The scratching of the gramophone’s needle is barely concealed by the sickly-sweet melody of a Jack-in-the-Box. The room bears all the normal accouterments of a bedroom, except for a row of handcrafted wooden puppets hanging above the dresser.

The puppets. The sad clown. The over-weight glutton. The studious servant. The cowardly soldier. The indifferent doctor. The wise witch. The beautiful lovers, wooden hands intertwined, unable to separate. That is, until the lady’s carved body spasms violently, snapping off the connection she has with her beau.

Her limbs continue their disjointed dance, snapping the cords that hold her aloft. Her descent pauses on the dresser top before she slumps to the carpeted floor. Shattered and broken, her death throes cease. She is a battered creature, bruises now apparent on her wooden facade. Cracks in her painted eyes give way to reddish-brown ooze. She becomes limp, a dead plaything.

She has become a pupaphobics nightmare stillborn, lying like decaying matter upon the floor.