First things first, this will probably get really dark really quick...

Next, it doesn't have the little parentheses (is that how you spell it?) by the name, because I didn't know exactly how to place this.

Before reading, take into account that I scared myself writing this...

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You and me in a playhouse
Living in a veil

Childish laughs ring off the walls, seeming to echo in the mirror as you watch. Figures dance around, taller and lankier than children, but just as quick and agile.
The laughter grows stronger as one of the darkened figures approaches the mirror.

We never need to go without
Memories bring no joy
Or peace

He isn't as thin as the rest of them, some muscle in his upper arms. A red and black cloth is draped over his shoulders, completely in tatters, and he stares into the mirror. His hair is ruffled and long, brushing his shoulders.
But the most terrifying thing is the blood splattered on his face, wide eyes just glinting from the mess.

We are alone
And all we need

He slowly walks back to the spinning, twirling, laughing others, his jaw still agape. Slowly, the laughter starts to turn to just one chuckle, repeatedly echoing off the dark walls.
The one from before is smiling so widely, you can see it from your side of the mirror. His teeth are an unnatural white.
One of the other figures walks up to him, their features unrecognizable. They collapse against the bloody man, and you can just see strings, cutting into the flesh on their hands, draping down to the floor.
And you hear the man speak.

Tuning out of their poison
Every waking day
Intolerance to overcome

"Dance for me, puppet! Your time has gone."
The figure wanders away, gait lopsided and stiff. With his arms crossed, the man watches him, seeming much too creepy to even exist in the dark corners of your mind.
You step away from the mirror, and the pictures fade. So, you shake it off, trying to get the image of the man's face out of your head.
You settle down for bed, as it's nearly midnight, and eventually fall asleep.
But memories that are not your own plague your mind.

Fortunes won,
By the boys with their guns

"Jerome! N-No!"
Tears stream down your face, salt nipping at the cuts on your lips. Your best friend smiles up at you, amongst the blood from his own wounds.
"Everyone dies, biggums."
The nickname sets you off, crying harder as you collapse. You've lost everyone, now.
His pulse fades under your fingers, and you scramble away.
You refuse to let him go.

We are alone
Nowhere to run

You awake, shivering. There was no way that was you. You don't know anyone named Jerome, nor do you own a checkered hoodie.
You glance over at the mirror and immediately wish you didn't. A boy's face is shown, skin milk white, hair knotted towards the back of his head. Gore and blood stains his forehead and right jawline, dark eyes stretched open as he studies you.
A string is wound around his throat, digging into the skin.
Shouldn't he be dead?

Bernadette,
You are my liberty

His head jerks to the side as he tilts it, and you scream and jump back. His teeth show, and, just like the man's, are an unnaturally bright white. The only difference are the inscicors, sharpened to shining points.
You take a necklace off your bedside table, and throw it at the mirror. The boy steps back, his movements rocking and almost robot-like. You watch as he starts towards the man in rags.
Was he the one the man was talking to yesterday?
The... puppet?

I celebrate the day
That you changed my history
Of life and death

You stay the night at a friend's house, hiding in the room most of the night. When you sleep, it's mostly restful, except for the moments when you do dream, and it's all blood and machines.
Your mother calls you the next day, asking why the necklace your little brother gave you was on the floor, and demanding to know when you would be home. She was moving the mirror out of your room, she told you, because of the crack down the middle of it.
You say you're coming home immediately, and hang up, gathering your things. By the time you get home, it's noon, and sweltering out. The only cool place is downstairs, because at the moment, the AC is out. You run down, only to see the mirror. Your mother was right; there is a crack in the center, and it's of a decent size.

We'll always lead you into
Love and regret

Like the day before, there's a face in the mirror. Wine eyes gore into yours, skin sticking to the skull. Wires cling to this boy's neck, infecting the skin.
Others stand behind him, eyes of all different colors. Some are blue, some green, some hazel.
The man shoos them away. "That's enough. The mirror is broken. You can't get out anymore."

But you have answers
And I have the key

Broken?
Were these... these things in your room? Had they wandered the real world?
And in that moment, you remembered.
A quiet "tee-hee" to wake you up in the middle of the night, shapes twisting around and eyes staring at you from corners of the room. You'd always pushed it away, and now, that you'd started seeing the visions in the mirror...
Was this their way of improvising?

For the door
To Bernadette

And what about the man? Could he see you? Could the humanoid creatures see you?
You start to back away from the mirror, turning and sprinting upstairs. Its a dark display, creatures warped and punished by being turned into the man's "puppets," but it's even creepier to think that they were... Alive. Sentient.
You shut your door, using an earring to lock it. That mirror will never come back into your room.
Not again.
You pick up the necklace from the floor, and flip it over. There, engraved on the back...
You could have sworn it wasn't there before.
Shivering and shaking, you reread it.

Not from your brother.
-Jerome

And then you remember.
Two years ago, your best friend passed away, and your brother gave you the little necklace, with the curved pendants, as a reminder of the boy. The mirror had been set up in your room by your father, to reflect what no one else saw: your imagination. The starving bodies of your friends, all tied up in knots of string and wire, came to mind. They'd been murdered in a quest to hurt you, but you still clung to their memories, their bindings nothing more than a metaphor.
You chuckle under your breath.
You are Mitchell Hughes.
You are the Puppet Master.

Winding down our emotions
Family and friends
Becoming ghosts to dream of...

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Like I said, I honestly don't know what this is. Its something, I'll give you that.

The song doesn't have much to do with it... Its just kind of there because it adds a bit of a more haunting note.

Anyways...

See you next chapter?

Bai