The Puppet
Control
Mouse Control
c
The sun hung high as we wove through the bustling streets of our town, drawn by the promise of a puppet show—elaborate marionettes dancing under a striped tent, their strings glinting like spider silk. After the final act, applause still ringing in our ears, my brother nudged me toward the stage to chase an autograph from the puppeteer, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His workshop, cluttered with half-finished dolls and tangled strings, smelled of sawdust and secrets. Then the door slammed. Shadows moved—not just his. Rough hands seized us, cloth gagging our shouts, as the puppeteer’s grin sharpened. “Guests shouldn’t leave so soon,” he crooned. Now, locked in a dim room, we hear the creak of wooden limbs scraping floors beyond the door. The walls whisper with painted faces, their hollow eyes following us. Keys jingle somewhere. Footsteps. We need to move—find tools, unravel tricks, outwit the strings that bind us—before we become part of the show forever.
