The Puppeteer’s Hands

It started with a creak.

Elliot had always been told to stay away from the attic. His grandmother’s warning was clear: Don’t go up there. It’s full of dust and old things that should be left alone.

He hadn’t planned to disobey. He was only visiting for the summer, spending a few weeks at his grandmother’s house while his parents were away. The old house was quiet, tucked at the edge of a sleepy town, surrounded by trees that whispered at night.

But loneliness whispers louder than caution.

So, one afternoon, while his grandmother napped downstairs, he climbed the attic steps. The air was thick, stale with forgotten memories. Shadows stretched across trunks and furniture draped in white sheets, like ghosts waiting to wake.

That’s when he found them.

A pair of wooden hands—small, child-sized—smooth and polished, carved with delicate swirls. They looked so lifelike he half-expected them to twitch.

Something about them felt wrong.

But something about them felt right, too.

Elliot took them downstairs.

At first, they were just toys. He placed them on his nightstand, adjusting their position—palms up, fingers curled, reaching. He laughed, pretending they were alive.

Then, one morning, they were different.

Instead of where he had left them, they sat upright, fingers bent as if mid-motion. Unease slithered into his chest. Maybe he had moved them in his sleep. Maybe he had forgotten.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Until they started following him.

One evening, as he drummed his fingers against his desk, the wooden hands mirrored him, tapping soundlessly.

He stopped.

They stopped.

His stomach twisted.

He lifted his arm.

They lifted their fingers.

He clenched his fist.

They did the same.

His breath hitched. He whispered to himself, voice trembling, I’m imagining this. I’m imagining this.

But deep down, he knew.

The changes were small at first.

He’d reach for a glass of water, but his fingers would close around it too hard, sending it shattering to the floor.

He’d pick up a pencil, only for his grip to tighten until the wood splintered in his palm.

He’d try to let go of things, but his fingers wouldn’t obey right away.

Then came the cruel things.

One afternoon, he was petting the neighbor’s cat. He liked the cat. It was warm, soft, trusting. His fingers moved gently through its fur—until suddenly, they weren’t gentle anymore.

His grip tightened around its throat.

The cat yelped, paws scrabbling against his arms. His breath caught in his chest. I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this.

He forced his hands to release, gasping, trembling. The cat bolted.

The wooden hands on his nightstand curled inward, as if pleased.

It got worse.

At dinner, he reached for the salt, but his hand moved before he meant it to.

At school, he shoved a boy on the playground harder than intended. When the boy hit the ground, his fingers twitched, wanting to do it again.

He wrote things in his notebook he didn’t remember thinking. Dark things. Violent things.

Are these my thoughts? Or theirs?

At night, he threw the wooden hands deep into his closet. Buried them under his bed.

But every morning, they were back on his nightstand.

Closer.

Watching.

The first time he woke up unable to move, he thought he was dreaming.

His arms lay stiff at his sides. His legs were dead weight.

But his hands—

His hands hovered above him, fingers twitching, flexing unnaturally, like insects testing their limbs.

Then, slowly—too slowly—they reached for his face.

His fingertips traced his lips, pressed into his cheeks. He tried to scream, but his throat locked tight.

As if satisfied, the hands lowered. They guided him to sit up. Then stand. Then take a step.

He wasn’t moving himself.

He wasn’t moving at all.

The next day, he barely spoke. He barely moved.

But the hands moved for him.

At dinner, he clenched his fork so tightly his knuckles turned white.

While brushing his teeth, he nearly rammed the toothbrush down his throat.

At school, he almost pushed a boy down the stairs.

He wanted to stop. He wanted to scream.

But the hands were stronger now.

And then, one night—

He woke up standing over his grandmother’s bed.

His breath hitched. His heart pounded, a trapped animal in his ribs. His fingers wrapped around a knife from the kitchen. His body was stiff, frozen in the moment before something unspeakable happens.

Inside his mind, he screamed. Fought. Begged.

But his hands didn’t listen.

His grip tightened.

His lips moved—but it wasn’t his voice that spoke.

“I don’t want to do this.”

But the hands did.

The next morning, the house was silent.

Elliot sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast. Slowly. Methodically.

His grandmother’s chair was empty.

His hands moved with perfect control now. They poured the milk. They lifted the spoon.

They no longer hesitated.

Because there was no one left inside him to fight them anymore.

THE END . . .