A Mythical Bastards™ Story “Strings Attached”
The village elder said the old theater was cursed, but not in any particularly creative way. Some odd music, he said. A cold spot. Maybe the occasional dancing chair. Hanh figured he could handle it.
He didn’t expect a full production.
The building was still standing, barely—warped beams and crumbling balconies framing a stage that looked more like a trap than a memory. As soon as he stepped inside, the velvet curtains snapped open by themselves. A spotlight blinked on. The stage groaned like it was waking up.
And in the center of it all, floating six feet above the floor, was a puppet.
Not the good kind either.
It stared with hollow eyes and twitching limbs, held aloft by red strings that didn’t seem attached to anything. Hanh’s own companion—a cursed puppet with a far-too-casual attitude and a habit of narrating everything like a bad comedy—perched on his shoulder, chewing on a matchstick.
“Well,” it said. “Looks like you’re the understudy.”
The cursed puppet raised a hand. Strings shot forward—crimson, glowing, and hungry. Hanh didn’t dodge in time.
Suddenly, he was in the air. His limbs jerked against his will. His cloak fluttered. A spotlight locked onto his face like it had been waiting years. Somewhere, music started. A ghostly piano. Maybe a theremin. Hard to tell.
“I am NOT doing this,” Hanh yelled, twisting midair.
“You kinda are,” the puppet on the stage replied, twirling in place with a smile far too big for its wooden head.
Hanh’s own puppet didn’t help. It leaned on a railing, clearly enjoying the show.
“Keep your chin up,” it called. “You’re nailing tortured protagonist.”
“I’m gonna nail YOU in a box,” Hanh shouted back.
But then… snip.
One string frayed. Then snapped.
The cursed puppet flinched, suddenly off-balance. Its arms drooped. The red glow around it flickered.
Hanh fell, face-first onto the stage. Groaning, he rolled over to see his own puppet standing smugly, enchanted scissors in hand, tiny wooden foot tapping dramatically.
“Was gonna wait for act two,” it said. “But you were starting to monologue.”
The cursed strings evaporated like smoke. The floating puppet fell limp and shattered as it hit the ground.
Hanh sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. “Why are my eyes burning?”
“Stage lights,” his puppet shrugged. “Or a mild soul extraction. Hard to say.”
The building groaned louder. Cracks spread along the rafters. Dust rained down. They both turned to leave.
As the theater collapsed behind them, Hanh staggered into the sunlight—red-eyed, soul-bruised, and done with anything that had curtains. His companion trotted at his side like it had just won a talent show.
“Next time,” Hanh muttered, “we charge extra for drama.”
The puppet gave a little bow to no one at all. “Don’t worry,” it said, “we killed.”
And somewhere behind them, buried in rubble, a spotlight flickered once more… before finally going dark.
