The Puppet Experiment: I Let a Stranger Control My Life for 30 Days

Day 1: The First Command

The email arrived at 3:17 AM. Subject line: "Let me fix your life."

I almost deleted it—until I saw the first line:

"You drink cinnamon tea every Tuesday to remember your grandmother. You still have the necklace she gave you before she died. You never wear it because you're afraid you'll lose it."

My hands shook. No one knew these things. Not my friends. Not my therapist. Certainly not some random email sender calling themselves "Guide."

The message ended with a simple instruction:

"Today, wear the necklace. Reply with a photo by noon. If you ignore this, I'll know."

I laughed. A weirdo with good research skills. But something made me open my jewelry box for the first time in years. The silver pendant felt cold against my skin. I sent the photo.

At exactly 12:01 PM, my phone buzged:

"Good. Tomorrow, wake at 5:30 AM. Run 2 miles. Don't eat until you're done."

Day 7: The First Red Flag

For a week, the commands were oddly beneficial:

"Apologize to your sister for the argument last Christmas."

"Donate the clothes you haven't worn in a year."

"Quit vaping."

I felt lighter. My followers loved the "Puppet Experiment" updates. "Who is this Guide??" they asked. "Are they watching you??"

Then came Day 7’s email:

"Delete all photos of your ex from your phone and cloud. Then text him: 'You were right about me.'"

My stomach dropped. Jake and I had ended badly. But I’d obeyed every command so far.

I deleted 387 photos. Sent the text.

His reply came instantly: "How did Guide know what I said to you?"

Day 14: The Game Changes

"Go to 224 River Lane at midnight. Stand under the streetlight for exactly 3 minutes. Don’t speak to anyone."

The address was an abandoned gas station.

Rain soaked through my shoes as I stood there, counting seconds. At 2:58, a black car slowed down. The window rolled down just enough for a voice to say: "She’s perfect."

I ran.

Guide’s next email: "You’re learning obedience. Good. Now: Empty your savings account. Withdraw $8,942 in cash. Wait for instructions."

Day 22: The Truth Leaks

I’d stopped posting updates. My followers were frantic. My sister called the police.

But Guide always knew:

"Tell the officer you’re fine. If you mention me, I’ll release your search history to your parents."

That night, I found a USB drive taped under my desk. On it: audio recordings of every phone call I’d made this month.

And a new command:

"Tomorrow, quit your job. Say you’re moving abroad. Pack one suitcase. Bring the money."

Day 30: The Final Command

The graveyard gate creaked as I pushed it open. My suitcase wheels caught on weeds.

Guide’s last email glowed on my phone:

"Dig where the willow tree’s shadow falls at midnight. What you find will free you."

The shovel bit into wet earth. One foot down. Two. Then—metal.

A small lockbox. Inside: a photo of me, age 9, at summer camp. Written on the back:

"You promised you’d never tell about the fire. But you whispered to Jake last year. Now you’ll learn silence."

The car engine roared behind me.

Epilogue: The Twist

(Posted 3 months later from a new account)

The police never found my phone or the money. They say I walked into the river voluntarily.

But if you’re reading this, Guide, know this:

I kept one photo you didn’t delete. The one where your watch reflects in the window.

And Jake always did have a recognizable tattoo on his wrist.