Velmont Hollow was no longer a town.
It had become something else.
A living marionette theater. A breathing cathedral of strings.
The streets bent when I walked on them. Houses leaned in to listen. Windows blinked like eyes stitched open too long. And above it all, the sky hung still, as if the stars themselves had been nailed into place by unseen hands.
I stumbled down Main Street, every step a struggle.
The strings weren't just attached to my body anymore.
They were inside me.
Threaded through my muscles. My veins. My thoughts.
I could feel them tug when I tried to scream.
They didn't stop the sound—they just rerouted it. Pulled it into a smile.
My lips curled when I didn't want them to.
My teeth clenched in a grin too wide for sorrow.
Somewhere inside, I was still me.
But I could feel Grin's influence tightening like a hand around my ribs.
---
The town square was filled now.
Everyone had gathered.
Every home emptied. Every soul dragged forth on crimson thread.
Some stood in silence.
Some danced to invisible music.
Children spun in circles, laughing—but their eyes were hollow.
Adults swayed like puppets dropped by tired hands.
And above them, floating like a god who had forgotten how to die, hovered Mr. Grin.
His shadow stretched across the entire block.
His fingers had become strings.
His mouth—still impossibly wide—never moved.
But his voice echoed inside our heads.
> "We remember."
> "We perform."
> "We restore the story that was stolen."
One by one, people began to lift into the air.
Suspended by strings attached to their hearts.
They twitched. Twirled. Shook.
And then—transformed.
Their skin cracked like paint.
Wooden grain spread from their mouths. Their eyes turned glassy. Their joints stiffened.
They were turning into puppets.
And they were smiling.
All of them.
Even children.
Even babies.
---
I pushed through the crowd.
I saw familiar faces.
Mr. Pendle from the barbershop—laughing as his hands twisted backwards.
Tracy—my old babysitter—suspended above the fountain, her mouth stretching wider with each passing second.
And near the gazebo...
My mother.
Held up by strings like a marionette. Tears falling from her eyes.
But her smile locked in place like a death mask.
> "Mom?" I whispered.
Her lips didn't move.
But her eyes pleaded.
And in her hand—barely able to hold it—was a small, carved puppet.
It looked just like me.
Only smaller.
Younger.
Its mouth was wide open—not sewn, not grinning.
Just open.
Like it was screaming.
---
From the church came a sound.
A bell.
But not rung by a hand.
It rang itself. Over and over. Each toll matching the movement of the strings.
And Father Elric stood at the steps.
He had cut the strings from his arms.
Blood dripped from the wounds.
And in his other hand, he held a book bound in leather that whispered.
> "Jonah," he called out. "It's not too late."
> "What is that?" I shouted.
> "The original covenant. The real story. Before Grin rewrote it."
I climbed the steps, the crowd swaying behind me like wheat in a haunted wind.
He handed me the book.
It pulsed in my hand.
I opened it.
Inside—names.
Hundreds.
Carved, not written.
Some of them bled.
And near the middle:
BENNY HARPER.
And right below it:
JONAH REED.
Carved in twice.
Once clean.
Once crossed out.
> "You were supposed to go," Father Elric said. "Not Benny."
> "What?"
> "The town voted. One child every decade. Grin chooses the ones who remember. But Benny was already fading. He forgot too much. He was safe."
> "Then why—"
> "Because you told."
My blood turned cold.
> "You broke the silence. You told your mother. You begged her not to let them take you."
> "I don't remember—"
> "No," he whispered. "That's the point. Grin took your voice. And your guilt."
---
The book trembled in my hands.
A string slithered from its spine and wound itself around my wrist.
But this one didn't burn.
It hummed.
And I heard a voice.
Not Grin's.
Benny's.
> "We can still stop him."
> "How?" I whispered.
> "Rewrite the end."
The book flipped pages on its own.
Words appeared in fresh ink.
A new script.
One that had no ending yet.
Just a stage.
Just a boy.
And a choice.
> "What do I have to do?" I asked.
> "Take back your voice. Finish the story."
The square went silent.
Grin descended from the sky, his limbs cracking like wood under strain.
His eyes were empty.
His mouth finally moved.
> "NO MORE REWRITES."
> "This is not your tale."
I stepped forward.
Held the book high.
And spoke.
Louder than I ever had before.
> "My name is Jonah Reed. And I remember."
A scream tore through the Hollow.
Strings snapped.
Puppets fell from the sky.
The ground split.
And from the earth rose the original stage—the one buried decades ago.
The place where Benny was taken.
The place where I had hidden.
---
It was time to return.
I walked to the center.
Placed the book on the altar.
And opened my mouth.
Every memory came pouring out.
The fear.
The promise.
The scream I never finished.
I gave it all back.
And the stage lit with fire.
Not destruction.
Purification.
Mr. Grin tried to speak again.
But his mouth fell open.
Strings unraveled from within him.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
All of them attached to names.
And when the last one snapped, he collapsed.
Not into ash.
Into a puppet.
One carved like me.
But smiling in peace.
And then, one by one, the townsfolk awoke.
Their smiles faded.
Their eyes filled with tears.
And the moon returned to the sky.
Whole.
Silver.
Uncarved.
---
Velmont Hollow breathed again.
For the first time in fifty years, it was truly silent.
And this time, the silence meant peace.
But the stage still stands.
Waiting.
Because every story needs a curtain call.
And some puppets?
They never stop smiling.