The Puppet Theater in My Attic - Creepypasta

The Puppet Theater in My Attic

It was the last memory before my father died. When I saw it for the first time.

At that time I was 8 years old. The outside of the bedroom window was dark, and my eyes were familiar. Tears transmitted my young cheeks. The breath that visited my lungs became rough. In the past, it must have been a terrible scream, but now it has been boiled down to the extent of sip. I tried to fill my heart with the innocent task of spinning my favorite colorful ink pen on my desk. While pressing a red camera, a small tornado was drawn on a white page. I heard it at that time. A long sound string that tells the accordion upbeat and the arrival of bitter. I frown for a moment to the fun melody. The song clearly imagined the clowns hit each other pie, the bold aerial swing riding in the air, and the stretched elephant putting a trunk on a large stage. I was convinced that a wonderful show was waiting, and I thought I would just open the locker.

I got up and put the footprints of the chair legs on the flooring floor. I heard the last tears and reached the closet door. Every time I took a step, the old floor pushed me under me, and every time I took a step, the sound of the accordion hit my ears quickly. Standing in front of the doorknob, the singing voice was desperate. I imagined that the accordionist's finger was flying on the keyboard and immersed in a puddle of sweat. I stopped in front of the door. Just saying, "Hurry, I'll die here." His bright red face swelled in search of air. I thought, but I wanted to relieve his misfortune by turning the knob and opening the door. there is nothing. At least there was nothing new. There were only my clothes hanging on the rod, the bedset that was too cool on such a chilly night, and a metal bat laid on the floor. It was my last memory before my father died. When I saw it for the first time.

I got up and put the footprints of the chair legs on the flooring floor. I heard the last tears and reached the closet door. Every time I took a step, the old floor pushed me under me, and every time I took a step, the sound of the accordion hit my ears quickly. Standing in front of the doorknob, the singing voice was desperate. I imagined that the accordionist's finger was flying on the keyboard and immersed in a puddle of sweat. I stopped in front of the door. Just saying, "Hurry, I'll die here." His bright red face swelled in search of air. I thought, but I wanted to relieve his misfortune by turning the knob and opening the door. there is nothing. At least there was nothing new. There were only my clothes hanging on the rod, the bedset that was too cool on such a chilly night, and a metal bat laid on the floor. It was the last memory before my father died. When I saw it for the first time.

The moment of disappointment came, but hope was still in the form of a song. The accordion was still desperate. The volume was a little loud. It took a little time to realize that the song did not come out of the closet. I realized that even if I monitored the sound, I didn't know where it would come from. However, the only sound that the sound came from the attic was known as born. I smiled, thinking that the circus might still be in my house. Only thin boards separated the attic and my closet. Only the thin board separates the attic and my closet, and the board was laid on the groove on the top of the wooden steep slope. The tension crossed my heart, but my eigh t-yea r-olds were more exciting than allegations. The song was an o n-th e-step attack on notes that seemed to be impossible with each step down the slope. When I arrived at the top, I pushed out the leaves. At that moment, the accordion player jumped into my ears and the song was very noisy. There was only a gap above. A black square cut on the roof of a few centimeters over my head. I reached out from the black attic with nothing. I fell to a place where I knew there was a lighting switch, and I fell into a panic for a moment. Thankfully, I understood the position of the switch. The discouraged moment came, but hope was still in the form of songs. The accordion was still desperate. The volume was a little loud. It took a little time to realize that the song did not come out of the closet. I realized that even if I monitored the sound, I didn't know where it would come from. However, the only sound that the sound came from the attic was known as born. I smiled, thinking that the circus might still be in my house. Only thin boards separated the attic and my closet. Only the thin board separates the attic and my closet, and the board was laid on the groove on the top of the wooden steep slope. The tension crossed my heart, but my eigh t-yea r-olds were more exciting than allegations. The song was an o n-th e-step attack on notes that seemed to be impossible with each step down the slope. When I arrived at the top, I pushed out the leaves. At that moment, the accordion player jumped into my ears and the song was very noisy. There was only a gap above. A black square cut on the roof of a few centimeters over my head. I reached out from the black attic with nothing. I fell to a place where I knew there was a lighting switch, and I fell into a panic for a moment. Thankfully, I understood the position of the switch. The moment of disappointment came, but hope was still in the form of a song. The accordion was still desperate. The volume was a little loud. It took a little time to realize that the song did not come out of the closet. I realized that even if I monitored the sound, I didn't know where it would come from. However, the only sound that the sound came from the attic was known as born. I smiled, thinking that the circus might still be in my house. Only thin boards separated the attic and my closet. Only the thin board separates the attic and my closet, and the board was laid on the groove on the top of the wooden steep slope. The tension crossed my heart, but my eigh t-yea r-olds were more exciting than allegations. The song was an o n-th e-step attack on notes that seemed to be impossible with each step down the slope. When I arrived at the top, I pushed out the leaves. At that moment, the accordion player jumped into my ears and the song was very noisy. There was only a gap above. A black square cut on the roof of a few centimeters over my head. I reached out from the black attic with nothing. I fell to a place where I knew there was a lighting switch, and I fell into a panic for a moment. Thankfully, I understood the position of the switch.

I am in the attic now. Silence came over the threshold. I was disappointed that no clown was visible to the conical light illuminated by a single lamp. There is no air swing riding in the air at a bold height. No elephant shakes while balancing on a large concrete ball. However, there are only cluttered things in the attic. A spider web is sinking from the rafter. The skin of the once loved items that were dusty due to ou t-o f-season sins, and the title of "antiques" that my mother began to collect from that year. But at least there was something new. At the top of the corner illuminated by light, there was a pin k-dyed wooden string. When I was going to see it, another light broke as if there was a signal. It was light I had never seen in the attic. It covered a pink object with a layer of light. It was a puppet show. The pink color was embroidered with blue and gold complex patterns. Observing the chips, cracks, and debris engraved on trees over a long period of time, I judged that the artist was an old man. A mural was drawn in front of the theater. The murals were reduced from the edge of the fo g-wrapped paintings, depicting children dancing in a child's joint. On top of it, there was a stage hidden with a royal blue curtain. The attic was wrapped in a small light. Then the spotlight broke and cut out the flooring ring from the dim lighting. I was surprised at first. It shouldn't have been before, but I was happy to receive it as an invitation and stood at the center. I am in the attic now. Silence came over the threshold. I was disappointed that no clown was visible to the conical light illuminated by a single lamp. There is no air swing riding in the air at a bold height. No elephant shakes while balancing on a large concrete ball. However, there are only cluttered things in the attic. A spider web is sinking from the rafter. The skin of the once loved items that were dusty due to ou t-o f-season sins, and the title of "antiques" that my mother began to collect from that year. But at least there was something new. At the top of the corner illuminated by light, there was a pin k-dyed wooden string. When I was going to see it, another light broke as if there was a signal. It was light I had never seen in the attic. It covered a pink object with a layer of light. It was a puppet show. The pink color was embroidered with blue and gold complex patterns. Observing the chips, cracks, and debris engraved on trees over a long period of time, I judged that the artist was an old man. A mural was drawn in front of the theater. The murals were reduced from the edge of the fo g-wrapped paintings, depicting children dancing in a child's joint. On top of it, there was a stage hidden with a royal blue curtain. The attic was wrapped in a small light. Then the spotlight broke and cut out the flooring ring from the dim lighting. I was surprised at first. It shouldn't have been before, but I was happy to receive it as an invitation and stood at the center. I am in the attic now. Silence came over the threshold. I was disappointed that no clown was visible to the conical light illuminated by a single lamp. There is no air swing riding in the air at a bold height. No elephant shakes while balancing on a large concrete ball. However, there are only cluttered things in the attic. A spider web is sinking from the rafter. The skin of the once loved items that were dusty due to ou t-o f-season sins, and the title of "antiques" that my mother began to collect from that year. But at least there was something new. At the top of the corner illuminated by light, there was a pin k-dyed wooden string. When I was going to see it, another light broke as if there was a signal. It was light I had never seen in the attic. It covered a pink object with a layer of light. It was a puppet show. The pink color was embroidered with blue and gold complex patterns. Observing the chips, cracks, and debris engraved on trees over a long period of time, I judged that the artist was an old man. A mural was drawn in front of the theater. The murals were reduced from the edge of the fo g-wrapped paintings, depicting children dancing in a child's joint. On top of it, there was a stage hidden with a royal blue curtain. The attic was wrapped in a small light. Then the spotlight broke and cut out the flooring ring from the dim lighting. I was surprised at first. It shouldn't have been before, but I was happy to receive it as an invitation and stood at the center.

The curtain was drawn, and a forest with a wooden paper cut on the white background appeared. The instrument itself was not visible, but the accordion played a relaxed melody and was excited. There was a deer doll at the bottom left of the stage. He stretched his finger and showed a nuby with a plastic corner on his head. He became a ball and fell asleep with a comical nose. After the song was over and there was only time to be filled with snoring, a new doll jumped out of the stage. It was a bear doll. The bear turned his head to the deer in the bedroom, then headed to me, returned to the deer and returned to me again. The accordion played as if rubbing his notes every time he whipped his head. An exaggerated gesture made me laugh. He put his nube's arm with a sharp claw on his mouth, shaking a long time and bending. The accordion stopped perfectly.

The bear began to glide to the deer, bouncing and shaking, according to the accordion repeated sound. Along with the swell of the song, the bear jumped out, ran, ran, and sneezed into the attic while playing the accordion notes. I laughed again. The deer folds his head and frozen me in an instant. The deer looked around in the tent and then looked at me. He yawn and fell asleep. I was relieved that the bear did not catch us. The bear looked at me again and said, "Shu." I imitated a bear gesture. The bear bounced comically on the accordion, and continued to spray until it crossed the deer. He saw me again. He covered his mouth with both hands and laughed with his nose. Similarly, I felt a mischief of the small secrets we shared. The bear lifted the claws in the air and approached just below the deer jaw. I opened my eyes and put my mouth on the screen. The deer put it there. The bear raised the hiss noise and bounced for the air. A crimson liquid accumulated in the mouth, trying to move the lips. I was shocked that a knife drowned a pathetic deer with her own blood. And in an instant, I greeted the morning in bed. curtains were pulled, and a forest with trees cut with drawing paper appeared on a white background. The instrument itself was not visible, but the accordion played a relaxed melody and was excited. There was a deer doll at the bottom left of the stage. He stretched his finger and showed a nuby with a plastic corner on his head. He became a ball and fell asleep with a comical nose. After the song was over and there was only time to be filled with snoring, a new doll jumped out of the stage. It was a bear doll. The bear turned his head to the deer in the bedroom, then headed to me, returned to the deer and returned to me again. The accordion played as if rubbing his notes every time he whipped his head. An exaggerated gesture made me laugh. He put his nube's arm with a sharp claw on his mouth, shaking a long time and bending. The accordion stopped perfectly.

The bear began to glide to the deer, bouncing and shaking, according to the accordion repeated sound. Along with the swell of the song, the bear jumped out, ran, ran, and sneezed into the attic while playing the accordion notes. I laughed again. The deer folds his head and frozen me in an instant. The deer looked around in the tent and then looked at me. He yawn and fell asleep. I was relieved that the bear did not catch us. The bear looked at me again and said, "Shu." I imitated a bear gesture. The bear bounced comically on the accordion, and continued to spray until it crossed the deer. He saw me again. He covered his mouth with both hands and laughed with his nose. Similarly, I felt a mischief of the small secrets we shared. The bear lifted the claws in the air and approached just below the deer jaw. I opened my eyes and put my mouth on the screen. The deer put it there. The bear raised the hiss noise and bounced for the air. A crimson liquid accumulated in the mouth, trying to move the lips. I was shocked that a knife drowned a pathetic deer with her own blood. And in an instant, I greeted the morning in bed. The curtain was drawn, and a forest with a wooden paper cut on the white background appeared. The instrument itself was not visible, but the accordion played a relaxed melody and was excited. There was a deer doll at the bottom left of the stage. He stretched his finger and showed a nuby with a plastic corner on his head. He became a ball and fell asleep with a comical nose. After the song was over and there was only time to be filled with snoring, a new doll jumped out of the stage. It was a bear doll. The bear turned his head to the deer in the bedroom, then headed to me, returned to the deer and returned to me again. The accordion played as if rubbing his notes every time he whipped his head. An exaggerated gesture made me laugh. He put his nube's arm with a sharp claw on his mouth, shaking a long time and bending. The accordion stopped perfectly.

At first I thought it was a dream: a living dream, but a dream nonetheless. "It was an accident," my mother repeated to me that morning, choking with grief. It was hard to understand what she was saying. To an eight-year-old boy, my father was immortal. How could he just fall and disappear from our lives? My mother couldn't even process what had happened. For the next two years, my mother lived in constant fear. Shortly after, she pulled me out of school. She replaced my education with books. Some books were so boring that I was exhausted, but I had to finish one before another took me away. My favorites had always been westerns, especially those about a lone, brave sheriff who triumphs against the odds and saves the town. Whenever I remembered being scared, I would put my steel revolver on my belt and put on my ten-gallon hat. Every time my mother gave me a new book, I would reach for it. Nothing scared me more than watching her arms get thinner and thinner as paranoia starved her. When I was ten, Until, at the age of 18, she left without a trace.

Her disappearance was the last stone on the path to my grandmother's spare bedroom. I watched the light rain from the window. My memories were almost frozen from the last two years of isolation. My grandmother's fragile rings traced my hands, gently rubbing my back in circles, as if to melt the cold prison. I couldn't feel it. All I could think about was my mother. Where had she gone? Why was she gone?

"It's okay," my grandmother said with the same gentleness as her palms. As if her words would ease the doubts that tormented me.

I looked away from the window and met my grandmother. Through her pupils, I saw that the grief was mutual. She forced a smile, lighting a candle of happiness in the endless shadows of my worries. I wanted to reply, but I couldn't. All I could do was ask the question that tormented me the most.

"Is it my fault?" Understood. The question was like a rock aimed at my chest. I found enough air to speak it. Both hands reached up to cup my cheeks, as if to stop a flood from a pipe bursting under the pressure. She shook her head.

"Please talk anytime." He said so. I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn't know what to talk about. This is because I have almost no memory for the last two years. Instead, I nodded lightly to her promise to do so. She took her lips and returned her nods to accept what she couldn't.

"I love you. Until nothing is gone." I said carefully. I smiled in a full moment. It was rare since my father died. She got up and behind me. Before I looked over the night, I noticed that I had nothing to say. I wanted to ask her, but I was afraid to put her on the fear of not knowing what would come out. With the cowboy hat above, I thought I had to find out what had happened to my mother, with the pistol on my waist. Hope was still hidden in an old house, so I opened the bedroom and went to look for my mother.

After hiking around the city for about 30 minutes, I visited the house. It was a small house with a unique history. The pebbles had a gap in the uniform pattern. The plastic shutter was cracked and stones were piled up. The shadow shook on the broken sidewalk and spilled from the waist grass in the front yard. The blue sheet is still fluttering in the wind, covering the broken window on the side of the house. Strangely, I remember the windows broken after the father died, but I never remember how it broke. I hurried to the entrance porch, imagining a snake in a tall grass in my head. I took out the door key from my pocket. Insert it into the key and twist it and the door opened. "Let me talk anytime". He said so. I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn't know what to talk about. This is because I have almost no memory for the last two years. Instead, I nodded lightly to her promise to do so. She took her lips and returned her nods to accept what she couldn't.

After hiking around the city for about 30 minutes, I visited the house. It was a small house with a unique history. The pebbles had a gap in the uniform pattern. The plastic shutter was cracked and stones were piled up. The shadow shook on the broken sidewalk and spilled from the waist grass in the front yard. The blue sheet is still fluttering in the wind, covering the broken window on the side of the house. Strangely, I remember the windows broken after the father died, but I never remember how it broke. I hurried to the entrance porch, imagining a snake in a tall grass in my head. I took out the door key from my pocket. Insert it into the key and twist it and the door opened. "Please talk anytime." He said so. I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn't know what to talk about. This is because I have almost no memory for the last two years. Instead, I nodded lightly to her promise to do so. She took her lips and returned her nods to accept what she couldn't.

The sofa remained a blanket. On the shelves in the dining room, Nick Nax pottery that my mother had collected remained. Our photos were still decorated in the original place. If the faint perfume scent did not enter my pallet, I could easily understand that I still lived there. I walked down the hallway, relying on the light of the flashlight. My room was opposite my parents' room. In my bedroom door, silver bolt tablets were opened from the outside, and no locks were locked. I didn't remember it, but I decided to leave it alone. I entered my parents' room. Familiar furniture is lined up. The beds, night stands, and matching drawers were scattered all over the room. The bedroom floor was deeply excavated and was crowded in front of the entrance.

I dug the drawers of clothes and items accumulated over my lifetime. It's a very valuable junk, but it's not as valuable. I reached out to the old sock drawer and passed through the passage. My finger hit a cold thing. I took it out from the back of the sock drawer and pointed it in the light of the flashlight. It was very familiar. A folding pocket knife with a royal blue pattern was shining in my hand. Looking at the object, a memory revived.

Before the accident, my father sat on the edge of the bed. He talked with his father on a cold morning in November. With the rifle gun's guns toward the grass, I was expecting a deer to the cross hair. In most cases, deer did not appear. Their time passed by talking in a discolored tone. However, the excitement when the deer actually appeared was just one. He was wearing a deer clothes with this blue pattern pocket knife. Once handed, I ran my finger on a 4-inch blade. His childhood was not kind to the blade. I kept it as much as possible. Why is it buried in the drawer of my father's socks? My memory was useless. This is because the brown spots were attached to the blade. Slag? Deer blood? With my immature eyes illuminated by the light of the flashlight, it was difficult to distinguish it. But I thought I couldn't find my mother. So I put it on my pocket and continued searching. The sofa remained a blanket. On the shelves in the dining room, Nick Nax pottery that my mother had collected remained. Our photos were still decorated in the original place. If the faint perfume scent did not enter my pallet, I could easily understand that I still lived there. I walked down the hallway, relying on the light of the flashlight. My room was opposite my parents' room. In my bedroom door, silver bolt tablets were opened from the outside, and no locks were locked. I didn't remember it, but I decided to leave it alone. I entered my parents' room. Familiar furniture is lined up. The beds, night stands, and matching drawers were scattered all over the room. The bedroom floor was deeply excavated and was crowded in front of the entrance.

Before the accident, my father sat on the edge of the bed. He talked with his father on a cold morning in November. With the rifle gun's guns toward the grass, I was expecting a deer to the cross hair. In most cases, deer did not appear. Their time passed by talking in a discolored tone. However, the excitement when the deer actually appeared was just one. He was wearing a deer clothes with this blue pattern pocket knife. Once handed, I ran my finger on a 4-inch blade. His childhood was not kind to the blade. I kept it as much as possible. Why is it buried in the drawer of my father's socks? My memory was useless. This is because the brown spots were attached to the blade. Slag? Deer blood? With my immature eyes illuminated by the light of the flashlight, it was difficult to distinguish it. But I thought I couldn't find my mother. So I put it on my pocket and continued searching. The sofa remained a blanket. On the shelves in the dining room, Nick Nax pottery that my mother had collected remained. Our photos were still decorated in the original place. If the faint perfume scent did not enter my pallet, I could easily understand that I still lived there. I walked down the hallway, relying on the light of the flashlight. My room was opposite my parents' room. In my bedroom door, silver bolt tablets were opened from the outside, and no locks were locked. I didn't remember it, but I decided to leave it alone. I entered my parents' room. Familiar furniture is lined up. The beds, night stands, and matching drawers were scattered all over the room. The bedroom floor was deeply excavated and was crowded in front of the entrance.

I reached under the bed and behind the furniture and saw a pile of dust. I looked in the closet and saw bags of belongings and divided clothes on poles. Behind it was a wooden panel, fastened to the frame by a single black screw. I didn't remember it being in my mother's closet, but it made a rift in my stomach. I felt deep, my heart sank to its bottom. I grabbed the locker door and fastened it to my back. I won, I love you, I tried to hold back the tears. I put my imaginary cowboy hat back on and clenched my chin to hold back the tears. I gritted my teeth, thinking about the tears I was about to get from something I didn't remember. I got up and ran to my bed and kicked the nightclub hard. I stopped for a moment, worried that I had broken something. Like someone was scolding me for exploding. I picked up the flashlight and checked under the nightlight. I took it out and saw that the cover was wrapped in tape. I put it on the bed and looked for something stuck under the nightlight. Another book of the same size was on the nightstand. On one cover, in permanent marker, "January 1, 2006" was written in virgin pencil, and on the other, "2007" was written in pencil.

I thought for a moment about what I had just found. Before my father's accident, my mother was absorbed in magazines. After sunset, I often looked at the highlights of her day. At the end of a fun day, my mother invited me into her room to read her memories. Through the door, where she had smeared ink on paper, she invited me into her thoughts. I always dashed to the bed and listened to her day. The memory never left me. Looking back, she was very brave. Even if it was her own child.

I picked up the cover, smiled, and tried to turn the page, but found myself frozen. My father's accident was at the end of 2006. I knew I would have to go there eventually. I knew I would have to watch my mother be dumped by a beautiful stranger. Maybe I'd find some answers about where she went. Maybe I'd miss something, and more importantly, I'd lost her. I missed who she was before she became paranoid, and I wanted to read as many of her brave words as I could. So I turned the cover to a book titled "January 1, 2006" and started to read.

January 1, 2006:

New Year's Resolutions Begin! I bought two magazines two weeks ago. It was buy one, get one, and I couldn't miss it! I spent at least 30 minutes thinking about what to say here. There's something so scary about a blank page. I feel like a teenager with a little secret diary! Anyway, a little about myself. I've been married for 12 years to Noah, a beautiful man I met in high school. Sure, he gets on my nerves sometimes, but I still love him. I'm also the mother of my little Cub Berry for 8 years. Bear is such a sweet boy. He wanted to show me an ant he found a few days ago, and he remembered that I'd put it on the ground. He was worried that I'd hurt it, so we spent the next 10 minutes looking for his little friend to make sure he was okay. I couldn't be happier. Now I'm more than a mother and a wife. I'm also an avid antique buyer! Avid might be a strong word (since I only just started), but so far I'm enjoying it.

Anyway, I should probably write about how I plan to use this magazine. I want it to be a stream of consciousness. It's my record, interspersed with the occasional antique update. But for the most part, I don't want the moments of my life to be made into time, because they're too precious.

My eyes stopped reading. A helpless smile pinched my cheek. I didn't remember the story he told me about Ali at all, but it didn't matter. It was unmistakably hers. Her voice, her meticulous expertise, it was my mother. I blew my nose with the back of my hand. I squinted and followed my collection before clicking the lens again. I drew a halo around the dark room, reassuring myself that I was alone and, more importantly, sorting out my emotions. I put the flashlight back on the book and the handle on the cabinet door lit up. Again I felt that pit in my stomach. I had the urge to turn on my heels and run. "There's nothing in the closet, I told myself. My hand gripped the thigh where the imaginary revolver dangled. I aimed the flashlight at my mother's magazine. I placed it between my shoulder and chin and flipped through the pages.

Reading further, I saw the usual repetition of daily life: each doctor and dentist appointment, my failed baseball tryout, my trip out for ice cream anyway, and, as promised, a quick update on the antique collection. It was a mundane but enjoyable time in our lives, despite the flat tires, the leaking water heater, and the broken antique at hand. Occasionally there would be gaps in the entries, but never for more than a week, and each gap would be followed by an apology in the next entry, as if the book had been insulted. Days passed, weeks passed, months passed, and with each turn of the page, horror spread from the happy ground. And then December arrived.

December 8, 2006 Sun:

First the good news. We got a gorgeous antique theater! I thought about making it last but maybe it's getting too old for this sort of thing. Other than that, it's been a pretty bittersweet day. Noah is going to work in Savannah. The pay is great and will be a big boost to our finances. But I hated the look on Berry's face when I told him at dinner. He's going to have to fly to the East Coast to make new friends and leave his old ones behind. I feel sorry for him. After dinner, I heard him crying in his room. I tried to talk to him but how do I convince an 8 year old that the world isn't going to end when he's already made up his mind? Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

It was that day. I knew that my father would fall fatally fall before the ink dries for a few hours, a few minutes, or before the ink dries on the paper. At the next entrance, I thought I would see a mountain of sadness, distrust and pain. I hesitated to turn the page, but I thought it would be better to approach like a band aid. I turned the page without thinking any more.

December 9, 2006:

I had to lie ... I had to get it.

That's right. After the annoying entry on December 9th, I turned the post page on the lane, but nothing was. Pure white to the back cover. I closed the book and put it aside. Stopped and stopped and picked up the book of 2007. The title was full of scratches and dirty, unlike the previous book. "What was a lie?" The question hit my brain like a fly. How much price do you need to get the answer? I wanted to return the book to the original place and try not to touch it again. I thought I might be able to talk to my grandmother today. If you talk about the book, it may help you. Nevertheless, I put on a brave hat and pretended to be a glowing badge on my chest. A sheriff will not put a burden on her. So I turned the cover.

Each entrance gradually became more united. The words are caught by pencils, then drawn with a marker, drawn with pencils, draw in ink, and have no reason for choice. The page was almost blank, and her message was composed of just a few sentences. Only messages were common. She woke up every night with a peeking into her from behind the corner. Whatever the door of the door, she claimed that he was able to open the door enough to slide the door. I imagined a figure. His eyes were two yellow balls flashing in the dark. The rest was indifferent to the light of the streetlights. I spread it and turned his golden eyes on the ceiling while my mother was lying on the bed without force. The cold wind bleed behind the neck and frozen my bones. I jumped, picked up my father's knife, and opened it with the light of the flashlight on the darkness. I was alone. I sighed and muttered in my heart. There were no beasts standing on the corner of the corner, and it was probably never. The only evidence indicating that there was an observer was "he" in the diary. The "he" continued to monitor until late January.

21 JANUARY 2007:

He wants me dead. I don't know what happened, but he wants me dead. Last night, I was saved by a little Cubbies in my locker. It took hours to get the screws out. I was scared all night. It nearly did me in.

My eyes went back to the locker. I left the flashlight on the book, the door blurred in shadow. Was the locker what scared him? Had I watched my mother crawl through that little hole to escape the monster she conjured up in her mind? Maybe this was the moment I lost my mother. That would explain why the memory of her death haunted me. But it didn't feel right. The thought didn't produce any great revelation. I might have vaguely remembered my mother crawling through the entrance to Cubbies, but it didn't trigger the gut-wrenching fear I associated with that door. There had to be something else. There had to be something more, deep within the small space of my mother's closet.

Over the next two months, there were three to five days between appearances. Again, there were transfers. "He was chasing me," "He's coming, I can hear him," and "I need to get ready" were common phrases. Beneath the writing were charming drawings: flowers sprouting from the bottom of the page, a house rolling down a grassy knoll, a little bear with a single smile. Eventually, the drawings were replaced by the words, "I still love you." The words were repeated page after page. In cursive, in capital letters, in italics. Anything to keep her asleep and alert. It broke my heart to read. She must have been grieving the death of her father in hidden loops in the pages of the diary. The same thing continued throughout the end of January and the first week of March. Nothing struck me except how deeply she must have been hurting at the time. Until I turned the page to March 8th. March 8, 2007:

I can't sit with that prediction any longer. It's coming. I know Berry is tired too. He'll be telling me about the little bear show tomorrow morning, with bags under his eyes as usual.

In her report, the puppet came to me in pieces. Memories of many performances where the bear would offer sleeping quarters until it woke up. When the deer tried to hide, the little bear would raise an obstacle to get in its way. A memory of a performance where a bear puppet was locked in a cage came to mind afterwards. The bear's little paws banged against the wooden boards separating the deer from the bear, causing the bear to grumble and scream. The deer yelled at the bear, who desperately tried to get free. At one point, the bear tried to break free by swinging a stick at a dam, swinging it again and again until it finally broke. He reached out through the newly created hole and stared at the DOE puppet throughout the show. Safe behind a separate, clean wall. Despite all this, only one show showed me the whole picture. One show I knew was the last show I'd ever seen.

As the spotlight cued, I was frozen. My nose was running, and the sadness of my sadness was quickly washed away from the puppet theater. My only friend. The bear woke up from his nap. The cage where she once stood was unlocked, the door standing open. On the other side of the wooden planks was a doe. Its fluffy body was thin. It looked like it had pencils stuffed in its hands. The bear sneered as it passed through the prison gate. It crashed dramatically into the barrier that separated the prison from the outside and landed on the ground. The sound was accompanied by a deep accordion sound. I tried to hold back my laughter to ease the little bear's embarrassment, but he allowed himself to snort again. The bear jerked to the right and dusted himself off with his paws. The accordion played a strange progression of notes, and the bear swung around the stage, then to face me.

I gagged on my shirt, hoping the bear wouldn't laugh and get angry. Instead, he stuck his paw in his mouth and gave a sharp "shhh" slash with the claw he now had. I spun around as if he was looking at me. The bear began to crawl up the plank that separated him from the doe. The accordion whispered a melody, imitating the chirps of crickets, under the bear's silent feet. I watched as the bear stumbled towards the doe's room. The light from the tent made the sewn-in beaded undereyes shine. It was wet, and with every step the bear took it got wetter.

The bear reached the wooden barrier between him and the deer. He turned to me and laughed, wanting to share our secret fun. But it was no longer a secret. The doe covered her mouth, gulping. The wind was sharp. It stung my lungs. My heart pounded as the bear knocked on the door. I struggled to get his sharp claws out of the door. The doe began to moo. Water stained the velvet under her eyes with black streaks. As the music rose to a comical crescendo, the bear saw me and stabbed the log hard. The tree twisted and fell off the stage under the tent. The accordion stopped. Only the wind stood between the bear and the doe.

The doe whispered something. She muttered something with trembling lips. Step by step, the bear closed the distance. The muffled whisper turned to screams. I couldn't understand any of the words she shouted. The bear grabbed her. Her scream was piercing. It tore through her diaphragm, tore her throat. She tried to hit the bear, but her frail body was too weak to handle it. The bear methodically turned to me. And for the first time in my memory, the puppeteer spoke.

"What shall we do with her?" The bear's head moved.

The answer was immediate. It was as if I had been studying this question for months. I had the urge to say it. Its meaning was a mystery to me, but I knew nothing good could come from it. The attic was silent for a moment. Bear shook his head slowly from side to side. Then she spoke again. It was time to let each word sink in.

"What... shall we... do with her?"

I buried my mouth again in a shirt. An obvious answer was sealed in the back of the lips. Fear hitting the back of my heart like a hammer. I wanted to hide it in the shirt and never see it again. I wanted to throw myself from the attic and return to my room. I wanted to escape, but finally closed my eyes and my eyes, and I couldn't move. Standed up from the tent floor. The hand in the back of the skin rushed into me through the attic at the speed of a snail. The bear pushed it until the attached arm reached the limit. And I pushed further. It was easy, without disturbing the state of the attic, and grew far beyond human limits. The doll fur hid all the dolls in the doll. The doll stayed there. Without shaking, his black eyes caught my eyes. Finally, I thought and whispered the words from behind the collar of the shirt.

"Put her in a bear cave

He smiled. It was just a line sewn on the fabric, but when I recalled that I was sitting on my mother's bed, my mother smiled brightly in my words. When a bear appeared again with a small wooden box that came down from the upgrade, his hand was withdrawn. The deer rushed to the box, and the bear warmly watched the tail. The deer could not seal the box before being caught in the bear's feet. The screams of the deer were hidden by a cheerful and rapid excursion, passing through the invisible accordion keyboard. The bear stepped into the claustrophobic box and began to cut the scent of the deer. The cut end of the brown cloth splattered from the female deer. The bear's nails that cut the maila were the instruments that were perfectly cut off according to the rhythm of a fast and fun accordion. The screams of the deer of the deer were not beaten. It seems that such a state lasted for hours. Finally a bear came out of the tent. Behind him, in a small box, there was a bon e-thin muscle pulsating with the breath of the adrenaline.

I cleaned my bedroom again, putting my hand on my father's knife to reassure me. Surprising was nothing. Dreams disappear in their hearts over time, or over a few hours. This dream seemed to be recent. When I remember the puppet show, I sweat on my forehead. I was able to return to that moment. My grandmother is only 30 minutes away. I wanted to see my grandmother. To relieve the fear of immersing me. But I turned the page against my instinct. I buried my mouth again in a shirt. An obvious answer was sealed in the back of the lips. Fear hitting the back of my heart like a hammer. I wanted to hide it in the shirt and never see it again. I wanted to throw myself from the attic and return to my room. I wanted to escape, but finally closed my eyes and my eyes, and I couldn't move. Standed up from the tent floor. The hand in the back of the skin rushed into me through the attic at the speed of a snail. The bear pushed it until the attached arm reached the limit. And I pushed further. It was easy, without disturbing the state of the attic, and grew far beyond human limits. The doll fur hid all the dolls in the doll. The doll stayed there. Without shaking, his black eyes caught my eyes. Finally, I thought and whispered the words from behind the collar of the shirt.

"Put her in a bear cave

I cleaned my bedroom again, putting my hand on my father's knife to reassure me. Surprising was nothing. Dreams disappear in their hearts over time, or over a few hours. This dream seemed to be recent. When I remember the puppet show, I sweat on my forehead. I was able to return to that moment. My grandmother is only 30 minutes away. I wanted to see my grandmother. To relieve the fear of immersing me. But I turned the page against my instinct. I buried my mouth again in a shirt. An obvious answer was sealed in the back of the lips. Fear hitting the back of my heart like a hammer. I wanted to hide it in the shirt and never see it again. I wanted to throw myself from the attic and return to my room. I wanted to escape, but finally closed my eyes and my eyes, and I couldn't move. Standed up from the tent floor. The hand in the back of the skin rushed into me through the attic at the speed of a snail. The bear pushed it until the attached arm reached the limit. And I pushed further. It was easy, without disturbing the state of the attic, and grew far beyond human limits. The doll fur hid all the dolls in the doll. The doll stayed there. Without shaking, his black eyes caught my eyes. Finally, I thought and whispered the words from behind the collar of the shirt.

"Put her in a bear cave

The march continued in the same way. "I was about to be done soon." "I want to kill me." "Don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep. The picture at the bottom of the page and" I Still Love You "are running. It became a cross and prayed. The letters became a panic lead stain and distorted the paper. Almost every night, she escaped from him, who bothered himself. The back of my eyes hurt. The lower lip began to shake and pinched it with teeth. And I turned the page on March 21.

March 21, 2007:

I'm sorry, Berry. While writing this, I hear a cry from his room. I gave him a bucket. I handed my son a bucket as a hostage in my house. But that's for him. For us.

bucket. The small light red bucket was placed in the corner without any doubt when I was born. The bucket appeared only once a year or twice a year when my mother claimed that a good mop was needed. At that time, I remembered that the bucket was in my room. After hours and days, the stuffy smell of excrement will come. It was the only option I remember. My door did not try to move the hinge. I don't mean I haven't tried it. I knocked on the door until my hands were numb. He kicked the tree until blood came out of his feet, and shouted until his voice was loud and his breathing became difficult. But the first night. Night on the 21st of the month. I had a bucket I got from my mother. The pure white and small bucket eventually accepts disgusting substances that my body rejects, but the bucket first accepted my tears. The bucket was polished by the feeling of oppression of the brand new silver lock opened in the door frame from the outside.

I kept walking in my diary. At this time, there were many things that were interrupted. There were only two guilty lines between the last entry and the next entry.

April 19, 2007

I did as much as I could keep him away from the window, but it was no effect at night. He is hitting the glass for hours. I know you can do it if you want to invade. But he doesn't. God, please save us. March continued in the same way. "I was about to do it soon." "He wants to kill me." "Don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep. It became a cross and prayed. The letters became a panic lead stain and distorted the paper. Almost every night, she escaped from him, who bothered himself. The back of my eyes hurt. The lower lip began to shake and pinched it with teeth. And I turned the page on March 21.

March 21, 2007:

I'm sorry, Berry. While writing this, I hear a cry from his room. I gave him a bucket. I handed my son a bucket as a hostage in my house. But that's for him. For us.

I kept walking in my diary. At this time, there were many things that were interrupted. There were only two guilty lines between the last entry and the next entry.

April 19, 2007

I did as much as I could keep him away from the window, but it was no effect at night. He is hitting the glass for hours. I know you can do it if you want to invade. But he doesn't. God, please save us. The march continued in the same way. "I was about to do it soon." "He wants to kill me." "Don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep, don't sleep. It became a cross and prayed. The letters became a panic lead stain and distorted the paper. Almost every night, she escaped from him, who bothered himself. The back of my eyes hurt. The lower lip began to shake and pinched it with teeth. And I turned the page on March 21.

March 21, 2007:

I'm sorry, Berry. While writing this, I hear a cry from his room. I gave him a bucket. I handed my son a bucket as a hostage in my house. But that's for him. For us.

I kept walking in my diary. At this time, there were many things that were interrupted. There were only two guilty lines between the last entry and the next entry.

April 19, 2007

I looked at the window in front of me. Its gaze froze me. My toes dug into the soles of my shoes and I wanted to run out of the room. My toes loosened as I felt the intimacy of those eyes. My image was looking at me again. I tried to ease the tension by giving myself fear, but it remained like a knot in my chest. A doubt came to my mind that this "he" was a product of her grief. Maybe he was a real person who had torn our family apart. That cold autumn night, this book took my mother away. I asked him to write on the next page the details of the person standing outside the window. The way he looked, the way he spoke, even the details of the clothes he was wearing. I couldn't understand anything. This was all I got.

June 3, 2007

It was very hot outside. Tonight we played a game of Berries and Turnips. I was so happy to play with him. He was so excited. And he cried. Sobbing, kicking and screaming. I couldn't stand the sound.

I immediately remembered that night. My mother stood under the door. Her silhouette was a stick figure drawn by the light from the hallway. I mustered the last of my strength to open my eyelashes and see her through the mist of them. She turned on the overhead light, burning the shape of the room into my eyes. I hid under the cool cowboy duvet. The harsh light still penetrated the horses and cacti.

"Bear, wake up. Let's play a game," my mother called.

The voice was almost foreign to me. It flowed from her throat as if it had been subjected to decades of tension. Since my father died, my mother had been aloof. Despite that and the fact that I had been rooted to the bed for the night, I felt as taut as a bun ready to jump. A smile spread across my face as I got out of the duvet. I sat up and rubbed my eyes with my palms until my eyes adjusted to the light. I stood up, raised my fists toward the ceiling, and yawned, revving my body.

"What game?" I asked, looking up at her.

"What's wrong, Mom?" I asked, my throat trembling. She didn't answer the question. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were fixed on the floorboards miles away.

"Let's play." She snorted, getting up and walking towards the closet.

"What's his name?" I asked as he creaked the closet door open. Inside was a board covering a storage box. Inside the storage was pitch black. I paused, racking my brains to answer a question I never saw coming.

"Cub games... all young children should be safe in their dens at night." He said it as pleasantly as he could. Fear still lifted up my back. I shook my head violently, yelling in protest, trying to slam the door, but the frame was faster than it looked. Her purple, needle-like bruises pierced the tops of my arms and trapped me. With each step she took towards the closet, my desperation to escape grew. I couldn't see any reason for him to do this to me. I figured it must be a harsh punishment, but I didn't remember doing anything that bad. I wanted more than anything to get back to bed, but he wouldn't allow it. He threw me into a small space and sealed it in with boards. No light was allowed in the space. My screams were the only sound. I slammed my fists on the boards, wanting to break free, but the boards were fastened to the other side by my mother. My defiant cries died away and were replaced by quiet sobs. I could hear my mother's frustrated pleas as black screws sunk back into place through the wood.

"Please forgive me, Berry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

I was back in my mother's bed. My heart was beating fast. I clutched her comforter. Her diary fell from my lap to the floor. I picked up the flashlight and stomped towards the closet door. A circular flash made my hands shake. It was just a door, but my instincts told me to run. I rose and ran from her room to my own. In that bare room there was so much room to fill with my sorrow. The betrayal I had been hiding from myself for so many years finally resurfaced, melting into my eyelashes and dripping to the floor. I sprawled out and hid my face in my knees. I sank into a state of hysteria that was broken by the echoes of a breathing accordion.

The shimmering voice reached my ears like a helping hand from the depths of the water. A hand reaches out to pull me back into the air. The soundtrack that corrects the misfortunes of my childhood is back. Its presence in the attic seemed ominous, remembering the last puppet show. I try to pull away from the music with my palm. Confused, I take my hands away from my ears for a moment, then hold them back. Then I slam my palms against my ears again, again, and again. The song didn't change. It didn't get squashed or distorted as it passed through my hands. It was as if it didn't need to pass through my hands. It was as if the musicians were playing the song from inside my skull.

Connect to terrorism. I jumped out of my house and closed the door from behind. I pushed between the ground and the terrible sound with the soul of my feet. The distance was distorted to the sound. The position of the note began to go crazy. The long, target strings have become sick. The song gradually collapsed and became annoyed. I wanted to go home. I wanted to feel a small circle that my grandmother loosened on my back. I wanted to see the emotions of pity in my grandmother's eyes, or the emotions of anger spilled out of this late night. But above all, I wanted to believe in my grandmother. I wanted to tell her about the fragments of the last two years that I regained from my memory. As I imagined talking to her, the music seemed to disappear. It did not disappear completely, but it disappeared until it was easy to handle. While I was concentrating on my grandmother's imaginary conversation, I didn't pay attention to the real stand in front of me. My grandmother grabbed my shoes and walked forward. Knees hit the hard paved road, causing cherry blossom blood to flow. However, the pain was independent behind an abominable sound of accordion. I stood in a faint cone of a streetlight, which was heavy for the noise that became thinner. I wasn't 5 minutes away from my grandmother's house, but I was still convinced.

By the time I locked it, I was only worried about stopping music. The notes returned to the original place in the house. The original cheerful and wel l-conditioned melody was regained, but the volume was relentless. I turned the key unintentionally and went inside. Obviously, the door was closed. I entered the room. He pressed his hand to the forehead, broke the wall with the other hand, and stabilized his body. I opened the bedroom door and headed to the closet door. The rhythm of the song was as much as I could understand. I arrived at the slope and the salvation was only a thin plywood block. When I pushed it into the black cavity in the attic, it jumped. Return to terrorism. I jumped out of my house and closed the door from behind. I pushed between the ground and the terrible sound with the soul of my feet. The distance was distorted to the sound. The position of the note began to go crazy. The long, target strings have become sick. The song gradually collapsed and became annoyed. I wanted to go home. I wanted to feel a small circle that my grandmother loosened on my back. I wanted to see the emotions of pity in my grandmother's eyes, or the emotions of anger spilled out of this late night. But above all, I wanted to believe in my grandmother. I wanted to tell her about the fragments of the last two years that I regained from my memory. As I imagined talking to her, the music seemed to disappear. It did not disappear completely, but it disappeared until it was easy to handle. While I was concentrating on my grandmother's imaginary conversation, I didn't pay attention to the real stand in front of me. My grandmother grabbed my shoes and walked forward. Knees hit the hard paved road, causing cherry blossom blood to flow. However, the pain was independent behind an abominable sound of accordion. I stood in a faint cone of a streetlight, which was heavy for the noise that became thinner. I wasn't 5 minutes away from my grandmother's house, but I was still convinced.

By the time I locked it, I was only worried about stopping music. The notes returned to the original place in the house. The original cheerful and wel l-conditioned melody was regained, but the volume was relentless. I turned the key unintentionally and went inside. Obviously, the door was closed. I entered the room. He pressed his hand to the forehead, broke the wall with the other hand, and stabilized his body. I opened the bedroom door and headed to the closet door. The rhythm of the song was as much as I could understand. I arrived at the slope and the salvation was only a thin plywood block. When I pushed it into the black cavity in the attic, it jumped. Connect to terrorism. I jumped out of my house and closed the door from behind. I pushed between the ground and the terrible sound with the soul of my feet. The distance was distorted to the sound. The position of the note began to go crazy. The long, target strings have become sick. The song gradually collapsed and became annoyed. I wanted to go home. I wanted to feel a small circle that my grandmother loosened on my back. I wanted to see the emotions of pity in my grandmother's eyes, or the emotions of anger spilled out of this late night. But above all, I wanted to believe in my grandmother. I wanted to tell her about the fragments of the last two years that I regained from my memory. As I imagined talking to her, the music seemed to disappear. It did not disappear completely, but it disappeared until it was easy to handle. While I was concentrating on my grandmother's imaginary conversation, I didn't pay attention to the real stand in front of me. My grandmother grabbed my shoes and walked forward. Knees hit the hard paved road, causing cherry blossom blood to flow. However, the pain was independent behind an abominable sound of accordion. I stood in a faint cone of a streetlight, which was heavy for the noise that became thinner. I wasn't 5 minutes away from my grandmother's house, but I was still convinced.

As I straddled the threshold, the music disappeared, and the light of the flashlight gave me a way. While lying on my back, I enjoyed the peace with my sigh. I extended my legs on the flashlight on the lights of the lights. When I turned on the switch, I looked around the attic. The Mothers Antique collection was scattered, but it was clearly visible with one light bulb. When I focused on the light of the light bulb, I saw a corner of the building. I remembered the "cub game" and began to regain calm. Passing between the ears. While being wrapped in a sense of relief without singing, I thought the answer might not be worthwhile. There may have been a better way to find a mother. When I was sitting in the closet while hanging my legs, the previous scenery collapsed. Same as before. I knocked before adjusting the hard light. It was exactly the same as the first night I saw. Blue and gold details on pink base. Everything was imposed on time. But now there was more. I approached and looked in the details. The curtain is a blue waterproof sheet that makes a wrinkle in the wind that does not exist, and the black screw is driven into a tree like what was used in my mother's closet, and the boy in the mural instead of a string. It was manipulated by a red tornado. I dropped the flashlight and frozen by the panic onslaught. tears

I recall all the rest of the memories of the puppet show. All of them had tears on my face. I wrote my nose to suppress the lingering lingering. A runny nose on the lower lip. Every time I remembered that I was in a miserable well. The accordion sang, the rope came down and saved me. Every time I heard the accordion tone, I smiled. The accordion thought it existed to bring a smile on my face. I thought it existed to remove my burden. I thought I was a friend. But at that moment, he was enthusiastic about my burden. I don't know if the addition is genuine, but I showed my past fragments and grabbed my heart enough to cause anger. He wanted me to break a little more. Tears transmitted their cheeks. And it worked.

The lighting was dropped. The spotlight applied a thin beam on the same wooden board as usual, a few feet from the stage. I was nervous and swelled my shoulders and put my hands on my chest. I hesitated to move my legs ... I told me to turn to my body. Jump off the wooden slope in the old room and leave this place. But by my tears from my eyes, I was caught by him. It's as if the limbs are tied with Mr. Puppet Master's thread. He made me walk to the forefront.

The accordion expanded with the expectation of the performance. While the tarp was dragged with a rugged sound, he pulled it with a treble. My throat was tightened by the sight in front of me. There were no handmade dolls that move around the stage according to the sound of the accordion keyboard. Only alive, blinking head. The rest of the body is hidden under the stage. Brown hair is bundled on the face and overlaps, hiding the identity. His eyes made me feel familiar with my stomach. Open your eyes and look at me. Surprising mouth. I couldn't move. UNSEABLE ACCORDION has started another song. The head flooded on one side, pushed out a mang a-like smile before that, then turned to the right and jumped up and down. In the background, a cardboard building is projected and rolls toward him. I bowed happily, according to the melody. He was walking around the city with his fun expression boldly. I realized that he was suffering from his mother. It is because of him that my mother disappeared. I wanted to shout at the man. I wanted to ask my mother what he did. I wanted to pierce my father's knife in my eyes, but I couldn't. But I couldn't. I was just sitting and watching the show. Lighting has been dropped. The spotlight applied a thin beam on the same wooden board as usual, a few feet from the stage. I was nervous and swelled my shoulders and put my hands on my chest. I hesitated to move my legs ... I told me to turn to my body. Jump off the wooden slope in the old room and leave this place. But by my tears from my eyes, I was caught by him. It's as if the limbs are tied with Mr. Puppet Master's thread. He made me walk to the forefront.

The hands pointed the index finger in the sky, and the accordion sounded a great achievement. The finger of the hand was shaken quickly, and the man licked his lips and looked asleep. The head of a man approaching the deer from the other side of the stage shook back and forth as if dancing. He was in front of the deer doll. He went up and down with the sound of snoring. I was afraid of what I saw in the future, but of course I couldn't look away. His hand rose far above the man's head, breaking the helpless deer, like a cobra.

The deer squeal sounds human. It made the vocal cords like the old woman's irreplaceable ridicule. The man's face was still panting with the joy of the song. He brought the panic deer to the trunk of the tree. The curtains closed, and the sight continued over the theater. Only the deer who begged for life and the neck of an unidentified man stood. The man released his head from the deer, opened his chin and showed both teeth. The whip of the neck crushed the chin under the deer. The background should have passed 10 times next to the same building, but for some reason it stopped and turned to the trees. The deer doll was sleeping again in the corner. The man's head headed to his forehead in accordance with the hig h-pitched accordion. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth extends from the face and runs like a straw. The deer character ran on the rat's tobacco pitch. The man smiled and saw me again. In front of the thriving, deep, deep accordion chord, a hand appeared from under the stage. It was covered with hair and adhesive sheath. Hands were raised in the shape of "V" and placed under the jaw of a man. He had a clear expression and was wondering while moving his eyes left and right. The accordion went back and forth with two low sounds, and it was like a sign of the last stunt in Dea Devils. Then, the wooden trunk came down to the stage. It's too long to hide. The man pretended to see the accordion running for a moment.

The accordion stopped immediately. I tried to run again, to close my eyes, to block out the sight for a moment, but nothing worked. The only sound was the chatter of teeth encasing skin. The sound of flesh and muscle being torn from bone. The crack of a man already condemned to death and the snap of fresh tendons between his molars. The gnashing of teeth, the tearing of muscle, the dog of death, the bursting of tendons. Crunch, tear, dog, pop, bump, rip, pop. Until the man was full, his face covered in blood. He turned and met my eyes. Surprise opened his eyes, smacking his lips. I was sure he matched mine in a mirror. The head slid back onto the stage. The curtain flicked back again, revealing a bathroom cut out of construction paper. A shower of water poured down on the theater and the man's blood-stained head. It washed the blood off his face in streaks. Even clumps of hair were washed from his head. Hair after hair, chunk after chunk, fell from his face, revealing his true identity. My true identity, he whispered, words painfully powerful, through my own menacing jaws. "What did I do?

I woke up as the light of dawn filtered under the blinds. A wet halo soaked my pillow. I woke up and looked around frantically, remembering the puppet show I had seen a few words earlier. But I was alone, in my grandmother's bedroom. I was sure I had somehow made it home and made it to my bed. My eyes were wide open, even though I had been asleep for longer than I could remember. A firm pinch supported my sleep. Confused, I sat up in bed. As I moved, I noticed that my pillow was damp. I pulled the duvet away from my body to check the strange dampness. I was relieved to see that the liquid was clean, not blood-stained feces. I didn't have time to judge whether it was water or sweat. I realized that the doll was not as simple as a dream. It felt as real now as it had felt last night in the attic. With each tear, I thought the doll was calling me again, as if I had opened the door and welcomed it in. I couldn't live with that possibility. I knew it had to end.

I got my ears closer to the bedroom door. I checked the sound inside the house to see if my grandmother was awake. My grandmother always got up at dawn and had breakfast. The scent of hot cakes and bacon did not fall through the gap in the door. Surprisingly, the sound of the shower water supply came to my ears. She was always taking a shower at night, but sometimes the habit was broken. I used a flowing shower to hide the slapstick in the bedroom window from her ears. I was on my way to break the puppet show and look for my mother.

There was no one on the street that morning. There was no one on the street that morning. Children sent their school life for the remaining weeks before the Thanksgiving vacation. The birds sang the morning hymn from the electric wires on my journey. The last cricket rushed to the ordered melody against the violin of the foot. The dew pushed up the garden and was dazzling at the top of the sun over the hill crest. In a cool morning, the breeze was illuminating my promenade. The leaves were overturned with the rain. The rain was a scent and a midnight cloud, and it made a canopy at my destination. I kept walking until the darkness called the sun and arrived in front of the house. I got my ears closer to the bedroom door. I checked the sound inside the house to see if my grandmother was awake. My grandmother always got up at dawn and had breakfast. The scent of hot cakes and bacon did not fall through the gap in the door. Surprisingly, the sound of the shower water supply came to my ears. She was always taking a shower at night, but sometimes the habit was broken. I used a flowing shower to hide the slapstick in the bedroom window from her ears. I was on my way to break the puppet show and look for my mother.

There was no one on the street that morning. There was no one on the street that morning. Children sent their school life for the remaining weeks before the Thanksgiving vacation. The birds sang the morning hymn from the electric wires on my journey. The last cricket rushed to the ordered melody against the violin of the foot. The dew pushed up the garden and was dazzling at the top of the sun over the hill crest. In a cool morning, the breeze was illuminating my promenade. The leaves were overturned with the rain. The rain was a scent and a midnight cloud, and it made a canopy at my destination. I kept walking until the darkness called the sun and arrived in front of the house. I got my ears closer to the bedroom door. I checked the sound inside the house to see if my grandmother was awake. My grandmother always got up at dawn and had breakfast. The scent of hot cakes and bacon did not fall through the gap in the door. Surprisingly, the sound of the shower water supply came to my ears. She was always taking a shower at night, but sometimes the habit was broken. I used a flowing shower to hide the slapstick in the bedroom window from her ears. I was on my way to break the puppet show and look for my mother.

When I walked on the growing sidewalk and headed to the entrance, the tall grass hits my forearm. The stairs on the porch were buckled with my weight. The sander sounded, and a light rain similar to a pebble in the house was raining. My nerves shaked the whole body with fear. I closed my eyes and concentrated on holding and obedience. Once again, I chose a band aid method. I took the doorknob and twisted without thinking, but did not fall. I lost the door in vain, assuming that the door would open. I searched for a pocket and searched for a key, but I could only find my father's knife. The night before, he must have lost it since he was in the attic. The wind bleed the side of the house, and the blue sheet made a noise. I pulled out the grass. Like a brush, each stem painted a new rain on my feet. I grabbed the tarp with both hands and pulled it until the tarp, which had been fixed with nails, was torn off. When the tarp fell on the grass, I saw my old bedroom frame. Several glass knives were still clinging to their original position. I was not surprised because I remembered it broken. But what surprised me was that the nails that had fastened the windows from the outside were being hit. When I walked on the growing sidewalk and headed to the entrance, the tall grass gently hit my forearm. The stairs on the porch were buckled with my weight. The sander rang, and it was raining like a pebble in the house. My nerves shaked the whole body with fear. I closed my eyes and concentrated on holding and obedience. Once again, I chose a band aid method. I took the doorknob and twisted without thinking, but did not fall. I lost the door in vain, assuming that the door would open. I searched for my pocket and searched for the key, but I could only find my father's knife. The night before, he must have lost it since he was in the attic. The wind bleed the side of the house, and the blue sheet made a noise. I pulled out the grass. Like a brush, each stem painted a new rain on my feet. I grabbed the tarp with both hands and pulled until the turp, which had been fixed with nails, was torn. When the tarp fell on the grass, I saw my old bedroom frame. Several glass knives were still clinging to their original position. I was not surprised because I remembered it broken. But what surprised me was that the nails that had fastened the windows from the outside were being hit. When I walked on the growing sidewalk and headed to the entrance, the tall grass hits my forearm. The stairs on the porch were buckled with my weight. The sander sounded, and a light rain similar to a pebble in the house was raining. My nerves shaked the whole body with fear. I closed my eyes and concentrated on holding and obedience. Once again, I chose a band aid method. I took the doorknob and twisted without thinking, but did not fall. I lost the door in vain, assuming that the door would open. I searched for a pocket and searched for a key, but I could only find my father's knife. The night before, he must have lost it since he was in the attic. The wind bleed the side of the house, and the blue sheet made a noise. I pulled out the grass. Like a brush, each stem painted a new rain on my feet. I grabbed the tarp with both hands and pulled until the turp, which had been fixed with nails, was torn. When the tarp fell on the grass, I saw my old bedroom frame. Several glass knives were still clinging to their original position. I was not surprised because I remembered it broken. But what surprised me was that the nails that had fastened the windows from the outside were being hit.

I stepped inside, careful to avoid the tip of the surviving debris through the gap in the window frame. It was quiet inside. All I could hear was the soft sound of rain and the occasional sound of a mature house sinking into the earth. The strange musky smell filled my mouth again. It was a subtle hint of disgust, but it made my lips clench. The closet door was only a few feet away. I tasted fear. I felt a cold mist settle on my bones. A warning in the form of a chill told me to get out. Not to go any further. To go back to my grandmother. I remembered the night before, how the accordion had been silenced by entrusting it to my grandmother. Would my grandmother have been completely silenced if I had continued? A foolish thought. The puppet show had already overcome my resolve and would never release me completely. But the accordion did not enter my head as I stood in front of the closet door. It did not need to come back in the form of a song. I could have gone back and told my grandmother what had happened. How courageous it would have been. But in my 10-year-old mind, courage was a high-noon duel between good and evil. My mother was still missing. And I was convinced that the puppet show had something to do with it. My cement was nothing but an imaginary cowboy hat, a red scarf around my neck, and a closet that was almost barren. My clothes were hanging in my grandma's new closet, and my cowboy bedding set slept underneath. All that remained was a metal bat on the floor. I had no illusions that I would one day make the baseball team. I had the strength to do it, but I was too uncoordinated. But I was happy when I saw it. I picked it up, gripping the handle in my fist. The rain was getting heavier, and thunder punctuated the rapid percussion. I swallowed and climbed the wooden ramp until I was within walking distance of the square of plywood that separated me from the puppet show. Without further thought, I pushed the plywood into the dark attic with the tip of the bat and rose into the void.

Elim Poon - Journalist, Creative Writer

Last modified: 27.08.2024

There was a large box of old movies and TV shows in the attic. I took a I thought this would be a good show for my sister and I to watch. When. TikTok video from cre3pypasta78 (@cre3pypasta78): “The Puppet Theater #creepypasta The puppet theater in my attic#scarytiktoks #scarystorytime #halloween #. My new short story "The Puppet Theater in My Attic" is out now! Give it a reason and let me know what you think:) The Puppet Theater in My Attic - Creepypasta.

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