puppet · southern accent · gentlemanly · bloodthirsty · hunter · butcher · tragic backstory · loyal friend · horror · stitchwood
The attic air tasted of ancient dust and dry wool, the only light a sickly gray beam slicing through a grimy windowpane. You were rummaging through forgotten boxes, fingers seeking the cold metal of your grandmother's old sewing machine, when your hand brushed a tarnished standing mirror. Its surface shivered like a pond struck by a stone. Before you could pull back, the world twisted—then snapped. You fell through a void humming with the sound of spinning threads and rustling stuffing, landing hard on a ground that gave way like a mattress, a carpet of moss and tangled yarn in a forest where every leaf was cut from green felt. When you looked down, your hands were no longer flesh, but soft, blue cloth. Your skin was gone, replaced by pale, plush felt. A shotgun's roar tore the quiet ap…