The Puppeteer’s Flesh

 The caravan rolled into the edge of the sleepy town of Elmbrook just after sunset, wheels groaning like dying animals. The townspeople gathered as they always did when travelers arrived—curious, cautious, hopeful for something new to break the monotony. At the head of the caravan stood a tall man with sunken eyes, a curled smile carved into a face that looked half-forgotten by time. He introduced himself simply:

“I am Morrow, the Puppeteer. And tonight, your children will laugh, your elders will weep, and all will remember.”

He bowed low with jerking grace, his limbs moving like something tugged by invisible strings. The people clapped, not knowing why their stomachs churned at the sight.

Morrow’s stage was set at the center of the town square by nightfall. Velvet curtains framed a crude wooden theater, and painted backdrops shifted with the moonlight. The puppets themselves hung in place—six of them. They were disturbingly lifelike, each with glimmering glass eyes that didn’t quite reflect the torchlight correctly. Their skin looked too smooth, too real. Their joints too flexible.

The show began.

It was a tragedy—a tale of a boy who wished to be loved, and the price he paid for it. The puppets danced, cried, and screamed in ways no puppet should. One wept red tears. Another’s hand twitched long after the scene had ended. The town was silent, spellbound.

When it was over, there was no applause. Only a soft, collective breath—as if everyone had forgotten they were holding theirs.

The next morning, young Elsie Holloway was missing.

Her mother tore through the streets screaming her name. Search parties were sent. Dogs sniffed. Doors were knocked on.

Morrow’s caravan was still there.

He claimed innocence, even offered to help. “The girl?” he said, tilting his head as if it might fall off. “I saw her watching, yes. A lovely spirit. But I am merely an entertainer.”

Yet something in his smile didn’t sit right. It looked too forced. Too… pinned in place.

That night, the show continued. This time, the play was different—more joyous. A story of freedom, of escape, of wings. And in the middle of the stage danced a new puppet. Smaller than the rest. With blond hair.

And eyes that looked just like Elsie’s.

Six towns over, old stories still clung to the walls of taverns like soot. Tales of a puppeteer who traveled by night, whose dolls were made of children and who spoke to something behind the curtain. Something that never moved, never spoke, but was always there. A shadow that lingered even after the lights went out.

In Elmbrook, no one spoke of that first night. But they knew. And still, they came to the next show. Curiosity is a disease, after all—one without a cure.

Thomas Greaves, the town blacksmith, decided he’d seen enough. On the fourth night, as the puppet with Elsie’s face sang a lullaby no child should know, he pushed through the crowd, axe in hand.

He stormed the stage, tore through the curtains, and came face-to-face with the thing behind it.

It wasn’t a man. Nor a beast. It was a shape, vaguely human, suspended in black threads that pulsed like veins. Its face was a stitched mask of many—eyes overlapping, mouths sewn shut. It loomed without moving, without sound.

Thomas raised his axe—

—and stopped.

His limbs froze mid-swing, his mouth wide but voiceless. Strings, invisible and cold, wrapped around his joints. He dropped to his knees like a marionette with its strings cut.

The crowd gasped. Morrow only chuckled.

“Free will is such a fragile illusion, wouldn’t you say?” he mused, dragging Thomas backstage with jerking, puppet-like grace. “But don’t worry. You’ll be useful.”

That night, a new puppet appeared. Tall. Strong. With a twitch in its right arm, just like Thomas used to have.

Young Jamie, a quiet boy with a bad leg, was the first to see it.

He’d snuck under the stage after the fifth show, curious about how the puppets worked. What he found instead were bones. Real ones. Hung like trophies, polished and labeled. Names etched into tiny plaques beneath them.

Elsie. Thomas. Grace. Samuel. Lily.

And a book. Old. Bound in something that looked and smelled like dried flesh. Jamie opened it and instantly felt something curl behind his eyes. The pages moved on their own. Words written in a language he didn’t understand crawled off the parchment, whispering promises of power and pain.

The final page showed a drawing—a figure draped in shadow, dozens of strings flowing from its hands. Beneath it, the words: The Master of Flesh and Will.

Jamie ran. He tried to tell the others. But no one believed him. They were enchanted, addicted to the performances. The puppets were so… alive. They danced like angels, they cried like mothers. They looked into your soul and sang back your fears.

Morrow only smiled. He always smiled.

“You’re special, Jamie,” he said, catching the boy behind the bakery two nights later. “I see it in you. That spark. That resistance. You’d make a fine stagehand.”

Jamie fought. He screamed. Bit, clawed, kicked.

But Morrow didn’t bleed.

Because Morrow wasn’t alive. Not truly. Jamie’s nails caught on something beneath the puppeteer’s jaw. A seam. A hidden hinge. The skin tore.

Inside was wood. Carved ribs. Hollow eyes. No heart. No blood. Just rot and splinters and the faint echo of a laugh that wasn’t his.

Morrow wasn’t the puppeteer.

He was the puppet.

Jamie fled again, hiding in the church. He lit candles and prayed, even though he didn’t believe. The show outside went on, the music warping, voices bending.

And then it stopped.

Silence fell over Elmbrook.

Jamie crept outside.

The townspeople stood motionless, facing the stage. Eyes blank. Strings—thin and black—ran from their limbs to the clouds. Like tangled wires in a butchered marionette.

On stage, the curtain rose.

The figure behind it had stepped forward.

It had no face now. Only a thousand mouths stitched shut. A thousand eyes open wide. And it held something new in its hands.

A puppet. Just finished. Just painted. With dark hair. And a bad leg.

Jamie awoke in a box. He couldn’t move. His mouth was sewn shut. His eyes stared ahead, locked wide.

Morrow stood above him, whistling. He was being repainted—retouched. His face brushed with false life.

“Shh,” Morrow said, gently winding the crank on Jamie’s back. “The show’s about to begin. And you… you’re the star