Gather round, friends, and I'll tell you a story

A story of terror in all of its glory

Of a sentry, a savior, and the darkness of night

Against madness itself, they will have to fight

This is the tale of a lonely puppeteer

Of what makes you human, of what makes you fear

So take a seat, friend, and do listen well

We're taking a trip to the circus of hell

...

The sounds of an off-tuned calliope bring an artificial freshness to the stale air of the big top. Swirling stripes of black and green drape around the dusty grove of the stage below. The luminescent glow of a thousand fireflies illuminates the stage in hues of orange and red. The light did not dare to cross into the stands. It was as if something, or perhaps someone, compelled them to hold back. Still they loomed over the stage, awaiting the arrival of their leader.

From the darkness of backstage emerges the figure of something almost human. The Ringmaster struts to the center of the stage, surrounded by the buzzing swarm of light. He lifts up his four arms to greet the stands. The music grows into something not unlike a frenzy, then dies away as his voice rings through the hollow tent.

"Ladies and germs and all other worms," He begins, "Welcome to the grandest illusion in the world!"

Perched high above the stage in the darkness of the rafters is the Puppeteer. It sits patiently on a little plank, clutching the straps of its satchel with steady hands. The Ringmaster's voice is merely an echo from here, as is what it believes to be the applause of the audience below. It doubts anyone can hear its trek to the puppet stage from down there, but it was never one to take chances. So it waits for the Ringmaster to begin the show.

The rafters holding the tent are rotted. Even sitting still on the last stable support sends the structure rocking and creaking. From the safety of the plank, the structure became a labyrinth of unseen danger. To the nimble Puppeteer, the trek comes like second nature. A jump over one gap. A tip-toe across a plank. A swing around a support beam to make a turn to the next plank. A swift game of limbo, and finally the safety of the upper stage. One slip meant a grand fall, but what was the threat of death to a dead man?

The Puppeteer finds itself at its platform. It takes its satchel off of its chest and opens the bag to unload its puppets. What has it tonight? From the looks of things, a taxidermized chameleon, a stuffed rabbit (really, two stuffed rabbits sewn into one), a well-loved stuffed leopard, a bone china lamb with red wool, and a moth lovingly stitched from badding and tulle. Odd, sure, but nothing not worth working with. It looks over to its bin of props and unfolds a hand painted background. A battlefield, fading into dark woods. It puts the painting down on the platform and picks up another. The woods again, now fading to a sunny town. It picks up another: the same town, fading to a river with a wishing well. The last one it finds is that clearing, fading to a cloudy sky. At least they all trailed along together. And hey, that's a story.

It lifts up a sort of reel from below the platform and attaches each scene to a segment on a long, treaded tire. When each painting is attached, it gives the machine a test spin with its rotted hands. The scenes spin around the treads with mechanical groans, stopping front and center with a sharp click. Success! It lowers the scene changing machine back below the platform, the war field showing in front.

One down, one to go.

Next, it picks up each puppet and meticulously ties little red strings to each one's arms and throat. It tries to ignore the sensation of strings looping around its own arms. With each knot tied, it secures the strings to a metal rod. The rod is just to keep all the puppets in place. That, and so it can keep everything under control without using its hands. Or at least, not holding their strings in its hands. Right to the side of the rod is an old toy piano, haphazardly fitted with bells, whistles, and all sorts of other percussion. The piano still played its keys as normal, but with a quick press of a button or flick of a switch, the other instruments would sing their songs. It tests a few keys to make sure the machine still plays, then lets a foul note slide from its fingertips. The puppets writhe on their strings, prime for reanimating. The Puppeteer grins, letting a small giggle escape from between its sharp teeth.

All is to plan thus far, It thinks, Now, for the fun part.

The Puppeteer cracks its knuckles and bangs on the keys. The puppets go flying back over the rod as if shot by an explosion, landing comfortably in a pile of old pillows. The Puppeteer hops back, picking up each puppet and returning them to their hung position over the rod. All that was left to do now was wait.

No, not yet. What else? I know there’s something else.

Its voice is barely a whisper. “Oh.”

It turns its gaze across the platform. By the light of a lone firefly, it stares at the hazy silhouette in the darkness.

“The noose.”

The Puppeteer hates the noose. As the grand finale of the show, it hangs itself. It's not like it'd ever die from it, but certainly the pain of having a piano wire dig into the rotted flesh of its neck made it wish it would. Getting it wedged in was only half the story, getting it out was worse. But that’s a later problem, tying it is a now problem. Besides, it was for the show. And although that never is a comfort to the Puppeteer, it sure made a good excuse.

It reaches up over the faded X on the platform and pulls down a rust-stained wire. It gently puts the loop over its head, flipping its hair out from around the knot. It unties its scarf and tosses it by the satchel. Breathing isn't coming easy anymore. It plucks silently at its piano in the hopes its breath comes back.

Whether the tickling death around its throat made the wait shorter or longer is a mystery. Either way, the wait is much too long. It clicks away at the keys, playing melodies of songs it once knew. It wishes it could sing from here without anyone hearing. Sometimes it likes to imagine having the stage all to itself. Not to lead, no, no, not that. But to sing and to dance and to live without worry of any nooses or puppets or the sharp eyes of the--

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It snaps from its daydream. The Ringmaster's voice rises from below.

"It appears we have reached the end of our show, but there's one last act before you all go. A puppet show, by our dearest cadaver. What will its tale be? What will you gather?"

That's its queue. It flicks on its piano and clears its throat. The puppets lower onto the stage. It plays a small intro as the lights dim, a single spotlight on the puppet's stage. At once, it begins its tale.

"Five little adventures on their way to play a game,"

The puppets happily bounce on their stage. A faint glimmer of life mirages over the scene, painting colors of motion over the limbs of the toys. Even the chameleon's rigor mortis doesn't stop it from dancing with its companions.

"One was lost in war,"

The Puppeteer bangs on the piano, and at once a shrill silence descends over the stage. The chameleon launches itself out of the stage and into the pillows. The illusion of life vanishes from the others.

"And then there were four."

It plays a jaunty little tune in a minor key, the bells and whistles joining in. The puppets return to life, albeit a little more frightened. It steps on a pedal, and the scene changes from the war to the forest.

"Four little adventurers playing in the woods,"

The puppets spin around in a sort of ring-a-ring-o-roses as it plays a happier tune. The ones who had hands seemed to hold them with the others. Some hope returns to the remaining puppets, and the rabbit twins begin to jump with the same joy as in the war.

"One got lost,"

The Puppeteer bangs on the piano again, a horrible, shrill glissando throwing the rabbit back up to its platform.

"And then there were three."

Now, the leopard, lamb, and moth remain. They find their way out of the forest into the town to the sound of a somewhat degraded melody. Now, their life has nearly vanished from their eyes and limbs. It is almost as if they know the melody that’s coming for them in the rafters above.

"Three little adventurers going for a bite,"

Now, the ringing of the bells conjures the hazy sight of food in the hands of the puppets, and the smell of freshly baked bread in the stands of the audience. For a moment, everything seems alright.

"One got poisoned,"

The illusion is shattered with the banging and the loss of the leopard.

"And then there were two."

The Puppeteer feels the noose around its throat as it moves to the next scene. Its playing grows ever so slightly more nervous, more frantic, as the lamb and the moth bounce around erratically in their stage set by the well. The noose tightens.

"Two little adventurers getting water by the well,"

The clinking of higher keys and wind chimes makes it seem as though the water of the painted river is moving. Not like water, though. It flows much too viscously to be water. The moth stays by the river, but the lamb looks down the well.

"One fell into wonderland,"

The lamb shoots down into the well, then back up into the stage again. The shrill glissando is much more violent than the banging and clanging which came before it.

"And then there was one."

The Puppeteer walks over to the X with the solemnness of a soldier marching to war. With the remaining fingers of its right hand, it plucks away at the growling keys of its toy piano. Now, the melody hardly exists at all. But what does exist is a sort of resignation. A lonely, broken resignation.

The moth sits alone in the clearing.

"One little adventurer sitting all alone."

The trapdoor starts to creek below it. It takes a deep breath, and with a hard jolt the trapdoor gives way.

As it dangles over the stage, it looks out to the audience so the spotlight isn’t as blinding. It always seems as though there never is an audience in those seats. It’s never able to shake the feeling, that sort of loneliness from staring into the fogginess of the stands below. Something about the never-blinking eyes and the never breaking stares make its skin crawl in a way no rusted scalpel or crooked needle-toothed smile ever could. As it stares into the abyss below in strained silence, it can’t help but wonder: from its mind or the Ringmaster’s? Better yet: does it matter?

"What more can I say?" It giggles, conveniently hiding its own choking. "And then there were none."

The muffled sound of applause overtakes the big top as it gives a little show of splendor. As the light clicks out, it pulls itself up by the wire and throws itself back into its domain.

It coughs, the sudden rush of air in where it hopes its lungs remain being simply too much to take in at once. It lays motionless for what feels like hours. It knows it hasn’t quite lost itself yet, but it sure takes an awful while to find itself again. When it does, all it feels is the hard wire on its bones, and stale, lukewarm blood on its neck. It wishes the warmth was comforting. The warmth never is.

It sits up, the blood slowly oozing out in clots from the slice on its neck. It takes another breath, then lets it out again. It raises its fingers from the top of the noose's opening and follows it down to its neck with the same elegance of a fiddler holding their bow. It gently pulls at the wire. Slowly, just as the wire had sliced its way into its neck, the wire slices its way out. Small chunks of rotted flesh fall onto the wooden planks, leaving little splotches of brownish stains in their wake. The Puppeteer reaches over for its scarf, tying it tightly around its neck. The loose fabric tendrils dangling from the tourniquet hang over its shoulders like ribbons from a bow. It walks back over to the puppets, severing the strings on them with a small razor affixed to a nearby support beam. It envies their freedom.

Never mind, never mind. He'll hear me.

It picks them up one by one and puts them back into the satchel. It sits down beside the satchel for a moment. It breathes once, then again.

You’d think I’d be used to this now, wouldn’t you?

It raises up the scene changer and takes off each scene, tossing them into the box of props. Slowly, carelessly, it tosses them back in the props. It just wants to go home.

Home, home, does it exist anymore?

It quickly lowers the machine. It has better things to think about, like making sure it has all of its puppets packed up before it leaves. With a quick glance, it finds the area barren. It throws its satchel over its shoulder, then turns to the course of rotting wood that sits between it and freedom. It dances along the rafters, just as it has before. Looking down isn’t usually in its plans, but it wants to check if the Ringmaster still lurks below. It squints, and finds only darkness below.

Yes! I don't have to stay in this tent a minute longer.

It tries to smile, but the fresh wound in its neck shoots with pins. It might be in pain, but it won’t leave the tent with a frown.

It lowers itself down by a ripped part of curtain, then quietly slips its way into the backrooms of the big top. The boxes and crates full of props and toys sat as mere silhouettes in the night, as obstacles to weave through and hide behind. It had always heard mingling in this space before shows, but it never once thought to join. A single glance from another sent it sprinting for the rafter or ducking behind a painted chest. It's a horrible way to exist, always hiding. Spending too much time in the dark only lets one befriend the shadows.

It forlornly looks around at the boxes and props. It shrugs. Maybe it was for the best. The others wouldn’t be long for this show anyway.

When it finds its way to the midway outside, it finds itself greeted by the pitter-patter of rain falling to the ground and dancing atop its head. It sighs. After all this hard work, now it has to walk through the cold to get home. The long trek back to the neuron tree is enough already. It grimaces, but its misery vanishes with the thought of fresh water for tea.

As it steps out into the midway, out of anyone’s earshot, it mutters to itself. “Yeah, tonight’s a good night for tea.”