The next morning, the town acted like nothing had happened.
People went about their days, walking past the field with the puppet stage as if it wasn't there. No one spoke of the puppet. No one asked about Ryan Harper.
But I knew they saw it. I saw the way they slowed down as they passed. The way their eyes flicked toward it and quickly away, like looking for too long would break something they'd tried too hard to forget.
The puppet was gone from my porch.
But when I stepped outside, I found a strand of red thread nailed to my front door. A loop of it, tied in a perfect noose.
It wasn't there the night before.
I plucked it down and felt a chill run through my fingers. The thread was still warm.
Like it had just been tied.
---
I didn't go to the police.
Who would I report it to? What would I say? "A puppet that looks like a missing boy appeared on my porch, whispered to me in Latin, and then vanished."
Velmont Hollow wasn't that kind of town. We didn't do explanations. We did secrets.
I went back to the field.
The stage was still there. Still silent. Still untouched.
But something had changed.
The crate was open.
Empty.
No sign of the puppet that had looked like me. Just a fine layer of sawdust spread across the floor like pollen.
And above the crate, hanging from the arch of faceless dolls, was a new sign:
> "SHOW TONIGHT. TWILIGHT ONLY. ADMISSION: MEMORY."
I didn't know what that meant.
But I could feel it in my chest—something tugging, pulling. The thread hadn't just been a warning.
It had been an invitation.
---
I walked the long way back through the woods, trying to clear my head.
That's when I heard the clicking.
Wood against wood.
Fast. Panicked.
I turned, heart racing.
There, twenty feet from me, half-hidden in the underbrush, was a puppet.
Ryan.
Same red cap. Same glassy eyes. But now his mouth was unstiched. Threads dangled from his chin like loose veins. His limbs jerked unnaturally as if some invisible puppeteer was trying to make him move but didn't quite know how.
He saw me.
No—it saw me.
And it ran.
Not with grace. Not with control. Just a ragged, horrible gallop, limbs bending backward, arms flailing as though fighting against their own strings.
I chased him.
Branches tore at my jacket. I nearly tripped over roots. But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
He led me to the edge of the old reservoir—the place where kids used to swim before it dried up.
And there, lying on the cracked stone shore, was a boy's backpack.
Ryan's.
Inside: his homework folder. His inhaler. A half-eaten bag of sour candies.
And a note, scrawled in childish handwriting:
> "HE SAID I COULD STAY FOREVER IF I GAVE HIM MY SMILE."
I turned slowly.
The puppet was gone.
But the wind had shifted.
I smelled something.
Burned wood.
Like a house fire.
Like varnish.
Like a puppet-maker's workshop going up in smoke.
---
Back in town, a poster had appeared on the bakery window.
A faded parchment in ornate calligraphy:
> ONE NIGHT ONLY
THE PUPPET MAKER'S GRIN PRESENTS
"THE BOY WHO WOULDN'T LEAVE"
Starring: YOU.
My name wasn't written.
But I knew the part was mine.
And somewhere, in the back of my mind, something began to recite a script I hadn't read in twenty years.
> "You promised, Jonah. We remember. And now, so must you."
---
That night, the whole town gathered.
No one said a word.
They just came, dressed in Sunday best, lips pressed tight, eyes dim with the weight of old guilt.
The field was lit by lanterns now—wooden ones, shaped like puppet heads. Each mouth open. Each flame flickering from between carved teeth.
I stood at the edge of the crowd.
People stared at me.
Not accusingly.
Knowingly.
As if they knew this was my part to play.
As if they had all taken their turn before.
And then the curtains opened.
---
The stage was dark at first.
Then music.
Faint. Twisting. Played on instruments made of bone and string.
And from the center, a figure rose.
Not a man.
Not a puppet.
Something between.
He wore a suit of stitched black felt, his head a wooden mask with a smile too wide and teeth too perfect.
And when he bowed, the entire town whispered in unison:
> "Mr. Grin."
He raised his hand.
And the puppets descended.
Dozens of them.
Swinging from above. Dressed in miniature versions of the town's children—past and present. Some were familiar. Some weren't.
But all of them were real.
Souls turned to wood.
And in the center, dangling in the spotlight, was Ryan.
Still twitching.
Still trying to move.
Mr. Grin stepped forward.
> "Ladies and gentlemen," he crooned. "Tonight's tale is about a boy who broke a promise. A boy who thought forgetting was freedom."
He looked at me.
> "But memory has a price. And we always collect."
And then he pulled a string.
Ryan's puppet convulsed.
And screamed.
Not a child's scream.
A wooden wail. Like air being forced through splinters.
And all around me, the crowd clapped.
Because they had paid already.
They had given up their smiles long ago.
And now it was my turn.