The Model Village
My Uncle David was an eccentric man. That’s not code to say he was some kind of deviant. In fact, he was a pleasant and caring man for most of his life. However, he was also a sensitive soul and not much of a people person. David never got married or had children. He lived alone his whole life and worked a dull job in the civil service. Yes, David was definitely an introvert and may have been on the spectrum, but he kept himself to himself and indulged in his unusual hobbies, some of which became obsessions. I guess that’s why he bought the model village. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept – a model or miniature village is an attraction closely associated with the English countryside, although there are few left in existence in the 21st century. Some date back to the 19th century, but their popularity peaked from the 1930s to 1950s. Essentially, they are outdoor scale models turned into very detailed exhibits replicating towns or villages, containing everything from miniature churches, houses, railways, canals and parks…and figurines representing small people – men, women, children and even pets. The level of detail is impressive and there’s a quaint and almost magical feel to such attractions. But of course, like so much else, model villages have lost much of their appeal in the modern digital age, unable to compete with more contemporary leisure pursuits and venues. The few which remain retain their quintessential charm and appeal, but their heyday is long gone. Uncle David couldn’t have foreseen this trend when he purchased his own model village in the early 1990s, although I doubt it would have stopped him, as he never regarded the attraction as a financial enterprise. I won’t tell you the location of Uncle David’s village. It doesn’t exist anymore, but I can’t guarantee that its former site is safe or that the evil which once dwelt there is now gone. I will describe it to you, however. The ‘village’ was called Mosvil – an odd name with slightly sinister overtones. This was the title the attraction came with when David bought it, and he was adamant that the name wouldn’t change. He was a stickler for tradition after all. Mosvil was built to a scale of 1 to 72 and contained most of the features one would expect to find in a traditional English village circa the late 19th or early 20th centuries. The main street consisted of a steepled church (Anglican of course!), a neat town hall with a copper-domed roof, and a schoolhouse with big glass windows. The street also contained several tidy shopfronts – a butchers, a grocery, a village pub, a bank and a post office – the type of small businesses which are slowly disappearing in the real world. Off the main street were the homes and houses – a mix of quaint cottages and Georgian townhouses. The detail was astonishing, right down to the tiny flowerbeds in the gardens surrounded by white picket fences. The manor house was located on the edge of the village close to the purposefully built stream which cut though the mock countryside. The house was four storeys tall with stained-glass windows and turrets. The grounds around it were meticulously designed and maintained, with a neat, treelined avenue leading out to its front gates. Further along the river stood a functioning windmill – more in the Dutch rather than the English design, but still in keeping with the ambience of the attraction. The final feature of note was the railway station to the south of the village – a long platform and red-bricked station house with an old steam locomotive that permanently sat on the rails, its adjoined carriages divided into first, second and third class. And then there were the figurines – the tiny ‘villagers’ who populated Mosvil. Each was unique and had their own names based on their roles and jobs – lady of the manor, the butcher, the vicar, the grocer’s wife, the train conductor… All appeared to be happy people going about their daily business. Everything was well ordered and peaceful in Mosvil, as it represented an oasis of tranquillity in an otherwise chaotic world. Or at least, that’s what we used to believe. As you can probably tell I used to spend a lot of time in Mosvil. My parents brought me and sister down there regularly when we were young and before mum and dad got divorced, and I recall how magical a place it was to visit as a child. My uncle was always happy to see us and to share his village with us, telling my sister and I the stories behind every building, feature and figurine. He was strict however, warning us never to mess around with his beloved village. I remember one time when we accidently damaged the church roof whilst playing, and David was furious with us. His reaction was scary and I guess we didn’t understand why he was so obsessed with his village. Sadly, David was a man with a lot of problems. But life moved on. My sister and I grew up and we stopped visiting Mosvil and my uncle. I feel bad about it now, but I was a stroppy, hormonal teenager and the last place I wanted to hang out was a boring old model village. Sadly, Uncle David’s mental state only deteriorated in the years that followed. He took early retirement from his job and became even more obsessed with building and maintaining Mosvil. For a while he ran it as a family attraction, charging a small entrance fee for families to visit on weekends and bank holidays. But eventually he grew tired of these visitors and their disruptive ways, choosing to close Mosvil to the public and make it his own private haven. In the years which followed David became a total recluse, cutting ties with most of his family and the few friends he had. My mother would still visit occasionally, mainly to check that her brother was still alive, but she usually received a frosty reception. I don’t know what happened to David which made him cut himself off from the outside world and become completely engrossed in his almost child-like hobby. Perhaps he suffered a personal tragedy or heartbreak which we didn’t know about, or maybe he just couldn’t cope with the stresses and pressures of the world. In any case, I’m afraid his life was destined to end tragically. So let me tell you about the summer of 2001. My mother hadn’t seen her brother in about two weeks. She phoned regularly enough but my uncle rarely answered or called back. She went down to his cottage one day and couldn’t get an answer when she rang the bell, or even when she knocked on the door repeatedly and loudly. Concerned, she used her spare key to enter David’s home but discovered he wasn’t at home. Alarm bells started ringing at this point as David rarely if ever went out, but mum didn’t panic just yet. She did start to really worry when she drove to the Mosvil site and found David’s workshop empty and no sign of him in the village. Not only that, but the site was a mess – with miniature buildings smashed in and figurines broken and scattered all over the concrete and grass. Mum knew how much Mosvil meant to her brother and she could only imagine the impact this act of wanton destruction would have on his mental state. At this point she did panic and phoned the police, but they weren’t able to file a missing person’s report until 72 hours later. This deadline came and went and the report was processed, but no information was forthcoming. Mum phoned the police daily until they stopped returning her calls, and then she started her own search – getting stories published in the local press, posting missing signs all over the countryside and starting a website requesting information (as this was before social media was a major thing). She worked so hard for so long but never got any solid leads. It was heart-breaking for us to see as the fruitless search consumed my mother. She always felt responsible for her brother’s disappearance, feeling that she should have looked after him better. We told her constantly that she wasn’t to blame – that he was a grown man who’d made his own decisions – but it was no good. Out mother kept the faith for years, still believing that David would turn up one day. I didn’t share her belief however. My uncle was always disturbed and I feared he had gone to some quiet spot to end his life. Perhaps his body had been swept out to sea and that’s why he was never found. I think the whole family shared my theory but we never spoke about it, and we never told mum what we thought. It would have broken her heart. In any case, the search went from cold to freezing and after seven long years my uncle was declared legally dead. This sad milestone broke my mother. She went on with her life, being there for her family, children and grandchildren, but a big part of her died along with her brother, and she never really recovered from the tragedy. I think it surprised us all when we discovered that David had written a will, and he’d left all his possessions and assets to my sister and I, including his beloved model village. My sister had just had a new-born and so had no time to deal with this mess, and I couldn’t ask our mother for help as it was still too raw for her. So, I took on the task of dealing with my late uncle’s estate. The plan was to sell up and split the money. There really wasn’t any other practical option. David’s cottage was in a bit of a state after all those years, but I knew some renovation work would fix it up nicely, and with the housing market the way it was we could sell for a good price. Mosvil was a different kettle of fish however. There was little to no prospect of selling it as a going concern. The market for model villages in the modern world is almost non-existent for the reasons previously explained, and besides, the site was a mess. My best bet was to sell the land off for development but first I needed to get the site appraised and valued, with due consideration given to planning permission and other issues. I made my initial visit to get the lay of the land. I’ll admit to feeling trepidation on the drive down to the Mosvil site as all the old memories came flooding back. We’d had good times there during our childhood, but I kept recalling how Uncle David had raged with us when we accidently damaged the church roof, and the terrible sadness my mum carried with her after his disappearance. Unfortunately, my mood only darkened when I reached the site. The glory days of Mosvil were clearly long gone. The once immaculately maintained streets, houses and figurines were now an awful mess. Everything was smashed up to hell or worn down by years of exposure to the elements. The village was fenced off, but the vandals had got in anyway, tagging the site with graffiti and adding to the destruction. I’ll admit to having tears in my eyes as I surveyed the damage. It was tragic to see this once idyllic place reduced to such a terrible state. But there was something else too. I’ve never been much of a believer in the spiritual world, but something struck me as I walked through the ruined model village. I experienced a nearly crippling depression – a terrible sadness which went well beyond what I should be feeling. It was as if this once magical place had assumed a dark aura, one of tragedy and death which threatened to consume anyone who walked these grounds. I should have listened to my instincts but of course I didn’t. Instead, I told myself that my emotions had gotten the better of me and I needed to pull myself together. I had a job to do however unpleasant it may be, and so I got to work with clearing the site. This is where my story takes a bizarre and dark twist. What I intend to do now is to transcribe the contents of my late uncle’s diary, which I discovered during my clearance work. Most of its content is irrelevant, sadly giving little insight into David’s state of mind. That was until I got to the final few days before his disappearance. The diary entries answered some of my questions but raised many more. This will become self-evident as my story progresses. You may also be wondering how the diary went undiscovered all those long years while the police and my mother were on the case. Well, that’s a question which is hard to answer and so all I can say is please read on. So, let us begin with my Uncle David’s entry for the 9 July 2001: “Today the weather was quite good. It started off cloudy but the sun came out in the afternoon. This makes a pleasant change after all the rain over the previous few days. Thank goodness, as I have much work to do. I spent the morning in my workshop, finishing off my new villagers whilst touching up the paint on some of my existing people. The police constable’s uniform needed retouched, and I’m excited about introducing the new undertaker to Mosvil. As always, I need to work with painstaking accuracy on my little people to get them just right. Attention to detail is everything in this line of work. In the afternoon I took advantage of the sunshine to do some work in the village – polishing the dome of the town hall and replacing three of the trees in the manor house grounds. Much to my annoyance I saw that the stray tomcat had invaded my village once again. I didn’t see the little bastard but found evidence of its intrusion – with scratch marks on the church walls and several villagers out of place, scattered down the street with a blatant disrespect. This will have to stop. I’ve phoned the council to complain, asking that animal control captures the stray, but I doubt they’ll do anything about it. I may need to take action myself. My sister called this evening. I didn’t answer but she left a message on the machine. This only added to my annoyance. I know she means well but I wish she’d just leave me alone to get on with my work. Well, tomorrow is another day. 10 July 2001 – I am beyond furious. It has taken me all day to regain some level of composure so I can write down my experience and attempt to work through my anger.The day started like any other. I got up and travelled to Mosvil to start work. What I discovered was an atrocity. Someone – or probably multiple persons – had broken in during the night and proceeded to wreak devastation in an act of pure barbarism. The bulk of the damage was confined to the main street. Several of the villagers were broken beyond repair – the grocer, the milkman and the postmistress – all smashed to pieces. I don’t how anyone could be so cruel. There was some superficial damage to several buildings, but the vandals had taken out their anger on the church, breaking the steeple in half, crushing the roof, and stomping the building into the ground. I will need to rebuild the whole church from scratch. I was so angry that tears were rolling down my cheeks and I had to control my breathing before considering my next move. Once I calmed down somewhat I phoned the police to report this act of wanton destruction. Sadly, this only added to my anger. They said they would process my report and send a constable out in due course, but I could tell they weren’t taking it seriously. No doubt the vandalism was carried out by local teenage hoodlums. Children today are little better than animals -semi-feral and without discipline from their parents or teachers. The police will do nothing to stop them and so these hooligans run amok, destroying property and ruining people’s lives. This country really has gone to the dogs. I spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess, but there was another sickening twist to this foul tale. I almost missed it at first, hidden away as it was at the rear of the wrecked church. When I saw it, my heart froze for a second and I believe I suffered a moment of genuine terror. The figurine was built to the same scale as my villagers – 1 to 72, meaning it was only an inch tall. I knew straight away that it wasn’t one of mine. After recovering from my initial shock I got down on my hands and knees to examine the miniature in closer detail. What I saw was a Grim Reaper – a sinister figure dressed in a dark robe down to his feet and with a hood covering his head. The figure had no face but did carry a scythe almost as tall as he was, its blade made from an actual tiny razor. I found the figurine repulsive and would never have such an ugly miniature in my village. But this raised the disturbing question of who had left the figure, and why? I began to doubt my initial theory in that moment, thinking this was too sophisticated a trick for teenage hoodlums. Perhaps this is the act of a rival model villager, jealous at my creation? I took the Grim Reaper figurine back to my workshop to examine it more closely. I examined it under my magnifying glass, impressed by the precision its maker had used. This was clearly the work of a professional. There was something very disconcerting about the miniature though – a creepy feeling that I couldn’t quite explain. But things only got weirder. When I picked up the figurine I found it was ice cold, like it was just out of the freezer. But as I held it in my hand the figurine suddenly and inexplicably heated up, and in a moment it became so hot that it burned my hand, forcing me to drop it on the floor. I’ll admit to swearing in rage as I looked down at the tiny Grim Reaper lying on the wood floor of my workshop. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. Was this some sort of new technology? I’ll gladly admit to being a luddite, so I suppose its possible. I should have kept the figure as evidence but in my anger I acted in haste, using pliers to pick up the red hot miniature and drop it into the furnace, watching with a grim satisfaction as it burnt to ashes.Its bedtime now but I’m still angry and confused, so I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. In any case, I will return to Mosvil first thing in the morning. I pray this ugly incident is a one-off and I can put it behind me. 11 July 2001 – The intruders returned during the night. It was naïve for me to think they wouldn’t. I’m angry but also…deeply unsettled. Let me try to explain what happened. I arrived at Mosvil shortly after dawn and went to work on the church reconstruction. At first it didn’t seem like there was any additional damage, but then I noticed several of the villagers were missing. The pub landlord, the schoolmistress, the fireman, the nurse and the mayor were all gone. I searched frantically for my little people, hoping against hope that I’d simply misplaced them. I couldn’t find their bodies – but I did find the heads. Yes, I can hardly believe that I’m writing this, but that’s what I found – five tiny, severed heads, all carefully impaled on the railings in front of the town hall, forming a sick and macabre display. I could hardly believe my eyes. I was horrified, disgusted and also amazed. The amount of effort it must have taken to remove the heads from the one-inch models and mount them to railings only millimetres thick. It almost defied belief. I struggled to breathe as I surveyed the scene – but then I saw it. The Grim Reaper miniature – that hateful figure – it was just standing there in the middle of main street. It was as if it were mocking me. It couldn’t possibly be the same model from the previous day. I’d watched it burn for God’s sake! I stared at the Reaper for a moment before realising that whoever was doing this must have made several copies of the figurine to mess with my head. I felt paranoid in that moment, scanning the horizon as I imagined my tormenter was watching me from afar. I soon reassured myself however. I felt sure the vandal was too much of a coward to show his face during daylight. He would surely return under the cover of darkness, but next time I’d be waiting for him. In a fit of rage I stomped the Grim Reaper under my boot, crushing it into little pieces. Enough is enough. Tonight I will stand guard right here and catch the bastard in the act. He’s going to regret he ever messed with me. 12 July 2001 – I am in Hell…Is this real? I don’t understand and I’m so scared. I fell asleep at some point during the night, lying on the grass beside my precious village. It wasn’t my intention to do so but I was so tired. When I awoke I instantly realised something wasn’t right. It seems like a nightmare but somehow it’s real. The grass I’d slept upon was now as tall as I was. I stared at the blades in astonishment and then at the mud beneath my feet. In confusion I staggered forwards, pushing my way through the tall grass and hoping in vain that there was some kind of logical explanation. I saw a dandelion twice my size and almost had a heart attack, but this was only the start of it. As I trudged through the mud, I saw the dirt in front of me move as something huge emerged from beneath the ground. I stepped back, recoiling in horror as I watched a massive, slimy snake-like beast burrow its way up to the surface and slither out from the hole it had created. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing, as its pink, segmented form wiggled out into the open. It was an earth worm but grown to an immense size….an impossible size, easily as long as I was high and with a body as thick as my thigh. I stood there, paralysed in fear as I watched the beast blindly slithering towards me. But a moment later, a huge shadow appeared above my head – a massive form which dwarfed both me and the worm. There was an almighty squawk, a high-pitched din that almost deafened me. A second later and the huge, winged beast dived down, reaching out with its mighty talons. I watched on in terror as the creature rapidly impaled the earth worm with its sharp talons before it secured it within a mighty beak. The winged beast squawked again as it flapped its vast wings and ascended back into the blue skies. I looked up as my unlikely saviour flew away and was once again astonished to recognise the black, brown and white feathers of the ‘monster’ bird, which I realised was nothing more than a common garden sparrow. I broke in that moment, still not understanding but knowing I was in grave danger. I sprinted for so long, cutting my way though the tall blades of grass and the giant wildflowers. Eventually I reached the edge of the grassland and found myself walking on hard concrete. I stopped and looked ahead, and then I saw it – Mosvil, my miniature village.Except it wasn’t miniature anymore. The scale was one-to-one. The town hall towered above me and the wrecked church stood in front of me, and the villagers were equal to my own height. My tired brain struggled to comprehend the terrifying implications, and the answer was as obvious as it was impossible. Mosvil hadn’t magically grown to full size overnight, but instead I’d been shrunk. Inexplicably I was now a mere inch tall, potential prey to insects and small birds and with nothing but the clothes on my back and the diary I carried with me, which has also been shrunken to a proportionally small size. What’s more, I was trapped in my own creation – a resident of my miniature village and entirely cut off from the real world. I tried to control my panic as I slowly walked along the main street that I’d so carefully built and maintained over all these years. I was certainly frightened by this inexplicable development, but also exhilarated at seeing my beloved Mosvil in a way I’d never thought possible in my wildest dreams. But my boyish fascination didn’t last, as soon I had a new threat to deal with. I heard a familiar sound – a foul hissing amplified one hundred fold. When I looked up I saw the beast – a leviathan to me in my reduced form. It was the black tomcat – the stray which had caused me trouble over the last few weeks. I’d been able to see the feline off easily enough when I was a six-foot-tall man, but now the ‘small’ cat was as big as a T-rex in comparison to my puny size. It stood at the far end of the village – its hungry green eyes glaring at me like I was nothing more than a kitty treat. I gasped in horror as I saw the cat stand up tall, its ears pinned back and eyes widening before it charged. The monster stomped along the concrete main street, the ground shaking under its huge size and weight. I ran for my life, desperately seeking sanctuary as the predator rapidly closed the gap. I made it to the town hall just in the nick of time, sprinting in through the doorway and diving into cover. The cat reached the door a second later, but thankfully it was far too big to get inside. It glared into the entryway with its predatory eyes, opening its maw to reveal huge and sharp fangs. And then it shoved its paw through the tiny doorway, reaching out with its deadly claws. I screamed, retreating back to the far wall and as far away as possible from the clawing attack. Fortunately, I was just out of reach of the predator and so remained relatively safe inside of the structure. The cat continued its attempt to break in, but thankfully without success. I hoped it would give up and seek alternative prey, but instead the beast lay down on the main street, glaring at the town hall as it patiently waited for me to come out. Its as if the cat has a personal vendetta against me and won’t give up until I’m in its belly.I remained trapped inside the town hall as I write this – without food, water or any prospect of rescue. I’m alone and scared, and I don’t know how I’ll get out of this in one piece. 12 July 2001 (evening) – The cat left shortly after dusk. Actually, it didn’t so much leave as it fled. I heard a high-pitched miaow before the beast sped off at top speed, shaking the ground beneath its paws. I was relieved but also concerned. What in hell had scared the feline away? Was it another cat or dog? I feared I might be in even greater danger than before. But then again, perhaps the cat had been frightened off by a human being? Had my sister come looking for me? If so, maybe she could save me from this hellish predicament.I cowered in the town hall for several more hours before I felt brave enough to poke my head out of the door. To my relief I saw it was all clear. The cat was nowhere in sight, but nor was anyone else. Feeling a bit bolder, I opted to explore the village under the dim light of the moon and the stars. This was not a wise decision. As I cautiously walked down the main street – past the model shops and lamp posts – I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. My throat was dry as I hadn’t had anything to drink in the best part of 24 hours, and so I proceeded to the stream, cupping water in my hands and slurping it up greedily. For a moment I felt better, but then I raised my head and I saw it. The Grim Reaper figurine, standing just behind the gate to the manor house, glaring down upon me from the hillside. This was its third appearance – except now it was no longer a tiny model I could crush underneath my foot. The Reaper was now as tall as I was. I felt sure that this thing – whatever it was…surely it was responsible for my grim predicament, using some form of dark magic to reduce me to this tiny stature. I can’t explain why, but in that moment a cold terror pulsated through me as I believed I was in mortal danger. Turning on my heels, I fled for my life, sprinting back to the town hall and sealing myself inside. I’m still here – cold, afraid and hungry. I won’t dare to leave my sanctuary again before dawn. I can only hope and pray that my prospects improve. 12/07/2001 (don’t know what time) – My God, hell has come to my door! My own creations have turned against me. I write frantically as I don’t have much time. I slept for a short spell, waking some time in the early hours. When I went to the window my heart froze as I witnessed my worst nightmare come to life. All my villagers were standing there out on the main street – the artisans, the schoolchildren and all the professions…even the five previously taken, minus their heads. They all stood there with menacing intent, forming a mob and facing the town hall. Those who still had their heads looked different than before…the smiles once on their faces now turned into mouths emitting silent screams, and their once friendly eyes now narrowed in anger. At their head was my nemesis – the dreaded Grim Reaper, his scythe in hand as he pointed the sinister weapon in my direction. And then it started. The Reaper gave the order, lowering his scythe and pointing it in my direction. This was the signal. To my shock and horror, the villagers all suddenly came to life – slowly marching forward in an awkward, almost mechanical fashion. I had no doubt that they meant to do me harm. I cower inside as I scribble this note – which will surely be my final words. They are banging on the doors and windows, trying to break in. There is no escape. I hope against hope that someone will find this journal and get word to my family…To my sister, nephew and niece…I’m so sorry that I pushed you away. I love you all…” This was my uncle’s last entry, and I don’t mind telling you that his final words moved me to tears. You’re probably wondering how I discovered my late uncle’s diary. Well, in many ways it was by pure chance whilst I was clearing out the site. The journal was still in its reduced size – a micro-miniature book, less than a quarter of an inch in dimension. I could well have ended up throwing it out along with all the other tiny models, but as I held it in the palm of my hand I had a feeling which made me think of my uncle. I had to acquire specialist equipment to view the tiny book and use a powerful microscope to read my uncle’s words. His terrible end defied belief, and yet I knew in my heart it was the truth. I never told my mother about my discovery, fearing what it would do to her. She went to her grave without ever knowing the truth. There was no body to bury and I can only assume his tiny corpse was taken away by his killers or consumed by local wildlife. I don’t like to dwell on it however, as it sickens me to imagine my uncle’s final moments. As for Mosvil, I had it completely demolished and sold the land. I’ve never returned to the location in all the years since. I can’t help but feel that this bizarre tragedy would not have happened if David had kept in touch with his family. In the end you could say that his obsession killed him. I don’t know what you’ll make of this story. I still don’t fully understand it myself. All I know is that there are dark powers beyond our comprehension, and my Uncle David sadly fell foul of them.So, my final advice is to take care, because you can never know where an unhealthy obsession will lead you. Credit: Woundlicker Facebook Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.