yer name den?” asked the man, gesturing to Jack in his corner.
“My name is Jack,” he said with a whimper.
The man’s heavy brows furrowed, and his gaze turned menacing. “You been lookin’ at me awhile now. I dinnae like it.”
The man smiled a toothless grin and turned to his compatriot. “Eh! Pierre. I changed me mind. Go o’er there inna corner an’ finish Jack off.”
Suddenly, the ship was rocked to the side. Passengers were thrown to the deck, falling on top of one another. Jack heard the sickening crack of bones snapping, followed by screams of anguish from the cabin. Another violent shake threw the ship in the opposite direction, sending passengers flailing through the air and slamming into the walls.
Jack tried to steady himself in the heaving hulk of the ship as debris rained down from the ceiling. Water flooded into the hold.
In a panic, the passengers splashed around, desperate to find a way upstairs to freedom, but the chaos forced them to trample one another.
Jack spotted the man who had stolen his pendant rushing past others and throwing them aside as he desperately made his way to the stairs leading above deck. He reached Jack, water rushing over his body.
“Ay, you git de hell out o’ me way!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the roar of onrushing water.
The man still greedily clutched Jack’s pendant.
“I said—” A wooden beam from the ceiling silenced his forthcoming curse, striking him so hard that he crashed out of the ship’s hull and into the raging sea.
The pendant flew from his grasp and landed fortuitously in Jack’s hands. He gripped it tightly before the ship’s wall gave way entirely, allowing the ocean to charge in and carry everyone out into its depths.
Delete
Rough waves broke against Jack’s slick, wet countenance, waking him from the depths of unconsciousness.
How long had he lain there on this unknown beach? The sun was high, and the sky was clear of clouds. The storm which sank his ship long dissipated and returned to the earth.
He turned himself over and sat up. In the distance, floating on the calm ocean, was the wreckage of the ship.
As for survivors—there were none he could see.
He rose to his feet and turned inland. Twin mountains loomed in the distance, obscuring much of the horizon. A dense thicket of trees blocked his view of the land from the beach, and at the forest’s edge, standing sentry was a single man carrying a brown sack.
He approached the man and asked, “Excuse me, do you know where I am?”
The man with the sack pointed to him on the spot where he stood. “That is a strange question to ask. You are right there.”
“No, no, no. I mean, what place is this?”
“This is the land where the Wyrm waits beneath the warm, watchful wheel of the world.”
“Right! Good. This is where I’m supposed to be,” Jack said, taking in the surrounding land. “I made it!”
The quiet man with the dirty sack observed Jack as he paced back and forth, trying to find his bearings.
Jack’s face contorted into a sneer of disgust as he sniffed the air intensely, searching for the rank odour that assailed his senses. When he could not discern where the smell emanated from, he turned his nostrils on himself, to see if he caused this rank stink that crawled up his nose and threatened to make him retch.
After a moment of grim self-inspection, Jack confirmed that while he was producing his own distinct and unsightly odour, he was not the source of his nasal torment.
Jack turned to the man and asked, “What is that repugnant odour?”
“This?” answered the man, pointing to the bag in his hands. “This is pig manure. I am a manure farmer,” he said proudly.
“Shit?” said Jack, a look of disgust spread across his face. “That is a bag of shit?”
“Yes.”
Jack threw up his hands in a fit of annoyance. “I’ve been found by a man wielding shit. Not a night, nor an entourage of wealthy men nor even beautiful maidens, but by a man carrying a bag of pig manure.”
Jack reached into his pocket and drew the shiny charm he managed to hold on to. “You, my friend, are supposed to be a lucky magical charm. So start working.”
Jack turned to the man who, though younger than him, was weathered by years of hard toil under the sun. The man carried himself with the weight of age beyond his years. His dishevelled clothes hung loosely on his wiry frame, but he did not appear starved for a meal.
The man gazed at Jack with an odd expression. His gaping mouth and vacant eyes caused Jack to assume he was dull or slow-witted. Yet, he could still be of use in helping find something of worth on this island.
“My name is Jack. Do you know how far it is to the nearest city?”
The man looked puzzled. “City?”
“Yes, a city. A sizeable area full of people, buildings, screaming vendors, bustling markets, fine food, and wine. A city!”
“I am not sure,” responded the man.
“How about horses? Are there any horses around here?”
“I do not know. There could be,” replied the man.
Jack shook his head in obvious frustration.
“Do you know anything or anyone?” asked Jack, frustrated.
“Well… I know this.” The man pointed to the bag of shit. “And you.”
Jack slumped down in the sand, defeat weighing heavily on his shoulders. Disillusionment took root, his once-grand dreams crumbling into ash before him. What had he done to deserve such foul luck?
Jack gazed at the pendant, its clasp bent and damaged from the assault by the oafish brute who now rested at the bottom of the ocean. With a steady hand, he repaired the clasp and secured the cursed trinket back around his neck.
Without so much as a word, the man fell to his knees and prostrated himself before Jack.
“It is you, isn’t it?” questioned the lanky man.
“It is?” said Jack. Unsure of what the man was referring to.
“You wear the pendant of the Franks—lost king of Alethea. You have returned.”
“I have?”
The man remained prostrate on the sand. Jack hesitated, his thoughts slow and drawn out.
“Yes, I do. I mean, I am,” stammered Jack after many moments of intense contemplation.
“My liege,” said the man as he lowered his head before Jack. “Follow me. You need to meet your subjects; we knew you would return one day, my king.”
A smile formed on Jack’s face as the lanky man led him from the beach and into his kingdom.
The trek to the palace was long and taxing. Jack’s feet ached, his legs burned, and his head swelled from the heat of the midday sun. But when he arrived, all of his aches, pains, and worries melted away.
Eyes wide, voice mute, and struck dumb, he stood before the most beautiful palace he had ever had the privilege to lay his vision upon.
Towering spires, an imposing front adorned with statues of gods and warriors, gleaming jade domes, expansive courtyards that stretched for acres, and magnificent, lush gardens filled with fountains that overflowed with fresh water from the makeshift spouts of beautiful mermaids holding pitchers.
The man led Jack deeper into the palace grounds: up the entranceway, past the battlements, around the hedge maze, along the courtyard, through the palace doors, and into the grand foyer.
With a resounding boom, the large oak doors flew open, drawing all attention to the two men as they strode into the palace.
Stunned silence and curious gazes greeted Jack from royal guards, maids, and nobles alike.
“My lord,” said the dirty man, prostrating himself on the cold marble floor before the gathered crowd.
Jack gazed down at the shit farmer whom he had met only hours before. The curious eyes of the assembly shifted between Jack and the man kneeling before him.
“The pendant, my lord. Show it to them,” urged the shit farmer.
Jack groped for the pendant, and upon grasping the shiny metal, he tore it from his neck and raised it for all to see.
Gasps and hushed murmurs spread among the crowd before they fell to their knees in unison, chanting, “All hail the return of a king!” to Jack’s overwhelming delight.
Jack’s chest swelled with pride as a triumphant thought danced through his mind: All hail the king, indeed.
Delete
Seasons passed, and Jack settled into his role as king with surprising grace and dignity. The work of running a kingdom was challenging; thankfully, Jack did none of it. However, he would issue many decrees to improve his subjects’ lives, including instituting no less than twenty-one days of play, fearing that they would drop dead from overwork or, worse—become too dull to be around.
On occasion, he dabbled in various trades but mastered none, a fact evident in the houses he built—now left derelict and crumbling.
Though lazy through and through, his subjects adored their king and proudly spoke fondly of him, spreading his name around the world.
So loved was he that they named their country’s spirit animal after him—a creature resembling a small horse with long ears, a strong back, and a notably stubborn disposition, making it an ass by nature.
Jack had all he ever desired without lifting a finger. His fortune, his kingdom, and his rule had come to him entirely through sheer magic and luck.
Everything was perfect, and so, as if on cue, a knock came at the door.
Jack swung the large doors open to see a familiar man standing outside, shrouded in darkness on a sunny day. His decrepit hands clasped together in prayer, his intricately designed robe flowing in a breeze that did not exist.
“Hello, Jack. You have a beautiful home. I hope I am welcome inside. After all, it is only polite to do so for guests and friends. Is it not?” said the old man, flashing Jack his dilapidated smile.
Jack nodded nervously and welcomed the man inside.
Taking in the grandeur of the enormous palace, the old man asked, “How are you, Jack?”
“I am wonderful. This pendant you gave me worked like a charm. They think I am a king,” said Jack with glee. “I am rich, beloved and known across the land. They have even named many things after me.”
“Yes, I had a ride up here on that animal, the ‘Jack ass’. Peculiar.”
“I must say, old man, I had my doubts about you. When I was trapped aboard that dreadful ship, my heart nearly gave out. But my faith was renewed upon seeing this,” Jack said, twirling in the grand foyer with arms outstretched, basking in the magnificence of his home. “I believe in the magic of this pendant.
“Phenomenal, Jack—purely praiseworthy. But the pendant’s power didn’t produce your perfect prosperity, though its presence was pivotal. As you’ve perceived, it’s a prized piece. The people have patiently pined for their potentate’s pre-eminence. You provided the proclaimed prophecy, proofed by this particular pendant. Provided by me personally.”
“So I am their king?”
“No, simply stated, such stories spread seamlessly during his sudden silence. A silly script circulated, sprinkled strategically across society. Speak it sufficiently, and soon, souls start to subscribe. So, the saga was shared, relayed, and rooted from seniors to youth. Subsequently, the small story sprouted and shifted into a robust legend; then, the legend reshaped into a reality that could neither be scrutinized nor substantiated, for none remain who originally recited it. Society sought something to sustain—salvation, so to speak. And what more marvellous method to spark said salvation than through a stellar revelation?”
Jack found the old man’s story confusing, but he nodded as if he followed.
The old man, recognizing Jack’s…difficulty following, sighed heavily and said, “I will speak plainly for you, Jack. I have neither the patience nor the time. What I spoke of was a prophecy. Rumours circulated about a king that would one day return, wearing that very shiny piece of jewellery.” The old man pointed to the pendant around Jack’s neck.
Jack did not care how the rumours had started, only that he was fortunate of benefiting from them. However, Jack was a curious fellow, and curious fellows tend to ask questions—even those better left unasked.
So, to satiate his curiosity, Jack asked the old man, “How did these rumours get circulated?”
“Simple, young Jack. I started them when I took the pendant and killed their true king,” said the old man with pride.
The man’s words made little sense to Jack. So, he said, “That cannot be true. Their king died over a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Really? It feels more like a hundred and seventy, if I remember correctly.”
The old man clapped his hands, producing a thunderous bang. Jack jumped, startled by the sudden clamour.
Then, the man rubbed his hands together and turned to Jack. “Jack, my friend. I think I have lived up to my part of the bargain. It is time to give me the one thing that I want for payment.”
The words sent a chill racing up Jack’s spine, but it was the crooked smile—wide and brimming with jagged, yellowed teeth—that sparked fear within him.
Jack ran his tongue over his dry lips, trying to moisten them before responding.
Nervously, he asked, “And what is the one thing you wish? Jewels? Gold? I have a treasure room below nearly as big as the castle itself, filled to the rafters.”
“Thank you, Jack. But I do not need your treasures. They are yours to keep for as long as you have use of them. My payment will be something else.”
The old man paced the cold marble floors, his dark cloak billowing with each step. Seemingly expanding before Jack’s eyes.
“You see, I am an old man, far older than I look. My diet is very unique—special even. Only people like yourself can provide me with the sustenance I require. And those that do must give it to me freely. And so, being the fair man I am, I offer a trade.”
Something cold touched Jack’s shoulder. He spun around sharply, but nothing was there—only the lingering sensation of icy fingers scratching at his very soul.
Jack gulped. “What is it you need from me? If not, my riches?”
“Why, Jack, I think even you know the answer to that already. But I should at least tell you, it is only polite.”
The old man glided to within an inch of Jack’s face as if pulled on invisible strings.
“I want your soul, Jack,” said the man in a booming, raspy voice that rattled the very foundation of the palace.
Jack gave him a nervous smile. “My soul?” he said. The smile promptly vanished when he looked into the solemn expression of the old man.
Jack threw himself to his knees before the man in black. “You can’t have my soul. I am still using it,” pleaded Jack.
“It is no longer yours, Jack. You’ve already promised it to me.”
Jack jerked back in fear, scrambling onto his knees to retreat from the old man. The cold marble floor bit into his skin, scraping them raw.
“No. You cannot have my soul. Not now. Not when I have finally achieved everything I’ve always wanted.”
“A bargain was reached, and a deal is a deal, Jack,” the old man said, his voice cold and final. He raised a gnarled hand, and the pendant around Jack’s neck glowed.
A brilliant light erupted from the jewel at its centre, tendrils of radiance twisting through the air before latching onto Jack. The light tightened like a snare, dragging him to the floor. His body grew weak as the pendant greedily siphoned his energy.
“I told you the pendant was magical; I just didn’t mention it was only magical for me.”
“But you said you would only claim your prize after I was dead. You promised!”
“Yes, I did. That is why I am trying to kill you, dear Jack. Please pay attention. You see, I may be old beyond the years. But I am still impatient, especially with those who are too ignorant to appreciate my flair for the dramatic. It takes time to create great poetic verbiage, and I wasted it on your simple mind. You ruined my air of mystery and completely lacked the intelligence to grasp my penchant for poetic symmetry.
“You have received the notoriety that you searched for. The entire world knows who you are,” said the old man, throwing his arms into the sky, his oversized sleeves falling to his waist.
“This isn’t what I asked for,” Jack simpered.
“Ah, and that was your folly. You didn’t ask the important questions before you accepted my gift. There are rules to these games, Jack. There are always rules,” said the old man, approaching Jack.
“Rules? I didn’t know about any rules?”
“Ignorance is no excuse, my dear Jack. You wanted fame—now, without the work. And I delivered. Now, my friend, I have come to collect.”
The old man gazed hungrily at Jack, his lips trembling with anticipation, saliva dribbling down his chin. It was as if he could already taste the bittersweet of Jack’s soul. He had waited patiently for this feast, this delectable essence that would sustain him for many more years to come.
The old man’s sinister grin stretched wider, impossibly so, grotesque and unnatural, until it seemed to consume his entire face.
Jack’s own face contorted and took on the very personification of sheer terror. His features froze, eyes fixed on the widening mouth and narrowing black eyes of the old man, sensing the grim fate that awaited him.
The old man’s wicked grin continued to grow wider and wider and wider until he could no longer contain himself and laughed darkly. The chilling sound erupted from deep within his belly, a continuous booming laugh that echoed in Jack’s ears as the old man slithered ever closer. The living shadow that clung to the old man surged forward, swallowing the two men in its icy embrace and shrouding the hall in its eternal darkness. The old man’s laughter reverberated through the vast halls of the enormous palace, carrying into the night and drowning out the pitiful screams of poor, dear Jack.
Delete
The marketplace was hot and the midday sun beat down on the vendors and shoppers as they weaved through the crowded stalls in search of bargains.
With his head held high and his nose pointed to the heavens, a well-dressed man entered the market. He soon found himself stupefied, frozen in the middle of the marketplace, clearly lost. The soles of his once-shiny shoes were peeling away from wear. A silver buckle that ran across the tongue hung loosely, ready to fall off with his next step.
Sweat dripped down his chin, soaking his frilly shirt with ruffles, which bore the caked-in dirt of long travel.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a doorway with a strange old man, wearing dark robes, wrapped in darkness. To the well-dressed man, this was very peculiar, as the sky was clear and the sun was at its highest. What’s more, the crowd seemed to take great effort to avoid the tiny shop.
The old man raised a bony finger, curling it in a beckoning motion for the well-dressed man to come.
The well-dressed man hesitated at first but set aside his trepidation, striding toward the old man standing in the dark, cold doorway.
He was mere steps from the enigmatic shop when the old man spoke in a low, raspy voice, “Welcome, sir. I’ve been watching you wandering wearily, wondering whether will or whimsy would lead you to this weathered warehouse. And here you are, waiting wistfully to see the wonderments within these worn walls. So, walk with me and witness the wonders that wait within.”
The well-dressed man rolled his eyes, throwing up a dismissive hand toward the old man. With an exasperated sigh, he said, “Listen, I highly doubt you possess anything I need. I am, after all, a scientist at heart, wealthy beyond belief, and considered the brightest mind across many continents.” The man’s tone dripped with pride. “But I admit, I am curious as to what you think I need. And don’t think about cheating me. I know very important people in the world, including the Queen of this land, personally.”
A sinister smile crept across the old man’s face as he stared deep into the challenging eyes of the overly narcissistic man.
He clasped his withered hands together, intertwining thin, bony fingers, and stepped out from the confines of his doorway. As he moved, the darkness clung to him, trailing like an obedient servant, shielding him from the sun’s glare and casting an ominous shadow that sprawled across the ground.
With a diabolical grin, he flashed his jagged, yellowing teeth and said, “I welcome you, my weary traveller, into my keep, my kingdom, my modest yet mystic market. Make yourself comfortable as you muse and take measure of my mosaic mishmash of medallions, mementos, and memorabilia. Yet, I urge you to keep a keen mind as you meander meaningfully. You may know maps, moons, and the mighty mechanics of motion. Why morning yields to night, and why moss makes its mark on stone. You may know monarchs, minstrels, mystics—every known man or maiden of merit, from manor to meadow. You may know every myth, magics, and musings by melancholy misanthropes. Yet, kind soul, with all you think you may know, you don’t know Jack.”
Glenn Taylor’s The Book of Lost Innocence is a collection of nine dark fantasy stories, delving into the consequences of trading your innocence for a happy ending. The selection explores numerous themes, including love, sacrifice, temptation, revenge, loss, religion, and vanity. Each short story’s protagonist was motivated by their desires, which blinded them from potentially undesirable outcomes.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this collection of short stories. The themes of each story were raw and real, transcending more than just a happily ever after for the characters. These fairytales were often twisted into something dark and unexpected based on the characters’ choices and what they were willing to sacrifice to achieve their goal. Magical elements throughout the stories were interesting and creative as it was used to drive plots forward.
I read all of the stories as parables–fictional short stories intended to teach a moral or spiritual lesson–as Taylor used relatable characters to teach a lesson in a sense. Jack’s greed blinds him as he fails to fully consider what he loses alongside his gains. Mary learns the hard truth that fear often breeds ignorance, which leads to misjudgments. Cordelia is too distracted by external appearances that she fails to see the beauty within.
What I really liked most about this anthology was that it examined the dark aspects of humanity. No character was perfect, and no choice made led to a true happily ever after. Overall, the characters felt like a reflection of the flaws that plague all of us as we try to find our way in our own lives. I appreciated Taylor’s ability to transform real humanity into tales that probe morality and what is right or wrong.
My personal favorites of the bunch were Stolen Away, Dread, The End of the World, and Imperfect.
I highly recommend The Book of Lost Innocence if you’re looking for a collection of dark fantasy short stories as spooky season approaches.
4 ⭐️