When my grandfather died I inherited his puppet.
The puppet was an ancient wooden dummy that had been lovingly cared for by my family for generations.
It had been our family longer than anyone could remember;
and it always creeped me out.
Its chipped paint and the way its eyes seemed to follow you as you moved around a room reminded me too much of "Slappy" the puppet from goosebumps.
Earlier this week I noticed things going missing, and how it seemed to show up in a different spot than I remembered putting it when they did.
Eventually I got fed up with this creepy nonsense and locked it in a trunk that I buried in the backyard.
The problem is, that as soon as I did, things started getting worse.
Now, as I hide in my room, listening to the sound of claws tapping on my hardwood floors and something snuffling on the other side of my locked door, I realize my mistake.
The puppet wasn't the cause of the problems, it was trying to stop them.