The Puppeteer is a puppet master that kills people so they can be his "puppets". Follow his journey through killing an innocent man.

his owner is BleedingHeartworks from Deviantart.

The Puppeteer wears a black coat, a black jacket and pants, black gloves, and a gray beanie hat. His eyes and mouth have a golden glow. His weapons are the golden strings.

Personality: Edit

When he was human, he was a very withdrawn person and an introvert but he also had a very creative soul. He took good care of his four younger siblings when their parents were away. As a vengeful spirit, he is manipulative, charming and a smooth talker to his victims. He is also narcissistic, cruel, stubborn, and only does everything for his own gain.


It all began when I started to notice quick changes in my mother.

No, it began way earlier than that when I really think about it. Years.  Maybe even before I could remember the difference between right and wrong, which is a pretty long time ago. I had always been one of the two brothers in my family. Our mother was single, she always had been ever since I could remember. Our father had bailed out on us when the news about me had arrived. We loved our mother, we really did. She bought us nice clothes even though she couldn't afford it, providing necessary food and making a good home for us. Everything was great, my mom just had some issues with drinking.

It wasn't just a problem, it was a big problem. She stayed single even though she tried to meet others. It would always go well in the beginning until she would change her mind and show the next man out the door. Always the same story with her. 

I felt very…alone. My brother wasn't very interested in playing with me, seeing he was about five years older and he always thought of me as the annoying little sibling. But all I wanted was company. 

I didn't find any success in making friends in school or during my spare time. I just spent every moment alone. My mom didn't care, of course. She was too busy trying to finish up her work, so she could spend the last hours at home drinking her evenings away. 

But I guess every single second of loneliness brought something out of me. I started to…daydream. A lot. Making imaginary friends was one of my favorite hobbies. Yes, a hobby. I made new ones so often it was hard to keep up - even for me. 

You see, there was this particular imaginary friend. 

He wasn't like the others. This was the only one who gave me more peace than anything. He'd play with me, of course, but he only came around night time. Then we'd talk and fool around making super sure my mom didn't hear my cheerful giggling. He was an expert on many things, but he was the best at crafting and making me puppets. Every day he'd turn up with a new doll, in any design I wanted it to be. That was his thing. 

The Puppet Man.

I always managed to escape the fact that I had imaginary friends, but with him…It was hard to deny he was actually there. Because I knew he was. Every night when he said I had to sleep, he stood by for another hour just to watch and make sure that I was actually falling asleep. His golden, glowing eyes observing me from afar in the darkness. I stared back at him. His grey face was keeping me calm as he kept smiling towards me. I fell asleep every night. 

But I couldn't talk to anyone about the creature visiting me every night. 

It was…odd.

Time went on as it should've. I grew up, so did my brother. Only thing that seemed to stay the same was mom’s drinking habits. My brother moved out around the age of 18, he couldn’t put up with her anymore.  I was only 12 at the time and I wouldn't get out of my home for a long, long time. I was waiting patiently though, I suppose that was the only thing I could do when being so…alone. 

My imaginary friend never left however, and it started to become a problem. He continued to visit me every single evening, keeping me company. I started to ignore him, I was mad… had to be.  At 12 years old the whole imaginary friend deal was ridiculous. I had other things to do anyway. Homework, playing on my playstation 2. I was…content. Not happy. Just neutral. I didn't feel lonely, I left that thought a long time ago. Yet there he was…staring at me with his face hidden beneath the shadows of my room, glowing eyes studying me. Another year passed. 

No success.

I eventually got tired of everything. School was being a downer and my mom got worse with her drinking. Even to that point where she started to self harm. She refused to talk to me, even when I tried to. She lost her job, eventually. It was it was something I had wanted to see happen for a long time, it always seemed like something that might help her realize she had a problem... But no, after that my mom wouldn't do anything but sit there…drinking all her problems away. She became angrier with time, everyone noticed so. Everyone who was…well, me. I did everything I could do not stay at home - sleeping over at my aunt's place or even trying to contact my brother. But there was certain nights I had to stay home and it was hell on earth. 

Every single day she would scold me for nothing. It was such stupid, simple things. Forgetting to buy milk on the way home, forgetting to cook dinner…What could I do? I was 13. My mom couldn't even tell me how sorry she was. She just kept on…And one night, she just lost it.

I remember it clearly. 

It was something about the dishes. I had to clean after dinner like always and this time I accidentally dropped a plate. It fell to the floor hitting hard, and shattered into tiny pieces. My mom was of course furious with me. I could understand her at some point, get why she was upset with me… but now I blamed her for everything that happened.

But this time she didn't just scream in my face for a minute or two. This time she was acting out violently, throwing a chair across the room. She screamed at me for not being the perfect son, how she'd lost everything because of me and my brother…Everything was our fault. A slap to the face. And then…she was done. 

I ran and locked up myself in my room. 

And there he was, waiting for me. It was evening after all. And for the first time in almost two years, I spoke to him. He was the only soul I could talk to. Even though he was imaginary, even though I was basically talking to myself. I didn't care. I desperately needed it.

And for the first time…He spoke to me.

He was more calm than I thought he'd be. 

"Your mom…she's evil.

I disagreed. She wasn't evil…Or was she? She had ruined my life, she hated me but still I shook my head. "Don't cry," He spoke to me. "Big boys don't cry… So calm down, I'll go talk to your mom.  Now go to sleep…You'll need it.

I did as he said. No questions, I went to bed. My heart was pounding and my head spinning. My mom never checked up on me…She would probably leave anyway. That's the only thing she ever did. Giving up on us, on everything…On life. It didn't take me long to fall asleep that night. In the morning I would just return to school like nothing had happened and find my same pathetic alcoholic mother the next day. 

But…there was never meant to be another day.

I woke up again. It was completely dark around me, the apartment had been lost of all it's power. I didn't wake up all by myself though, there was some kind of noise outside of my bedroom. Warily and insecure, I stepped up from my bed and moved out to the hall. It was a cracking noise. Like someone stepping on ice or on broken glass but it was far more dull than that. My curiosity took over and I continued until I found the source of the breaking and snapping sound. It was my mother's bedroom. 

What was going on in there? My mom was supposed to be sleeping at this hour…I came closer, the noise appeared louder. After a minute of listening outside of the room, I decided to go in. I pushed the wooden door and stumbled to my knees. What I saw…No one was supposed to see such a thing. 

My mom had been thrown towards the floor. Her face was bloody, and her nose seemed broken. She was kneeling down with her arms extended backwards in an unnatural position, hands cramping out of pain. She looked like she was screaming but only coughed out, wheezing hard. She saw me. And that's when I lost it.

I tried to scream, but I couldn't. I only crawled up towards the bedside, clutching unto it like It was the only thing to save me at that point. My mother's arms were breaking in front of my face, by something I couldn't see or hear. I could only see her, my mother. Scared for her life. 

And then he slowly appeared before me. His grey hands and face, emerging from the shadows. His golden eyes were completely focused on her, and then I could see what he was doing. With one foot on her back, His fingertips wept golden threads that had tied themselves to her arms.  He was breaking my mother's arms in two. 

My Puppet Man.

Then her bones wouldn't hold it anymore. They eventually broke, snapping in a horrible trail of sounds. I tried to scream again but everything was once again muted by my own fright. I tried to calm down, tried to realize I was only imagining everything. But it was real. My own friend, imaginary friend was killing my mom. And I did nothing to stop him.

He wasn't pleased, I tried to call to him, tried to beg for him to stop. But he just wouldn't listen. He only continued to hurt my mother further. He'd take his time, and seemed to slowly break every bone in her body. He forced me to sit there, made me watch as he broke my mother apart. He told me he was getting rid of evil. I wanted to believe him…but I just couldn't. He broke her legs, ribs…even fingers. Bones turning every direction they shouldn't. I screamed and screamed. No one heard me. His golden eyes turned to look at me as he hushed me for one final time.

Then, he strangled her. Beautiful golden glowing strings of death wrapped around her neck, squeezing out the last glimpse of life I could see in my mother's eyes. And it was the last thing I could remember before it went dark, I passed out on the floor by the bedside. 

Our neighbors had heard my screaming and had called the police. Everyone pitied the orphan who had seen his mother die in front of her eyes. But according to them, my mother hadn't been murdered. She had been found in the middle of the room, with a noose around her neck. The rope hadn't been able to carry her body after a while and had bursted in two, causing my mother's corpse to fall down on the floor.

I never spoke about her death ever again, neither did I say another word about my imaginary friend. Maybe it had all been horrible dream, and he was always just in my head…

Even at my mom's funeral, I was completely alone. My brother didn't even bother showing up. Only my aunt and uncle was there. Everyone saw this coming somehow. Everyone but me. And I spent hours waiting for him to come and pick me up. The only one who had listened to me all this time. Held me company. Comforted me when I needed it the most.

And when I was standing alone by her coffin, I suddenly felt someone grabbing my hand.

And I smiled. His grey hand on my shoulder.

"I never thought you'd come back."



About a month after my college departure, my parents sent me a white box.

The outside of it was decorated with what seemed to be a floral pattern. At first, I didn’t really understand the meaning of the damn thing.  My parents had always been more of the home-crafting kind, never enjoyed buying things they knew I’d never use.

The box was a complete mystery until they told me what it contained.

Notes, small pieces of paper that held simple quotes and sentences; something to keep my spirits up when I needed it.

Without really questioning it, I kept it. I knew my parents always meant well—even though they had a strange way of showing it. Like with that white box.

The first few months of my first college year, the box sat neatly between the schoolbooks and journals I had started to collect during my studies. The lock on the box was still intact, since I hadn’t even bothered opening it. The concept of the stupid thing still bothered me—I felt as if it was making me long for home.

And as time went on, that’s exactly what I did.

I longed for home.

My flat mate didn’t really strike me as a social person. The first week after I arrived at campus he kept a low profile, not really wanting to socialize in any way, which I was fine with. I had never been a party person, not even when I was with the closest of friends. So I left him alone.

College is supposed to be the place for everyone to find themselves. That’s what I had always been told—but there was no denying the fact that I hated it there. As I tried my best to keep up with studying, I could feel myself become more and more passive. Back in the day, there wasn’t a single night where I didn’t stay up until late hours writing away, wishing I’d be something. But as it became more and more apparent that my dream was far away—I just couldn’t hold it up anymore.

As time went on, I began pulling myself away from any human contact. The schoolwork quickly started to go over my head, but I couldn’t return home. Not after my parents had paid for the entire trip to get here. Not after spending so many hours trying to get in.

The white box reminded me of that.

With the loneliness, soon came the paranoia.

I quickly accepted it, even while realizing it wasn’t the best choice. But I had become so tired, I lost my focus on what actually mattered. Every day it became harder and harder to even walk out the door. I made excuses to remain in my single room in the shared apartment, waiting out hour after hour. A few weeks later, the teacher’s e-mails about my absence stopped. It was as if I had no one to call, no one to trust. There was no way I was calling up an old friend, or even knocking on my roommate’s door to talk. They hated me. I had no idea why they did, but that’s what I kept telling myself.

I was simply good for nothing.

That room became my cage.

Then it was too late to turn back.

During the next few weeks of complete solitude, I had allowed bad habits to creep their way in. Skipping meals only to substitute them with cigarettes quickly became a daily routine, as well as sleeping through most of the days. But then there were nights I couldn’t sleep. I felt too restless, I wasn’t able to fully relax the way I usually could. So instead, I stayed up.

Like tonight.

It had somehow escaped my mind that the box I had received from my parents had remained locked. With no further ado, I decided to finally break it open. I tossed the lock aside and proceeded to open it.

The description my parents had given about the box seemed relatively true. The thing had been filled with pieces of lined paper, neatly folded to make the receiver give the extra effort to turn them up and read them. But as I did so, I slowly came to realize how everything that had led up to this moment had been a complete waste of time.

“Don’t be afraid to call us if you need us.”

“Never forget where you came from.”

“We love you.”

Instead of forcing myself to read any more notes, I slammed the lid closed. The notes that I had already read were tossed out, along with the box itself. The stress that had been weighing down on me since I arrived here was suddenly pouring out like a river, forcing my vision to go blurry from the tears. If I told myself it would get better, I would have been lying to myself. Things clearly weren’t going to get better and things weren’t going to look up.

In a fit of rage I left the room, grabbing my pack of white Winstons, and set out into the night.

The second I reached the outside, I allowed my lungs to inhale the chilling cold air. Despite being a heavy smoker lately, it felt even harder to breathe tonight. But the smoke at least made things a little bit easier.

Several minutes passed and nothing seemed to be getting any better. The contents of the box kept going through my head, the words repeating over and over until they didn’t mean anything anymore. If my parents loved me so much, why did they let me leave? They knew what kind of hellhole it was to be alone, so why give me the option to do it?

It just seemed stupid. Too stupid to make any sense.

As the rain began to fall, I scrapped the remaining stub of the cigarette and decided to head back in. As I stepped back in, I couldn’t deny that I feared going back to the room and locking the door. Maybe if there was someone to just step in and stop me, what if . . .

And in that same second, I heard something.

In my mind I knew the house was old and could give off many sounds, but this was something new.

It was as if someone was breathing down my neck. With each step, I tried my best to ignore it. But the closer I came to the bottom of the stairs, the more obvious it was. Someone was right beside me.

When I turned around, I thought that I’d find nothing.

But instead what I found was a man.

At first I had trouble making out who he was. Believing it was someone from the same floor as me, I wanted to give him a simple nod as hello. As I continued to look at him it quickly became clear that he wasn’t from around here. The torn black clothing gave me the impression of someone who was homeless. Was he the one who had been breathing down my neck? And if so, how did he even get in here?

With a little bravery in my throat, I uttered a few words.

No response.

This was creeping me out. I just shook my head at the strange man, figuring I was better off going back to my room upstairs. I turned to go, but the second I took a step, a noise broke out. It was distant and yet close. A hollow sound erupted my thought process, causing me to stop dead in my tracks. The man was crying.

At this point, I had no intention of staying. I wanted to just leave, go back to my room, and close myself in. As I tried to move, however, I felt like my feet were frozen to the stairs. Turning slowly, I could see him come into view. And now, he had turned to me.

He stood in front of me—and his appearance was the most unnerving thing I had ever seen.

His face wasn’t painted with scars or deformed in any way—it was completely gray. His eyes were two orbs of golden hue, glowing faintly in the dark stairway we both stood in. His mouth, which had been a frown before, was turning up into a smirk—taunting me from across the few stairs that remained between us.

“You’re alone here. Aren’t you?”

And as he spoke, his voice echoed with a static underneath. He sounded like a broken radio, going through several transmitters to push his words through. I was unable to turn my gaze away from him, incapable of ignoring him and turning back.

Suddenly, and seemingly without my control, my body ran. My eyes kept still, looking at him before he disappeared from my view. Instincts going wild, my feet had led me back into my room. I slammed the door behind me.

A few seconds went by and then it suddenly dawned on me. The man I had seen back in the stairway wasn’t human—nor was he of this world. But the way he had spoken to me . . . It was as if he was pretending to be someone I knew. Did I know him? Or was the state of shock playing tricks on me, leaving my brain fragmented and scrambled?

It slowly dawned on me.

Up until now, I had played it as if everything had been fine. But it wasn’t, it never had been. And now my insanity, my entire feeling of loneliness, had presented itself outside my door. The weight on my shoulders seemed even heavier now, as if it was pushing me slowly down. My body seemed weak as I felt my limbs going numb, losing hope. My back against the door, I slid down toward the floor with tears in my throat. It took me a few minutes before I was able to even look up again. With tears streaming down my face, it was hard to make out anything in the midst of blur. My heart was pounding in my chest, beating hard. I knew I wasn’t alone in the room anymore. And what scared me the most was that I had allowed him inside.

Once again, the breathing returned. But this time, I just didn’t mind. I didn’t care what he was going to do to me. So when I felt him coming close, I merely shivered beneath his touch. He was cold. Almost as if he had died and come back to life. But he wasn’t anything more than a hallucination. That’s what I kept telling myself. When his hand grabbed mine, I followed. My legs standing right up on the floor, my eyes barely able to see anymore. The longer he stood beside me, the darker it became.

When he asked me to dance with him, I said yes.

His free hand wrapped itself around my waist and the other kept its firm grip on mine. My head slowly began leaning toward his shoulder. Being so close to him, it was impossible to avoid smelling him. He smelled wet—like tea that had been left in the cold forgotten water for too long. His hair, torn and tangled, fell beneath my head as his shoulder supported my weight. Maybe he was the best thing that could ever happen to me. Maybe the worst.

But I’d never live long enough to tell.

As we kept dancing, he started humming to me. Telling me a story of a man he once knew. A Puppeteer, who could steer his puppets with his broken dreams. Even though no one saw the value of his friendship, he managed to turn them all to like him. But no matter how many friends he claimed, he always still felt lost. Unloved. Broken. Alone. And then he whispered into my ear.

“If you let me, I can guide you to him. But you need to let go.”

There was nothing more to remember than the sweet story playing in my head when I closed my eyes. His cold firm grasp held my body close to his as he seemed to lower me down, closer to the floor. The lower he allowed me to slip the more I felt like as if I was floating.

“Do you feel it?”

Maybe. No. Yes. I hated to admit it, but just as he had been plaguing my mind only seconds earlier he suddenly set me free. I felt empowered, but empty. The bittersweet feeling of allowing myself to go this far was tainting my mind. Even when he whispered into my ear softly about my own choices, I couldn’t help but feel selfish. Maybe he knew how I felt, deep inside. Maybe that’s why he came to save me away from this place.

I wanted to believe him.

I believed him.

But the second I had let my entire mind go, that’s when he betrayed me.

The man I had first thought was there to protect me was now instead the one who sought out to destroy me. His hands had grabbed my wrists with a massive force, holding them still to keep his precision intact. With two distant cuts, I felt my wrists starting to pulsate, but no blood left me. Within my eyesight, I could see it clearly. My muscles were pulled out in long strings of veins and flesh. The sound caused my mind to go numb, my brain screaming for release. Every joint in my body was aching, trembling beneath his strong grasp. I tried to beg him to stop. Tried to push him off from me. 

But no matter how hard I tried, he held me down.

Gasping for air, the fingers within my vision had started to turn white as they were slowly pulling at his sleeve. I felt heavy. My body no longer floated—no. With my heavy heart, he was the only one who was able to carry me now. Carrying me over the floorboards, hauling my lifeless body with his simple touch. As his hands went for my neck, I drew my last breath.

If I had been able to face how lonely I felt, I would have been able to tell my Mom and Dad that I missed them. I wouldn’t have been too shy to tell my flat mate that I needed someone to speak to. I just couldn’t stand facing all of my problems on my own.

It took too long.


Jonathan Blake was born July the 25th, 1974 in Yulee, Florida to Mary Blake (Hernandez) and Christopher Blake. Early on in his childhood, Jonathan became very fascinated with the world of musicals and theater, something that both of his parents encouraged him to continue with. Through this, he’d do anything to feed his obsession. Watching late hours on TV became something of the ordinary day, as well with hanging around the theater in town as much as he could. Jonathan soon turned to be the oldest child in the family, with his one younger brother and three younger sisters.

Because of his parents both working two jobs to stabilize their big family, he was often left with taking responsibility for the others during the days. He was taught to care for his siblings as at an early age, which brought him up to become almost like a parent for his siblings. The older he became, the more he seemed to feel worn out and exhausted, but was pushed further so he could still care for his family when his parents weren’t there. 

His early teenage years went by as the start of High School came closer, something that Jonathan felt like he had been awaiting his whole life for. From of the constant care of his younger siblings, he hadn’t had a lot of chances to make friends and saw this as a new chance for him to make his own life happen. 

In freshman year, he joined a Theater Club to invest himself further in his interest for drama and of course to meet others who shared the same interest. And even with his introvert ways, he managed to make friends with one of the girls named Emra, who was also in the same class as him.

Emra was in many ways one of the popular kids at school. She was pretty, fun and talented, a girl that was often asked out by the boys. But since she aspired to become a professional ballerina and dancer, those requests were often denied. But as Jonathan, she had a soft spot for theater, and was often put to the leading female roles of the plays they both participated in. 

Jonathan had never experienced such a close bond with someone else before and instantly became very close to her. The two of them could often be seen sitting together at lunch and small talking during breaks. Even with their different popularity status, the two of them never stopped hanging out. Eventually Jonathan asked Emra out and they started dating, something that everyone around them had seen coming from a million miles away. 

During the entirety of High School the two of them were inseparable. Emra never failed to be there for Jonathan when he was having difficulties with his depression and Jonathan never missed out on standing up for Emra when she needed to talk things out about her demanding parents. On several occasions, Jonathan would pick Emra up late hours at her house to then go back to his place and just hang out, playing guitar and sharing the love for their shared interest. 

It seemed as if it was a perfect love story. 

But as their last year at high school started to come to an end, so did their relationship.

Back at in Emra’s home, her parents who had been unknown about their relationship presented her with an ultimate choice; If she were to be going to Ballet school through their sponsorship she had to break up with Jonathan. Unable to ignore her dream and long-time goal, she promised to break up with him as soon as she could. 

Emra started to act more and more distant towards Jonathan, of course. He was clueless, starting to suspect if he had done anything wrong to deserve that kind of treatment from her. At many points he tried to talk to her, but would usually only get a short answer from her in return. Slowly his dreams about their future life was falling apart and soon the two stopped speaking to each other. As time went on, the two of them both graduated high school. Emra disappeared off to her future dreams, leaving the small town and Jonathan in it. 

As time went on, Jonathan started to withdraw himself more and more away from people. He said goodbye to his parents and moved to new apartment across the city, away from the old neighborhood and streets he was so used to. His high school friends soon became an old memory and for them, Jonathan became the same. He started to cut off all contact with any human being, residing in his tiny one-room apartment. 

Weeks seemed to go on with his entire world just standing still. Slowly it was making him go mad. On several nights he’d pace back and forth, feeling a voice in the back of his head nagging him on how to solve the situation. Without him in the world, no one would notice a change. 

And one night, he finally made up his mind. 

Too emotional to write a suicide note or call someone to say his last goodbye, the rope that had once been used when moving in suddenly seemed to have it’s final purpose.

The attempt to commit suicide didn’t go over fast however, as he jumped from the kitchen table with the rope around his throat he wasn’t able to snap his neck off at an instant moment. Instead his own suicide was dragged out, going on forever until all air had been cut off and his brain dozed off in one last sway of emotions. 

Anger, Helplessness. Sorrow.

But he never thought he’d come back.


  • Puppeteer is 20 years old
  • Puppeteer Has Three Proxies Emra,Zachary And Trinette
  • His creator is BleedingHeartworks
  • Friends with Bloody Painter
  • He Is Shipped With Zero.
Character sheet emra by highwind valor-db3z9j5


Theme song: Golden Strings

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