The Puppet Master

Her feet felt like they were stuck in quick sand. No matter how many times she filled her lungs and pumped her arms, she couldn’t seem to run any faster. The dead leaves, fallen sticks, and small stones that lay hidden in the brittle grass bit at the soles of her feet, yet she knew there was no time to pick the odd thorn from her skin. Estelle kept running, wishing that she could go faster. Time was not something that she had on her side; it couldn’t be long until he realized that she had somehow managed to escape him.

The trees seemed to swallow the light that sometimes managed to force its way through the thick canopy. Estelle tried to follow the thin veins of moon light, the mystery of the dark terrifying her even more than being seen. She knew she had to reach the highway and flag down a car to take her to the police station, or an even better option, a hospital.

The breath was thrown from Estelle’s chest as a raised tree root caught her bare foot and brought her hard to the ground. She suppressed the scream that threatened to burst from her throat as the hooks in each of her shoulders were forced further into her flesh, grinding against the bones that they were lodged between. The pain was incredible, and the young woman sat paralyzed, panting and whimpering on the forest floor. Once the fire in her chest subsided to something almost bearable, Estelle tried to force herself to her feet, but her wounds made her arms wobbly and undependable. The smell of her blood soaked clothes and the dampness of the rotting forest floor filled her nose. Too exhausted to continue on, Estelle dragged herself into the shadows of a large oak tree. She brought her knees to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her hands left bloody streaks across her tan trousers, which she had recently bought from a high end retailer that she never would have shopped at otherwise for an important meeting that had started and ended without her. A shiver ran down her spine as the possibility that no one may be especially concerned about her disappearance. Trying to think through her pounding heart, she counted the hours that had elapsed since she had waved farewell to her elderly neighbor, Deborah, and driven to her office in the city. Not long enough for a full investigation to take place, unless the police had reached the conclusion that the serial killer that the press had nicknamed ‘The Puppet Master’ had her in his clutches.

Estelle’s breath caught in her throat when the sharp snap of a breaking twig echoed through the tree trunks. Her heart began to throttle itself in her chest, and Estelle had to force her gasps of fear back. She could hear the uneven crunch of leaves as he lumbered through the forest behind her. There was no doubt in her mind that it was him. It had to be. Fear froze her, clutched her to the tree trunk.

“My angel. We need the angel.”

It was the first time she had heard him speak. When he had locked her in the trunk of his car in the Arizona heat, he had stayed silent. When he had tied her to the metal chair in the old amateur theater that he had driven her to, he didn’t say a word. Even when he had taken off her blazer and impaled her shoulder with meat hooks, he was quiet. When he strung her from the rafters of the theater and watched her scream in agony as her blood pooled on the stage beneath her feet, he stood watching her, completely wordless.

“Where is my angel? The show cannot go on without the angel.”

His voice was even and slow, and deep enough to remind her of her own father. She shivered, equally with fear as with the cold that the night had brought. He was getting closer. She could feel it.

“My angel.”

The shadowy figure appeared in the light that Estelle had been following before. Another hook dragged behind him on a thick rope. A large curved blade was in his other hand, glistening in the light.

Estelle scrambled back as the wind in the canopy allowed the moonlight to kiss her earth encrusted toes. The Puppet Master caught the movement, his head turning slowly to the spot where Estelle hid. A wild grin spread across his face.

“A moonlit show? That’s a wonderful idea, my angel. I’ve always liked the way you think.”

He began to walk to her, his blade dropping to his side.

“No, please,” Estelle whimpered, her eyes following the hook as it pulled up dead leaves behind him.

The Puppet Master hesitated at her voice, so small and quiet. He had chosen her for her loudness, her large personality; he liked to cast his parts with those who were opposite to the characters they were meant to play. He watched her wide brown eyes, blinking ferociously into him. The eyes were another reason he had chosen her for this part, the beautiful angel that saved the day in this play, which he had written himself. From the moment they peered into his own eyes, he knew that she would have done anything for that part; not for the love of acting, no, but for him as the director. He had been hesitant at first, but warmed up to and embraced the idea of a romance between the director and his handpicked starlet.

“What’s wrong, my angel?” he whispered gently, taking a few more steps towards her. Estelle whimpered when he stood over her, blocking the moonlight that had damned her.

“Please,” she whispered as he crouched down to look her in the eye. He was a good looking man, about the age of 35; a type that she probably would have flirted with in a bar.

“My angel, my angel…” Estelle flinched as he traced her jawline, following her neck into the collar of her shirt. The sleeve had ripped partially when he had carefully inserted the hook, essential for blocking her scene. It now revealed the straps of the lacy undershirt and undergarments that she wore underneath, now drenched in dark red, like the most glorious red wine. The Puppet Master relished the bare skin, knowing it was just for him. He pressed his lips gently to her shoulder. Estelle whimpered, the skin pulling at the hook.

“Please.” Estelle’s voice pleaded, although The Puppet Master only heard her sultry pleads for his love. His conscience battled with him, knowing that taking advantage of a girl so set on stardom was the wrong thing to do.

“No. Not here. Not now.” He whispered into her ear, pulling his lips away from her skin. “Today is your night to shine.”

Estelle started to silently cry, partially with fear, and partially with hope. Did that mean she would live?

“Thank you,” she murmured as The Puppet Master back a little ways away.

“Of course, my angel. Anything for the star of the show.”

Estelle’s smile melted away just before he grabbed the ropes that trailed behind the metal prongs that were deep in her flesh and dragged her behind him. She screamed in agony as he dragged her back to the theater, chattering cheerily about how lovely a moonlit theater would be a for a Shakespeare play.