They say silence falls after a performance.
But beneath Velmont Hollow, something clapped.
Not politely.
Not with joy.
With hunger.
With expectation.
I heard it as I slept.
I saw it when I closed my eyes.
A stage beneath the dirt.
A curtain stitched from regret.
And rows of empty seats slowly filling with wooden silhouettes.
Each one bore a familiar face—teachers, neighbors, childhood friends long buried or forgotten.
And they were waiting.
For me.
---
I woke up in sweat, my throat hoarse, my fingers curled into fists.
Under my nails?
Soil.
I hadn't sleepwalked since I was a kid.
But now I found footprints in the hallway.
My size.
Leading to the front door.
And the lock undone.
I stepped outside. The morning air was heavy, dew clinging like breath on glass.
Down the front steps...
And into the yard...
More footprints.
Smaller. Wooden.
Not mine.
---
I followed them to the edge of town.
To the cemetery.
To the old caretaker's shed.
It was open.
Inside, tools lay scattered. And in the center—a hole.
Freshly dug. Six feet wide. And beside it, a sign carved into cedar:
> "TONIGHT'S FEATURE: THE FORGOTTEN BOY"
My name wasn't on it.
But I knew it was for me.
The applause rose again—from the hole.
And when I leaned in to look, I saw a glow.
Flickering. Like candlelight.
And far below, at the bottom:
A stage.
Carved into the earth.
---
I climbed down.
The dirt gave way to old wooden steps.
Deeper than it should've gone.
With every step, I heard voices:
Children laughing.
A baby crying.
Whispers in a language I didn't recognize—but understood.
And at the bottom:
An underground theater.
Massive.
Ancient.
Rows upon rows of puppets seated in the audience.
Some with string still attached.
Some with mouths sewn shut.
Some wearing masks—my face.
The stage lights flickered on.
No one behind the controls.
No one above.
Just me.
And a single chair in the center.
With a script.
Bound in red thread.
Titled:
> "THE FINAL ACT"
---
I opened it.
It had no lines.
Just stage directions.
> "Sit. Speak. Become."
The applause roared now.
The walls shook.
The puppets rattled in their seats.
And from the rafters above, a shape descended.
A puppet. Huge. Half-formed. Its face a swirling mess of mouths and teeth and sorrow.
Grin.
But not just him.
Every child that had been taken.
Every memory erased.
A monstrous amalgam of stolen roles.
And it spoke with all their voices:
> "You returned the story. Now perform the end."
I sat in the chair.
Opened my mouth.
And screamed.
A scream layered with every voice I had buried.
It wasn't fear.
It was truth.
It shattered the stage.
Split the puppets.
And one by one, the masks fell.
Behind them:
Real faces.
Real children.
Freed.
The amalgam collapsed, its strings unraveling.
And the theater crumbled.
Not with fire.
But with silence.
Final.
Holy.
---
I climbed out just before dawn.
The hole sealed behind me.
The sign burned away in the sunlight.
No applause.
Just breath.
My own.
And the wind.
Carrying a single whisper:
> "Thank you."