Imran was packing up his things when he found a small, scruffy, worn-down puppet.
It was under a worn, dusty coat that belonged to the old lady who lived there before. The puppet looked creepy. Its smile was just a little too wide, its eyes slightly askew and it didn’t have a nose.
On the bottom of the puppet, Imran found a label – ‘Mr Ernest Eldritch, from the Eldritch family, just like on TV!’
He vaguely remembered there was a show that had a similar sounding name. Just then Imran felt the little painted-on eyes staring at him.
He decided to go look the show up on the Internet, but he could not find anything. He tried a few more times, but had no luck. He knew the show was real. The memory of the show felt even more real as he clasped the puppet tightly.
Mr Eldritch lived on 23, Star-Crossed Road, and every day, he would start the show by saying good morning to his tortoise, Rocky. Mr Eldritch would then go up to the attic and eat his breakfast. That was weird, but Imran was sure that was what happened in every episode.
That night, Imran couldn’t sleep. No matter how hard he tried, Imran couldn’t help but think about the puppet as he tossed and turned.
When he finally fell asleep, Mr Eldritch appeared in his dreams.
Mr Eldritch was having breakfast and a conversation with a postman. Imran wondered what they were talking about and went closer to them. Just then, the puppet and the postman stopped talking and turned to face him. They were both grinning and their grins grew wider and wider.
Imran tried to open his eyes to wake up. But it didn’t work because he still couldn’t see anything. He must still be dreaming, hallucinating, maybe. Then, suddenly he saw Mr Eldritch’s face, 10 times bigger and floating above him, smiling the same smile he always had. His long fingers danced above him.
Imran woke up again. This time, it was day. He raced towards the computer where he had left Mr Eldritch. It was still there.
Imran scoured the Internet again to find something, anything about Mr Eldritch. He searched in various forums but there was nothing. “This is not possible”, Imran thought to himself.
As the days passed, the memories from the show got more vivid that Imran could not, for a second, think it had all been imagined.
At night, he is disturbed by the same dream where Mr Eldritch has tea with one of his guests. First, a postman. On the second night, it was with the old lady who used to live in the house, and after that, a police officer.
Every time, the dream ended with him seeing Mr Eldritch’s crooked smile above him – and Imran woke up.
On the fourth day, Imran fainted from exhaustion. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the attic, about to have breakfast with Mr Eldritch.
“Have some tea, won’t you?” said Mr Eldritch. His voice was deep and lifeless. The cup was empty, but Imran pretended to sip anyway.
“Were you in a real television show?” asked Imran.
Mr Eldritch chuckled. “TV rots the brain, my boy, and so will you.”
Before Imran could even say anything, he was back in his room. But it was bigger than before. It was massive. Or was it that he was much smaller now?
Imran craned his head around, but it was impossible. All he could see was the ceiling and his arm, just barely. But he realised it wasn’t his arm. It was a piece of wood attached to strings. Just then, he saw a huge person walking towards him. It was Imran himself!
The answer became clear moments later. Mr Eldritch was Imran and Imran was now Mr Eldritch. But it wasn’t just Imran in Mr Eldritch’s body.
He could feel others trapped in the puppet too. It felt cramped with thoughts, and Imran could hardly breathe.
Just then, he could see everyone who was stuck in this horrid purgatory. The mailman, the old lady, and the police officer were there too – everyone Imran had seen having breakfast with Mr Eldritch was there.
This is the personal opinion of the writer and does not necessarily represent the views of Twentytwo13.
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