The Puppet Gallery of Ashford House

My eighteenth birthday fell on the same week my parents had to attend a custody hearing in a town called Mercer, five hours from our home. They left my younger brother, Liam, and me at our great-aunt Evelyn’s estate, Ashford House, a sprawling Victorian relic that had been in the family for generations. The last time we visited, I had a terrifying experience in the guest bedroom, and I swore I would never set foot in that room again.

Aunt Evelyn was a tall, imposing woman with silver hair coiled in a tight bun and eyes that seemed to see through you. She greeted us at the door with a thin smile, her hand resting on the shoulder of a life-sized porcelain doll. ‘This is Maribel,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. ‘She keeps me company.’ Liam, being twelve, thought it was cool. I found it unsettling, especially the way the doll’s glassy eyes seemed to follow me.

That evening, the three of us sat in the parlor, and Aunt Evelyn announced that for my birthday, she had arranged a special activity. ‘Tomorrow, I will take you to the gallery,’ she said, her eyes glinting. ‘It’s a collection I’ve curated over the years. It’s my pride and joy.’ I had no idea what was in the gallery, but the way she said it made my skin crawl.

That night, Liam and I were shown to our rooms. Mine was down a long, narrow corridor on the third floor, far from the main staircase. As I walked, I noticed that every door along the way was slightly ajar, revealing dark interiors. I had a sinking feeling that the guest bedroom I dreaded was not the only room to avoid.

I didn’t sleep. Every creak of the old house made me jolt, and I could swear I heard muffled breathing coming from the walls. At dawn, I decided to explore, hoping to find some distraction. I tiptoed down the corridor and found a door that was locked, but the key hung on a hook nearby. Curiosity got the better of me, and I unlocked it.

The room beyond was filled with shelves of puppets. Marionettes, hand puppets, ventriloquist dummies—dozens of them. They were all exquisitely made, but their faces were frozen in grotesque expressions of fear or sorrow. The air was thick with dust, and in the center of the room stood a single chair, with straps on the armrests. A chill ran down my spine, and I hurriedly backed out, locking the door behind me.

Aunt Evelyn found me in the hallway, her smile widening. ‘You’ve found my collection,’ she said. ‘They were my family. Each one has a story. Would you like to hear one?’ Before I could answer, she began to tell me about a puppet named Clara, who was a little girl that misbehaved. ‘She was turned into this,’ Evelyn said, picking up a porcelain-faced marionette with a cracked cheek. ‘Beauty can be preserved, my dear, but only if you’re willing to sacrifice.’

I felt a knot in my stomach. I tried to call Liam, but my phone had no signal. Aunt Evelyn seemed to read my thoughts. ‘The house is very old. The walls are thick. No need for phones here.’ She led me to the gallery, a vast hall filled with even more puppets, some as large as a child. On a pedestal in the center was an empty frame, and I realized with horror that it was shaped like a human body.

‘It’s your birthday,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I’ve been waiting for a new addition to my family. You have your mother’s features, you know. She would have been perfect, but she got away. But you?’ She shook her head. ‘You look so much like her.’

I backed away, but my feet seemed rooted to the floor. Then I heard Liam’s voice from behind me. ‘What’s going on here?’ He had come looking for me. Aunt Evelyn turned to him, and her eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, the brother. You’ll make a fine companion for Maribel.’

In that moment, I remembered a shelf in the puppet room where I had seen an old jack-in-the-box. My uncle had once told me that it played a lullaby that could put anyone to sleep. I sprinted back to the puppet room, grabbed the box, and wound it frantically. The music box began to play a soft, eerie tune, and Aunt Evelyn’s eyes fluttered. She tried to reach for me, but her movements slowed, and she crumpled to the floor, asleep.

Liam and I wasted no time. We ran down the stairs, out the front door, and didn’t stop until we reached the main road. We flagged down a passing truck and used the driver’s phone to call our parents. The police later found Aunt Evelyn in the gallery, sleeping among her puppets, and the house was searched. They discovered that the puppets contained human remains—the preserved bodies of people who had gone missing in the area over the past forty years.

But that wasn’t the end. When we got back to our own home, I found a package on the doorstep. Inside was a small, hand-carved wooden puppet, its face a perfect miniature of mine. A note read: ‘For my new daughter. Happy Birthday.’ The puppet’s eyes, glassy and black, seemed to blink at me.

I’ve never been able to destroy it. I’ve tried, but every time I attempt to smash it, I find myself unable to move, as if my own limbs were tied to strings. And at night, in the silence of my room, I can hear a faint, mechanical voice whispering, ‘You’re mine now. Forever.’