Puddle Jumper

[WARNING: Physical violence, gore, and depiction of mental health issues.]

The past is an unyielding stone, carved by time, beyond our grasp. Yet, through the threads of fate, we are bound as one. Thus, with these fleeting acts of mine, I pray the future may be redeemed—long after my breath fades.

—Kameko Tanaka, High Warden

I. First Puddle (2000, Age 5)

The crackling voice of a radio announcer slices through the humid July air in a fenced backyard in Forest Lakes, Charlottesville: “And that’s a homerun for Chipper Jones in the 8th inning—Braves up 5-3 against the Phillies!” Laughter and barbecue smoke weave a thick haze of charred beef and sunscreen. A tipsy neighbor flails his arms in a clumsy cheer, knocking his half-full Budweiser onto the cool cement. The beer fizzes and pools into a shallow puddle, ignored by all—except for Shirly, a curly-haired Bichon Frise with inquisitive black eyes. She tilts her head at the amber gift seeping toward her paws, then laps it up with gentle, quick flicks of her tongue.

Five-year-old Daniel stands at the pool’s shallow edge, a wiry silhouette, swim trunks dotted with cartoon sharks. The blue water glints below, tugging at him—why’s it calling me? He leans forward, thumb dipping in to swirl the surface, brow furrowed in focus. The water quivers, lifting toward him like liquid drawn to a magnet. His hazel eyes widen, trance-bound, small frame stiffening as the ripples hum faintly.

Nearby, Dad—a burly man with a sunburned neck—stands at the grill, a Coors in one hand, rolled up newspaper, swatting flies, in the other. Then, without warning, Daniel tips forward. No splash, no cry—just a silent, face-first plunge, like a stone dropped into a well. He sinks, head grazing the pool’s bottom with a dull thud. The water swallows him whole. “Danny!” his father bellows, the paper and bottle dropping to the patio. He dives in, a cannonball of panic, as shrieks pierce the air. He hauls Daniel out, limp and pale, laying him on the stone. His lids clamp tight below a red-scratched forehead, tiny hands twitching as if still reaching for the water. “Call 911!” someone yells.

Soon Shirly stands in the front yard with the family, her tail twitching at the ambulance doors slamming shut. As Daniel’s blanket slips, a shimmering silvery-white strand—fine as gossamer, veiled from human sight—uncoils from his side, spilling across the asphalt. It glints in the fading light, only Shirly’s canine eyes catch, slithering back through the open side gate. She pads after it, tracking the thread to the pool, where it dips beneath the surface—newly woven there. Unfazed, she ambles back to the patio, lapping her beer puddle as the radio hums: “Braves win, 6-4.”

o O O o

Night falls, heavy and warm. The house sits empty, lights off, the family at the hospital’s ER. The radio, left on, crackles with Sting’s voice, warped and low, crooning “every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you” into a haunting slur. Shirly lounges on her wicker chair, ears twitching at the unsettling hum. Abruptly, a hiss of static erupts—sharp and shrill—cutting through the song, jolting her upright with a low, anxious whimper.

At the pool, beneath the diving board, the water stirs. The silvery strand pulses, submerged and taut. Ripples bloom in widening circles as two fingertips breach the surface—long, glossy black nails veined with gold, gleaming wet. A pale hand follows, the Tamate Strand coiled around its wrist like a tether to unseen depths. Then, a body rises, swift yet unnatural, as if the pool’s heart spat her out on a hidden current. Raven-black hair slicks back from a sharp, angular face; gray eyes snap open. She emerges half-submerged, naked and luminous under the pool’s lone light, a 20-year-old figure of terrible grace.

Her right hand bears scars—jagged, vein-like trails branching from her nails across her fingers, twisting down her wrist like blackened roots. They pulse faintly, paired with golden threads in her manicure, a mark of something ancient and wrathful. As she steps forward, water clings to her, viscous as oil, trailing in sluggish waves.

Shirly cowers, a low whine escaping her throat as she burrows into the cushion. The trespasser turns toward the sound, her presence a shadow laced with malice—beauty twisted into something that chills the marrow. She drifts forward with the smooth, practiced glide of royalty. Her lips curve into a dark, beautiful smile, venomous and cold. The silvery strand slips from her grasp, its glow dimming on the patio’s edge, abandoned like a shed skin. Her right hand extends, index finger dragging along Shirly’s back with a cruel, deliberate tease, hooking into the collar. With a flick, she lifts the trembling dog—towel and all—to her bare chest. Shirly shivers, a trickle of urine staining the cloth, as the figure clutches her close, a predator cradling prey.

She glides to the locked sliding glass doors and pauses, gray eyes glinting, peering into the darkened home as she scans the cozy stillness with cold intent. Without a sound, she slips through the side gate, vanishing into the warm July night, leaving the pool still and the air thick with unspoken dread.

II. Second Puddle (2015, Age 20)

The fine end of Daniel’s glowing tether—thin as spider silk—dangles over Ivy Creek’s jagged cliffs, stretching several miles to McIntire Park. It’s a fisherman’s lure cast across worlds, forged in a timeless bargain beneath the sea, a paradox threading fifteen years of shadow.

There, it finds 20-year-old Daniel Carter, lean and pale, his unkempt sandy hair falling over bloodshot eyes. He sits alone on a weathered bench, today’s newspaper in his lap, staring at the Rotunda’s clock face, faintly visible over the treeline, lost in a fog of half-formed thoughts, watching time tick by.

Fifteen years have passed since the poolside coma erased his first five years, a void so absolute it left nothing—not a whisper, not a shadow—to reclaim. Orphaned at 7 when his parents’ car plunged off the Rivanna River bridge into its murky depths. Now a high school grad scraping by as a gas station clerk, he haunts this park for echoes of what few memories of his parents he does still have–lost family picnics.

A faint drizzle mists the air, pooling water in shallow dips across the park’s trails. His drifting thoughts tug at a nearby puddle. Presbyterian Church bell tolls four deep, resonant notes, snapping Daniel from his reverie. On a nearby bench, a woman, long raven hair, mid 30s, has settled silently, her sharp face softened by a friendly tilt. She hums “Every Breath You Take,” knitting a silken band—its threads glint faintly, impossibly strong. “That’s interesting,” Daniel says, eyeing her work. “A headband for someone special?”

“For a dear friend,” she replies, her voice a velvet murmur, “to keep him close.” She slides beside him, knitting in hand. Her black nails catch his eye, a scarred hand’s veins peeking from her sleeve—he looks away, polite. “I’m Daniel Carter,” he offers. She smiles. “I’m Princess Etsuko, but call me Etsu.”

Her odd name jars him. He glances at a nearby puddle—its reflection bends, edges smudged as if pressed by unseen hands. Curious, he kneels, dipping his left thumb in, stirring ripples to clear the oily sheen. Instead of his own reflection, he sees moving shadows. “What the…?” “Is something wrong?” Etsu asks in response, her voice soft as venom, peering over his shoulder. The puddle’s depths pulse; a faint green glow seeping upward. He turns toward her voice, now close, and mutters, “This puddle’s strange… Am I going crazy?”

In reply, Etsu ensures no onlookers lurk nearby, then hisses, “Korizu”—freezing his body in place—rigid, hovering. Swift as a spider, she slips the silken headband over his mouth, muffling him with its thick inner weave, coiling more silken yarn around his legs and wrists—hogtying him like a felon bound for the squad car.

Meanwhile, the puddle stretches wide towards them. “Well, look at that” she whispers, dragging her right index finger across his cheek. “Seems you have a way with water, my little puddle jumper.” Soon, a slick sheen pools under his bound frame. “Keshite,” she intones, freeing his body—gravity topples him in. Daniel drops into the puddle he unknowingly summoned, the glowing fishing line trailing after him. Etsu coils its miles-long length and tosses it in. “And let her know I’m ruling just fine.”

o O O o

Daniel plunges through a damp, lightless void—hours, seconds, an eternity—his mind fraying. This can’t be happening! The void spits him out, soaked and shivering, onto a stone floor pooled with water. Jade walls shimmer green, low ceilings crush down—an endless undersea fortress matching the reflection in the puddle. Where am I? Bound and gagged, he flops helplessly, a fish out of water.

A girl—13, fierce—looms over him, tugging at her long black ponytail, black nails veined with gold, scars twisting up her hand. “How’s creaky old me ruling out there?” she jeers, dragging her scarred finger across his forehead, tapping hard between his eyes, drawing blood. Her again—how? Tears sting as he stares, mute. She grips a silver strand sprouting from his chest—What the hell is that? Attached to me? His mind screams: It’s alive, it’s mine—has it always been there? Reality splinters. What am I?

She coils the tether tight, gray eyes darting over her shoulder—footsteps? She leans close, pressing the bundled Tamate Strand to his forehead—scarlet smears. “You were, and will be, my anchor… Danny.” she whispers. Clutching her strand’s end, she snatches a silver pitcher—hurls its water in a fierce rush over his puddle. It surges beneath him, hogtied, gagged—swallowed fast by his own portal. Daniel drops through—chlorine floods his mouth, ears throb—sharks flicker on his trunks—swimming pool? Dad?

No—bound, blind, he’s hurled to McIntire Park—mind unraveling before the paradox.

III. Third Group of Puddles

Official Log: Nurse Kameko Tanaka, PMHNP

Patient: Daniel Carter, Age 25

Entry Date: March 23, 2020

Patient, Daniel, 25, under my care for five years, had a psychotic break with agitation, confusion. Charlottesville PD found him at McIntire Park, soaked, curled tight on his side by a puddle—arms clutched close, shivering, eyes shut. He screamed, “Two witches tied me—they’re in the water!”—tearing at his shirt. First responders restrained him—pupils dilated, unresponsive—to UVA ER, catatonic, held 72 hours here. Because of fixation with water we do not allow him near any large puddles. Instead, he spills cups onto trays, staring at droplets from inches away, tilting his head at odd angles as if peering through a hidden lens. He is frequently transfixed by tiny puddles in the courtyard—gazing into them for hours like he’s looking for witches. Also, he requests a daily newspaper, clutching it like a talisman; it seems to calm him.

o O O o

At the park. Hands keep grabbing! Two of her?—ponytail over there—both scarred hands. Said I’m her anchor. Strand’s tugging me—feel it in my gut. Lift my shirt—nothing there. At room now. No big puddles here. Thumb on the rim—trace the thimble. Opens it. Water glints—moving reflections in the thimble! Flowers growing backwards?—wrong wrong wrong. Nurse’s voice—growl—grrrrr. Kind. Watches me—safe eyes. I can move puddles. Show her. Spill the cup—make it wider—hand dips in—cold-wet—tried to enter. Puddle too small. I can’t fit through. But can see in there–Princess witch is there!—pacing pacing pacing—for me? No—scared—don’t let her come. Nurse voice says stop. Did I show her? Try on my own. Secret tiny puddles. Look in there. Fish—swimming backwards—always backwards—why? These are my puddles! Nurse again—hunched—talks like a frog–I like her–Nice–Kinda like Mom. Newspaper’s crinkled. Dad’s hands flipping pages—gone now. Hold it tight. Made new puddle on floor. Witch is over there—is that her? Has very short hair—she’s even younger now!—waiting. Saw me looking—did she? Quick–Dump out the water!

- Daniel Carter’s Thoughts

IV. Fourth Puddle (2025, Age 30)

Late at night, Etsuko Ryūgū, 44, raven-black hair bound in a tight bun, glides through the hospital’s psychiatric unit. Now a Mental Health Technician, her sharp face wears a practiced smile, scarred hands—hidden in thin gloves as she logs vitals with clipped precision. She scans the door log, then slips into Daniel’s hospice room, his frail form sunken in sleep, breath faint. Beside him, an old Charlottesville Daily Progress lies open; her finger drags along the crinkled obituary. Kameko Tanaka, 57, of Staunton, Virginia, died January 12, 2021, in her bathtub. Born in Japan, she was a steadfast nurse at Western State Hospital, her gruff voice a familiar comfort, her kind, steady care a quiet strength for patients over decades. Etsuko grins at the paper, a predator’s smirk. “My father’s warden, thinking you could entrap me forever—trailed me to this wretched world, only to drown in your own failure,” she hisses, her voice a venomous thread weaving past and present.

She turns to tonight’s victim, watching his chest rise and fall—a silent executioner masked as caregiver. “Drink your tea, Danny—your puddle-jumping freed me long ago; waking ends it,” she whispers, then slinks into shadow, garrote in hand—silvery yarn twisted tight, a lethal coil—snapped taut between scarred fingers. She waits for his eyes to flutter open, eager to choke out his memories and savor her unshackled life at last.

o O O o

Kids laughing. Swings creak. I’m little again? Playing. Sand crunches under my shoes. Inside now. Ms. Kameko’s room—Greenbrier Elementary. She’s smiling. Wait. Nurse Kameko? Same frog voice—booming. That’s her. Nice lady. I can remember! She reads to us. A Book about a cursed Princess—evil spell hit her. Burned her hand—instead of her mom. Broke her mind. King locked her in a fortress—huge—underwater. Loved her but scared of her. She tricked a boy—like me?—to escape. Portal hopper. He fished her out—saved her.

Ms. Kameko is staring right at me—eyes pierce through. Voice clear—strong—magic cuts the fog. “Daniel, do NOT let go of the green jade. It can save you!”

She’s back to the storybook—calm—like nothing happened. Cursed princess hurt the boy’s dog. She’s bad—terrible—dangerous. Book shuts. I split now–float up—30-year-old me—watching little Danny. Both of me—here at the same time. Kid me listened then—Old me understands now.

Dream shifts—hospital garden. Night. Garden puddle big now!—shiny. Little Danny walks over—traces it with his thumb. Jade fortress glows—submerged. He steps through. Small room now. Girl—short black hair—like in my little puddle—It’s Princess Etsuko—but younger—7—at a table—jade-green tea set—gold veins streaking it—thin as eggshells. “Hello, I’m Princess Etsuko. Been expecting you—your name?” Smiling—soft. “Hi—I’m Danny. Dreaming? Where am I?” Eyes roam—jade walls—waterfall hums on the wall—smooth—flat—water sheeting down—quiet—dripping. “Yes—sorry it’s strange—Will break the man’s mind to get you here—it’s a dream for him–but not for you.”

She stands—walks to the window—beckons. ”Look…” We stare out—ocean above—fish swim by—sunlight streams through. Her scarred right hand clasps mine—gentle—then tight—ow! my thumb. “This was mine—all of Ryūgū-jō—beyond the sea. Not anymore.” Giggles—lets go. “Tea time!” Back to the table—pours magic tea—two green jade cups. “Danny, help me. This tea—Otohime’s Brew—does nothing to me.” Stares at her scar. “But you—it’s more. Watch…” Lifts my cup—guides my thumb along the edge. Ripples—only very faint. “You’ll get better—I promise.” Smiles—glances back—nervous—someone coming?

Frog voice—growls—“Don’t LET GO!” I remember—bad princess?—she scares me!—Thumb locks onto green handle. Etsuko stands—points to the waterfall—smooth—shimmering. “Your portal—one of many!” Grins—leans close. “We’ll know each other—for a long time.” Taps my forehead with scarred fingers—black nails. “Go home now.” Flicks her hand at the waterfall—I hurry through, escaping her.

o O O o

In the dark, silent hospice room, Daniel jolts awake, heart pounding, breaths shallow and sharp, as memories of his 5-year-old self snap into place with the fractured years since. Panic grips him—betrayal stings deep—grief floods in, realizing Princess Etsuko’s cursed hand has twisted his life, stolen his family, bound him to her will. His fist clenches tight; then he feels it—the jade teacup hooked around his left thumb, cool and real. He bolts upright—the cup smacks the table’s edge, shattering—shards scatter. “What in the worl-!” he blurts, eyes wide in the dimness.

His gasp chokes mid-word—a taut, silken cord of twisted yarn bites his throat—windpipe crushes tight. Grunts rasp behind—raw—straining—Daniel claws at the coil round his neck—fingers slip, useless—flails back. Arms thrash—hands smack warm flesh—then a hot rush sprays over him—thick slick oil—iron floods his mouth—rust clogs his nose—stings his eyes. Jagged porcelain slashes again. Etsuko’s snarls turn to a sharp “Kori—,” then cut to wet gurgles—drowning in sputters—glacial chant halted mid-slice—Liquid soaks him, warm and syrupy. The cord slackens—he gasps free—legs kick—a thud hits the floor. Etsuko’s rattling gasps ebb through fleeting seconds—silence falls, thick and black.

o O O o

The sun rises over the evening’s violence, and we see Etsuko’s raven hair spilling across a wide puddle of her blood. Daniel’s crimson-soaked Daily Progress lies beside it—a requiem for his parents, avenged in her fall. Jade teacup shards gleam, a puzzle for the morning shift, who’ll miss his escape. A thumbprint stains the coagulating edge—our puddle-jumper’s desperate leap—escaping his broken mind through her red pool to a gentler dawn.

- The End -

Follow-Up Report:

Albemarle County Sheriff’s Office

Case #2025-0327-014

Western State Hospital, Staunton, VA

On 03/27/2025, 0530 hours, staff discovered Mental Health Technician Keiko Tamura, 44, deceased in Patient Daniel Carter’s room—throat slashed, blood pooled, broken hospital teacup suspected weapon. Carter, 30, absent—bloody footprints trailed out his door. Located 0612 hours near Route 250 overpass, one mile east, blood-soaked gown, mumbling, “Revenged Mom and Dad—escaped the princess.” Teacup fragments match wounds. Carter detained, returned to psychiatric ward pending murder charges—now under strict observation for suspected instability.