u/donavin221

I’m writing this story here today because I know I’m being hunted. I know that someone is after me, and I know that soon, I’ll be dead. Therefore, I desperately need to get this information out before they close in.
This all started a few weeks ago. I was sitting alone at home playing some Call of Duty on FaceTime with my girlfriend, when I noticed a notification drop-down on the screen above my girlfriend's face.

“One new message,” it read.

Pausing the FaceTime video and clicking on the notification, I was greeted with a single text message:

“Hello :)”

Confused, I exited out of the message, not wanting to interfere with the time I was having with my lover. Everything went on as usual for the rest of the evening, and eventually she and I decided that it was time for bed. Hanging up the call and plugging my phone in on my nightstand, I crawled into bed, where I soon drifted off to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I was perplexed to find 96 new messages from the unknown number.
The person had spammed, “Hello :)” nearly 100 times, and new messages continued rolling in even as I read.

I didn’t even dignify them with a response. I blocked the number and went on about my day. I had an 8-hour shift, and the company I worked for required me to leave my phone in my locker, so all day I was without it. Retrieving it at the end of my shift, I felt my heart drop as I saw the “one new message” notification written across my display screen.

“Hello :)” was written yet again like a lingering pest that refused to leave.

I blocked the number again and called my girlfriend.
We chatted on the phone about the whole ordeal while I drove home from work. I explained to her how I’d already blocked the number twice and that if it came up again, I didn’t know what I’d do. She told me how it could be an old friend messing with me, just looking for a reaction. I agreed with her, and I was determined not to give them one.

When I got home, I tossed my phone on the bed and hopped in the shower. When I got out, would you believe it, “one new message” on my display screen again, like deja vu. This message was different, though. It wasn’t the childish “hello” that I was expecting, no. This message read,

“Enjoy the shower? :)”

What. The. Fuck.

I immediately called my girlfriend.

“Miranda, are you fucking with me!?” I shouted into the receiver.

“What?? What are you talking about, fucking with you how?” she replied, aggressively.

“The texts I keep getting, one just asked me if I enjoyed my shower, and you’re the only one I told I was taking a shower! Please, Miranda, please just tell me if it’s you or not.”

“No, you silly butt. What about your family? They can hear you in the shower, can’t they?”

I stood there, embarrassed. She was right.

“Ahh..yeah, you may be right.”

“I know I am,” she said playfully, before ending our call.

Walking around the house to look for my older brother, who I was sure was the culprit, I found the home empty. I called out for my brother, no response. Called out for my mom, no response.
As I searched, my phone buzzed in my hand.

“One new message”

Feeling fear creep up my spine, I opened the message to find an image of my brother, tied to a chair and gagged; beaten bloody.

“Hello :),” read the message right below it.

I was completely mortified. I tried calling the number, and the phone went straight to making dial tone noises. New images came flooding in, and in each one, a new limb was severed from his body. The life drained from his eyes, photo by photo, until he was no more than a torso, ropes wrapping around him, soaked in blood.

“Does this have your attention :)” a new message read.

I was frozen; I didn’t know what to do. I felt my stomach churn as I ran to the bathroom, bile rising into my throat. Once I finished losing my lunch, I looked at my phone again to find that the number had been completely removed from my messages. All the images, all the messages, completely gone.

I called the police and explained to them what had happened, and they took the phone in for evidence. My mom was devastated, and her wails could be heard continuously from the very moment I told her the contents of the messages I received. Two months passed, and without a body or any of the photographic evidence from the phone, my brother was legally declared missing. The fact that no evidence could be pulled from the phone baffled me. All the technology the police force has at their fingertips, and yet, nothing.

I eventually mustered up the courage to buy a new phone, and everything went smoothly. That is, until two weeks ago. Bedridden and still utterly devastated over the loss of my brother, I lie there scrolling through Instagram reels. I was just about to go to sleep for the 4th time that day when my phone buzzed in my hand.

“One new message.”

My eyes welled up with tears, and my heart began to race as the memory of my brother's limbless torso came rushing back to my mind. Staring at the notification for what seemed like hours, I gathered my courage and opened it, ripping the band-aid off.

What I saw was an obscure image of the sidewalk, illuminated by street lamps. More and more images came rolling in, leading up the steps of what I then realized was my girlfriend's apartment complex.

I exited out of the messages immediately and called Miranda as fast as I could, feeling the phone buzz the entire time. My heart raced faster and faster as her phone went to voicemail each time.

In my car, I sped furiously down the road, calling Miranda back to back, and feeling my heart break more and more as more messages came in and her phone continued to go to voicemail.

Instant relief washed over me when I saw her pretty face light up my display screen and my phone vibrated as her call came through. I answered immediately with an exasperated, “Miranda? Are you okay? I’ve been getting messages that look like-”

I was cut off with the sound of breathing. Long, laboring breaths that I could feel against my face through the phone, before a voice came in.

“Hello,” was all I heard from the other end. In a deep, psychotic sounding voice. It was as though it were the voice of a man with the inflection of a child, and tears began to streak my face as the sound of snarking giggles was heard over my girlfriend's muffled cries.

The line went dead, and I opened the messages.

A complete slideshow of pictures showing the man’s point of view, walking to my girlfriend's front door. It then showed the door kicked open, revealing my horrified Miranda cowering on her couch. The images didn’t stop there, though. I received a full collage revealing her being knocked unconscious and then dragged to the trunk of the stranger's car, where he placed her, curled into the fetal position with her knees touching her eye sockets. That’s the last message I received, before the contact was erased again.

I was completely devastated. I knew the police wouldn’t be able to find any proof of those messages, and I was convinced that this was just the beginning of it. Returning home to think on what to do, I found myself completely in a daze. Lost in thought, completely ripped apart by the last few months' series of events.

A few days went by, and I saw reports of my girlfriend's disappearance all over the news. Her mother's desperate pleas shot through my heart and ate me alive. I thought about calling her, explaining what had been sent to me, but chose to wait in hopes that new images would come through.

I waited, and waited, for days with no new messages. I had nearly grown hopeless when finally, finally, a new message came. I clicked it right away and almost puked at what I saw.

The first video sent and it was of my brother, stitched together and rotting, my terrified girlfriend made to sit on his lap and sway provocatively. I heard her desperate cries and choked sobs while the man barked orders at her, forcing her to kiss my brother's corpse on the lips and tell him how much she loved him. Vomit flowed from her mouth as maggots fell from my brother's.

Utter shock took over, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I peed myself right there in the middle of my bedroom.

A new image came in.

Both my brother and girlfriend, impaled simultaneously with a wooden spike rammed through her spine and into his chest.

“Hello :)”

Reading the last message, I launched my phone at the wall and it exploded into pieces. I just sat there, rocking, unsure of what to do. My mother found me, soiled, with my thumb in my mouth. I couldn’t even get the words out of my mouth. I babbled to her about Miranda, about my brother's corpse, and she cried with me. Rocked me to sleep in her arms as if I were a child once more.

I awoke in my bed, the sun peering in through my windows. My mother was downstairs, talking to the police officers. She called me down, and the policemen began questioning me. They asked me about my girlfriend's disappearance and apparent murder, and I gave them the whole story about the images and how they disappeared every time. I told them about how the same thing had happened with my brother's disappearance, and that they could go check my phone in evidence right now.
Of course, they asked to see the new phone, and they shot me a suspicious glance when I explained how I’d smashed it. Nevertheless, they bagged the phone up and left with the promise of having it repaired and examined.

I spent the rest of the day locked in my room, secluded in darkness. The day drifted into night, and I slipped into sleep yet again. The next morning, I awoke to find my house empty and silent. I searched the house once more as panic set in and my heart started to race. My mom was nowhere to be found. I called out for her and received no answer. What made my heart leap into my throat, however, was when I checked her office to find her purse, car keys, and cellphone.

I felt my blood turn to ice as her screen lit up.

“One new message”

Almost in a trance, I unlocked the device and opened the message.

The message was clearer this time. More straightforward. The reason why I believe this man is hunting me.

In the messages, there was an image. An image of my brother, mother, and girlfriend, all deceased and mutilated. They sat there, arranged in a row with 4 seats. The last seat in the row had a card taped to it, like a director's chair.

“Last one,” it read.

Suddenly, a new message appeared. An image of my front door popped up on the screen as loud bangs rang out from downstairs.

I ran and dove under my mother's bed, cellphone in hand. I listened as the door was kicked in and splintered wood hit the floorboard. Footsteps crept up the stairs and stopped at my mothers bedroom door. I heard the click of a camera before a notification appeared on the screen.

“One new message.”

I’m not exactly sure how to start this. Whether to blame it on my own worsening mental state or to place the blame upon deepfakes and advancements in AI. See, that’s the thing, though. I’m no one important. I’m not some celebrity or political figure. I’m just a guy. A guy who’s probably been in his own head for longer than would be considered healthy.

It’s been a dark past couple of months. I thought I had kicked my depression. Thought that my medication was actually helping me break some pretty solid ground. But, as I’m writing this, I don’t know if that was the medication talking or just me trying to convince myself I was getting better.

Backstory just seems unnecessary. There’s no need for me to go through the whole spiel of where everything started, why I felt so alone, or how things ended up so bad. All you really need to know is that things have been looking pretty bleak for me. It’s like no one else exists but me, and it feels like being locked alone in a room with your worst enemy.

Honestly, it was actually a lot like being locked in a room with your worst enemy. Things were getting so bad that I struggled to even get out of bed in the morning, but still somehow managed to struggle falling asleep at night. It’s like I was so sure of myself, so sure of the negative, that I wouldn’t allow anyone to even suggest a positive. It was pointless.

All day, day in and day out, my time was spent doomscrolling, masturbating, and eating myself into oblivion, with no end in sight. My bottom was inevitably going to end up being death.

And that puts us here. Right smack dab in the middle of what I thought would only be a two week episode.

I had just finished a carton of chocolate ice cream and laid in bed with the lights off as I scrolled through TikTok after TikTok. Honestly, it may have been one of the longest doomscrolling stints of my last few months.

As I scrolled through brainrot, podcast clips, and AI story times, something happened that had never happened to me before. Instead of scrolling to the next video, when I slid up on my screen, the feed refreshed from the bottom.

It was frozen for a moment, displaying the loading spiral for nearly 30 seconds before the app crashed and sent me back to my home screen.

I thought it was an inconvenience, sure, but nothing to start analyzing like a detective. All I did was reopen the app and try to restart my progress.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t greeted with the same feed as before the crash. All I was met with was a livestream.

It was of a dark room. Barely visible, but I could make out some of the features. The blackout curtains, the rustic old nightstand, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. They were all mine. Right down to the stickers on the laptop and the empty soda cans on the nightstand.

My heart started to pound a bit, but a part of me knew that what I was seeing could not have been possible.

I looked at the title of the stream.

“Watching him until he does it.”

I was the only viewer.

I was in a trance, simply unable to take my eyes off the screen as I started noticing more and more details in the room.

My comforter, my posters, hell, the stuffed animals that I swore to never tell a living soul about. But there was something missing. I was nowhere to be seen in the frame.

As if responding to my thoughts, the bed sheets began to rustle and tangle themselves. A shape began to form on the bed. And that’s when I popped my head out, smiling at the camera with dark eyes and unnaturally white teeth.

The figure in the stream began crawling out of the bed, never taking his hollow eyes off the camera. Like a combination of a snake and somehow a spider, he slinked his way right to the front of the camera’s lens.

Before my very eyes, the chat began to light up the screen, every commenter being a member of my own family.

A “do it” message from my mom. “Stop being a pussy” from my dad. Yet somehow, I was still the only viewer.

I thought about typing my own message, just to see what would happen. However, my keyboard had become useless.

All I could do was stare in horror as the figure from the video placed a piece of glass to his throat and began to saw. Deeper and deeper. The smile never leaving his face.

Once he was done, his throat was slit open, and blood poured from the wound, soaking my favorite T shirt in deep crimson. He smiled wider than ever before, falling back onto the ground as the livestream ended.

I panicked. Turned on every light in the house. Checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet. Nothing. Sleep wasn’t even an option that night as I stayed up clinging to my blanket like a child.

I wouldn’t even look at my phone until the next morning, but once I did, I quickly realized how much of a mistake it had been.

The stream had been clipped, reuploaded all across social media. Millions of views, thousands of comments. Some people were disgusted. Some were outraged. But more than anything else, people wanted it to be real.

I read hundreds of comments that have been circulating my brain for days now. Hateful, disgusting comments.

They wanted it to be real. They wanted me to do it.

And who am I to not give the people what they want?

I’m not exactly sure how to start this. Whether to blame it on my own worsening mental state or to place the blame upon deepfakes and advancements in AI. See, that’s the thing, though. I’m no one important. I’m not some celebrity or political figure. I’m just a guy. A guy who’s probably been in his own head for longer than would be considered healthy.

It’s been a dark past couple of months. I thought I had kicked my depression. Thought that my medication was actually helping me break some pretty solid ground. But, as I’m writing this, I don’t know if that was the medication talking or just me trying to convince myself I was getting better.

Backstory just seems unnecessary. There’s no need for me to go through the whole spiel of where everything started, why I felt so alone, or how things ended up so bad. All you really need to know is that things have been looking pretty bleak for me. It’s like no one else exists but me, and it feels like being locked alone in a room with your worst enemy.

Honestly, it was actually a lot like being locked in a room with your worst enemy. Things were getting so bad that I struggled to even get out of bed in the morning, but still somehow managed to struggle falling asleep at night. It’s like I was so sure of myself, so sure of the negative, that I wouldn’t allow anyone to even suggest a positive. It was pointless.

All day, day in and day out, my time was spent doomscrolling, masturbating, and eating myself into oblivion, with no end in sight. My bottom was inevitably going to end up being death.

And that puts us here. Right smack dab in the middle of what I thought would only be a two week episode.

I had just finished a carton of chocolate ice cream and laid in bed with the lights off as I scrolled through TikTok after TikTok. Honestly, it may have been one of the longest doomscrolling stints of my last few months.

As I scrolled through brainrot, podcast clips, and AI story times, something happened that had never happened to me before. Instead of scrolling to the next video, when I slid up on my screen, the feed refreshed from the bottom.

It was frozen for a moment, displaying the loading spiral for nearly 30 seconds before the app crashed and sent me back to my home screen.

I thought it was an inconvenience, sure, but nothing to start analyzing like a detective. All I did was reopen the app and try to restart my progress.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t greeted with the same feed as before the crash. All I was met with was a livestream.

It was of a dark room. Barely visible, but I could make out some of the features. The blackout curtains, the rustic old nightstand, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. They were all mine. Right down to the stickers on the laptop and the empty soda cans on the nightstand.

My heart started to pound a bit, but a part of me knew that what I was seeing could not have been possible.

I looked at the title of the stream.

“Watching him until he does it.”

I was the only viewer.

I was in a trance, simply unable to take my eyes off the screen as I started noticing more and more details in the room.

My comforter, my posters, hell, the stuffed animals that I swore to never tell a living soul about. But there was something missing. I was nowhere to be seen in the frame.

As if responding to my thoughts, the bed sheets began to rustle and tangle themselves. A shape began to form on the bed. And that’s when I popped my head out, smiling at the camera with dark eyes and unnaturally white teeth.

The figure in the stream began crawling out of the bed, never taking his hollow eyes off the camera. Like a combination of a snake and somehow a spider, he slinked his way right to the front of the camera’s lens.

Before my very eyes, the chat began to light up the screen, every commenter being a member of my own family.

A “do it” message from my mom. “Stop being a pussy” from my dad. Yet somehow, I was still the only viewer.

I thought about typing my own message, just to see what would happen. However, my keyboard had become useless.

All I could do was stare in horror as the figure from the video placed a piece of glass to his throat and began to saw. Deeper and deeper. The smile never leaving his face.

Once he was done, his throat was slit open, and blood poured from the wound, soaking my favorite T shirt in deep crimson. He smiled wider than ever before, falling back onto the ground as the livestream ended.

I panicked. Turned on every light in the house. Checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet. Nothing. Sleep wasn’t even an option that night as I stayed up clinging to my blanket like a child.

I wouldn’t even look at my phone until the next morning, but once I did, I quickly realized how much of a mistake it had been.

The stream had been clipped, reuploaded all across social media. Millions of views, thousands of comments. Some people were disgusted. Some were outraged. But more than anything else, people wanted it to be real.

I read hundreds of comments that have been circulating my brain for days now. Hateful, disgusting comments.

They wanted it to be real. They wanted me to do it.

And who am I to not give the people what they want?

I’m not exactly sure how to start this. Whether to blame it on my own worsening mental state or to place the blame upon deepfakes and advancements in AI. See, that’s the thing, though. I’m no one important. I’m not some celebrity or political figure. I’m just a guy. A guy who’s probably been in his own head for longer than would be considered healthy.

It’s been a dark past couple of months. I thought I had kicked my depression. Thought that my medication was actually helping me break some pretty solid ground. But, as I’m writing this, I don’t know if that was the medication talking or just me trying to convince myself I was getting better.

Backstory just seems unnecessary. There’s no need for me to go through the whole spiel of where everything started, why I felt so alone, or how things ended up so bad. All you really need to know is that things have been looking pretty bleak for me. It’s like no one else exists but me, and it feels like being locked alone in a room with your worst enemy.

Honestly, it was actually a lot like being locked in a room with your worst enemy. Things were getting so bad that I struggled to even get out of bed in the morning, but still somehow managed to struggle falling asleep at night. It’s like I was so sure of myself, so sure of the negative, that I wouldn’t allow anyone to even suggest a positive. It was pointless.

All day, day in and day out, my time was spent doomscrolling, masturbating, and eating myself into oblivion, with no end in sight. My bottom was inevitably going to end up being death.

And that puts us here. Right smack dab in the middle of what I thought would only be a two week episode.

I had just finished a carton of chocolate ice cream and laid in bed with the lights off as I scrolled through TikTok after TikTok. Honestly, it may have been one of the longest doomscrolling stints of my last few months.

As I scrolled through brainrot, podcast clips, and AI story times, something happened that had never happened to me before. Instead of scrolling to the next video, when I slid up on my screen, the feed refreshed from the bottom.

It was frozen for a moment, displaying the loading spiral for nearly 30 seconds before the app crashed and sent me back to my home screen.

I thought it was an inconvenience, sure, but nothing to start analyzing like a detective. All I did was reopen the app and try to restart my progress.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t greeted with the same feed as before the crash. All I was met with was a livestream.

It was of a dark room. Barely visible, but I could make out some of the features. The blackout curtains, the rustic old nightstand, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. They were all mine. Right down to the stickers on the laptop and the empty soda cans on the nightstand.

My heart started to pound a bit, but a part of me knew that what I was seeing could not have been possible.

I looked at the title of the stream.

“Watching him until he does it.”

I was the only viewer.

I was in a trance, simply unable to take my eyes off the screen as I started noticing more and more details in the room.

My comforter, my posters, hell, the stuffed animals that I swore to never tell a living soul about. But there was something missing. I was nowhere to be seen in the frame.

As if responding to my thoughts, the bed sheets began to rustle and tangle themselves. A shape began to form on the bed. And that’s when I popped my head out, smiling at the camera with dark eyes and unnaturally white teeth.

The figure in the stream began crawling out of the bed, never taking his hollow eyes off the camera. Like a combination of a snake and somehow a spider, he slinked his way right to the front of the camera’s lens.

Before my very eyes, the chat began to light up the screen, every commenter being a member of my own family.

A “do it” message from my mom. “Stop being a pussy” from my dad. Yet somehow, I was still the only viewer.

I thought about typing my own message, just to see what would happen. However, my keyboard had become useless.

All I could do was stare in horror as the figure from the video placed a piece of glass to his throat and began to saw. Deeper and deeper. The smile never leaving his face.

Once he was done, his throat was slit open, and blood poured from the wound, soaking my favorite T shirt in deep crimson. He smiled wider than ever before, falling back onto the ground as the livestream ended.

I panicked. Turned on every light in the house. Checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet. Nothing. Sleep wasn’t even an option that night as I stayed up clinging to my blanket like a child.

I wouldn’t even look at my phone until the next morning, but once I did, I quickly realized how much of a mistake it had been.

The stream had been clipped, reuploaded all across social media. Millions of views, thousands of comments. Some people were disgusted. Some were outraged. But more than anything else, people wanted it to be real.

I read hundreds of comments that have been circulating my brain for days now. Hateful, disgusting comments.

They wanted it to be real. They wanted me to do it.

And who am I to not give the people what they want?

I’m not exactly sure how to start this. Whether to blame it on my own worsening mental state or to place the blame upon deepfakes and advancements in AI. See, that’s the thing, though. I’m no one important. I’m not some celebrity or political figure. I’m just a guy. A guy who’s probably been in his own head for longer than would be considered healthy.

It’s been a dark past couple of months. I thought I had kicked my depression. Thought that my medication was actually helping me break some pretty solid ground. But, as I’m writing this, I don’t know if that was the medication talking or just me trying to convince myself I was getting better.

Backstory just seems unnecessary. There’s no need for me to go through the whole spiel of where everything started, why I felt so alone, or how things ended up so bad. All you really need to know is that things have been looking pretty bleak for me. It’s like no one else exists but me, and it feels like being locked alone in a room with your worst enemy.

Honestly, it was actually a lot like being locked in a room with your worst enemy. Things were getting so bad that I struggled to even get out of bed in the morning, but still somehow managed to struggle falling asleep at night. It’s like I was so sure of myself, so sure of the negative, that I wouldn’t allow anyone to even suggest a positive. It was pointless.

All day, day in and day out, my time was spent doomscrolling, masturbating, and eating myself into oblivion, with no end in sight. My bottom was inevitably going to end up being death.

And that puts us here. Right smack dab in the middle of what I thought would only be a two week episode.

I had just finished a carton of chocolate ice cream and laid in bed with the lights off as I scrolled through TikTok after TikTok. Honestly, it may have been one of the longest doomscrolling stints of my last few months.

As I scrolled through brainrot, podcast clips, and AI story times, something happened that had never happened to me before. Instead of scrolling to the next video, when I slid up on my screen, the feed refreshed from the bottom.

It was frozen for a moment, displaying the loading spiral for nearly 30 seconds before the app crashed and sent me back to my home screen.

I thought it was an inconvenience, sure, but nothing to start analyzing like a detective. All I did was reopen the app and try to restart my progress.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t greeted with the same feed as before the crash. All I was met with was a livestream.

It was of a dark room. Barely visible, but I could make out some of the features. The blackout curtains, the rustic old nightstand, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. They were all mine. Right down to the stickers on the laptop and the empty soda cans on the nightstand.

My heart started to pound a bit, but a part of me knew that what I was seeing could not have been possible.

I looked at the title of the stream.

“Watching him until he does it.”

I was the only viewer.

I was in a trance, simply unable to take my eyes off the screen as I started noticing more and more details in the room.

My comforter, my posters, hell, the stuffed animals that I swore to never tell a living soul about. But there was something missing. I was nowhere to be seen in the frame.

As if responding to my thoughts, the bed sheets began to rustle and tangle themselves. A shape began to form on the bed. And that’s when I popped my head out, smiling at the camera with dark eyes and unnaturally white teeth.

The figure in the stream began crawling out of the bed, never taking his hollow eyes off the camera. Like a combination of a snake and somehow a spider, he slinked his way right to the front of the camera’s lens.

Before my very eyes, the chat began to light up the screen, every commenter being a member of my own family.

A “do it” message from my mom. “Stop being a pussy” from my dad. Yet somehow, I was still the only viewer.

I thought about typing my own message, just to see what would happen. However, my keyboard had become useless.

All I could do was stare in horror as the figure from the video placed a piece of glass to his throat and began to saw. Deeper and deeper. The smile never leaving his face.

Once he was done, his throat was slit open, and blood poured from the wound, soaking my favorite T shirt in deep crimson. He smiled wider than ever before, falling back onto the ground as the livestream ended.

I panicked. Turned on every light in the house. Checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet. Nothing. Sleep wasn’t even an option that night as I stayed up clinging to my blanket like a child.

I wouldn’t even look at my phone until the next morning, but once I did, I quickly realized how much of a mistake it had been.

The stream had been clipped, reuploaded all across social media. Millions of views, thousands of comments. Some people were disgusted. Some were outraged. But more than anything else, people wanted it to be real.

I read hundreds of comments that have been circulating my brain for days now. Hateful, disgusting comments.

They wanted it to be real. They wanted me to do it.

And who am I to not give the people what they want?

I’m not exactly sure how to start this. Whether to blame it on my own worsening mental state or to place the blame upon deepfakes and advancements in AI. See, that’s the thing, though. I’m no one important. I’m not some celebrity or political figure. I’m just a guy. A guy who’s probably been in his own head for longer than would be considered healthy.

It’s been a dark past couple of months. I thought I had kicked my depression. Thought that my medication was actually helping me break some pretty solid ground. But, as I’m writing this, I don’t know if that was the medication talking or just me trying to convince myself I was getting better.

Backstory just seems unnecessary. There’s no need for me to go through the whole spiel of where everything started, why I felt so alone, or how things ended up so bad. All you really need to know is that things have been looking pretty bleak for me. It’s like no one else exists but me, and it feels like being locked alone in a room with your worst enemy.

Honestly, it was actually a lot like being locked in a room with your worst enemy. Things were getting so bad that I struggled to even get out of bed in the morning, but still somehow managed to struggle falling asleep at night. It’s like I was so sure of myself, so sure of the negative, that I wouldn’t allow anyone to even suggest a positive. It was pointless.

All day, day in and day out, my time was spent doomscrolling, masturbating, and eating myself into oblivion, with no end in sight. My bottom was inevitably going to end up being death.

And that puts us here. Right smack dab in the middle of what I thought would only be a two week episode.

I had just finished a carton of chocolate ice cream and laid in bed with the lights off as I scrolled through TikTok after TikTok. Honestly, it may have been one of the longest doomscrolling stints of my last few months.

As I scrolled through brainrot, podcast clips, and AI story times, something happened that had never happened to me before. Instead of scrolling to the next video, when I slid up on my screen, the feed refreshed from the bottom.

It was frozen for a moment, displaying the loading spiral for nearly 30 seconds before the app crashed and sent me back to my home screen.

I thought it was an inconvenience, sure, but nothing to start analyzing like a detective. All I did was reopen the app and try to restart my progress.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t greeted with the same feed as before the crash. All I was met with was a livestream.

It was of a dark room. Barely visible, but I could make out some of the features. The blackout curtains, the rustic old nightstand, and the computer desk in the corner of the room. They were all mine. Right down to the stickers on the laptop and the empty soda cans on the nightstand.

My heart started to pound a bit, but a part of me knew that what I was seeing could not have been possible.

I looked at the title of the stream.

“Watching him until he does it.”

I was the only viewer.

I was in a trance, simply unable to take my eyes off the screen as I started noticing more and more details in the room.

My comforter, my posters, hell, the stuffed animals that I swore to never tell a living soul about. But there was something missing. I was nowhere to be seen in the frame.

As if responding to my thoughts, the bed sheets began to rustle and tangle themselves. A shape began to form on the bed. And that’s when I popped my head out, smiling at the camera with dark eyes and unnaturally white teeth.

The figure in the stream began crawling out of the bed, never taking his hollow eyes off the camera. Like a combination of a snake and somehow a spider, he slinked his way right to the front of the camera’s lens.

Before my very eyes, the chat began to light up the screen, every commenter being a member of my own family.

A “do it” message from my mom. “Stop being a pussy” from my dad. Yet somehow, I was still the only viewer.

I thought about typing my own message, just to see what would happen. However, my keyboard had become useless.

All I could do was stare in horror as the figure from the video placed a piece of glass to his throat and began to saw. Deeper and deeper. The smile never leaving his face.

Once he was done, his throat was slit open, and blood poured from the wound, soaking my favorite T shirt in deep crimson. He smiled wider than ever before, falling back onto the ground as the livestream ended.

I panicked. Turned on every light in the house. Checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet. Nothing. Sleep wasn’t even an option that night as I stayed up clinging to my blanket like a child.

I wouldn’t even look at my phone until the next morning, but once I did, I quickly realized how much of a mistake it had been.

The stream had been clipped, reuploaded all across social media. Millions of views, thousands of comments. Some people were disgusted. Some were outraged. But more than anything else, people wanted it to be real.

I read hundreds of comments that have been circulating my brain for days now. Hateful, disgusting comments.

They wanted it to be real. They wanted me to do it.

And who am I to not give the people what they want?

I’m not entirely sure how to start this. You’re all probably gonna think I’m crazy, no matter what I say. Whatever way I spin this, the outcome is all the same.

I just wanted us to have a happy anniversary. My girlfriend and I had just celebrated our third only a week before the trip. That’s why we came here in the first place.

The tunnel of trees. That’s what they called it. A mile-long trail, completely sheltered by the long, thick branches of oak trees.

We had been talking about this trip for months. We lived all the way across the country, so this was a huge deal to us.

When the day of our flight arrived, we could hardly contain ourselves.

“Oh my God,” my girlfriend squealed. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’re finally going. Does my hair look okay? I wanna make sure I look amazing when we land. Oh, also, did you remember to-”

“Turn the stove off? What do you take me for, an amateur? Of course I did. And yes, your hair looks stunning, as always.”

“I was actually going to ask if you remembered to lock the door… good to know you remembered the stove, though. Truly the pinnacle of the male mind.”

She smirked, looking up at me with those shimmering brown eyes. It was like I couldn’t help but fall in love with her over and over again every day. It was enough to completely scramble my mind.

“I love you,” was all I could think to say. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

Even though we had a late-night flight, we still couldn’t sleep the entire 5-hour trip. As soon as we touched down, we went straight to the rental car, then it was straight to the city to explore.

We adventured through the city until around noon before we started getting a little restless.

“Is it time yet?” my girlfriend chirped, licking her chocolate ice cream.

“Ehhhh, I suppose,” I announced sarcastically after checking my watch. “Let’s go see some trees.”

The first thing that struck me as odd was the fact that we were the only car in the parking lot. It was a cloudless day. 75 degrees. There was no feasible reason for the lot to be this desolate.

“Oh my God…” whispered my girlfriend ominously. “We have… THE WHOLE PLACE… to ourselves.”

Rolling my eyes, I put the car in park and walked around to the passenger side to open her door.

“Come on, you dork. Let’s go enjoy our serenity.”

I was fully prepared to find an empty path. However, as soon as we approached the tunnel, I was astounded to find what looked to be hundreds of people.

It had me scratching my head, sure, but I don’t know. I’m not sure why I didn’t even question it. I guess it’s because I was so entranced by the tunnel. It truly was just as beautiful as the pictures made it seem.

Looking down at my girlfriend, the look on her face was heart-melting. That sparkle in her eye came back, and her smile stretched from ear to ear as she spun in a circle with her head aimed towards the branches.

At the end of the path, there was what looked like a long white picket fence.

“Is that the exit, you think?” I asked inquisitively.

“Why are you thinking about the exit right now? Look around you! Embrace!”

Our walk started slow at first. Like, snail’s-pace slow. We were attempting to embrace as much of the scenery as possible and were in no rush to be done.

However, after about an hour or two, we actually got some pep in our steps.

“Does that fence look like it’s gotten any closer?” I asked worriedly.

My girlfriend remained silent for a moment.

“Nope. But it has to be, right? How long did they say this trail was?”

“A mile or two, I believe. Guess we’ve been walking slower than we thought.”

By the time hour 5 rolled around, we began to fall into full-blown panic. That’s when we started to notice something we had neglected earlier. It was a small detail, but one that proved detrimental.

Each person that walked alongside us wore clothing that looked to be decades older than what me and my girlfriend wore, ranging from what appeared to be the 20s or 30s all the way to the 80s and 90s.

None of them even acknowledged us. They drifted past, eyes on the dirt path. Like zombies.

“Fuck this,” I announced. “We’re turning around.”

It felt like a solid plan in the moment. Something that we should’ve done 3 hours ago. However, it proved fruitless.

The path stretched for miles and miles. It looked like we’d already cleared at least 20 since we started.

“Oh my God,” whined my girlfriend. “What the actual fuck is happening??”

“Just relax. We’re going to get out of here. I promise. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m getting us back to that parking lot.”

We kept walking towards the fence.

With each step, it seemed like we were getting closer. It went from a distant landmark on the horizon to being just within our reach.

My legs ached. My body screamed at me. My girlfriend slowed down to a crawl.

“I can’t do this. It’s been like 8 hours now. How the hell is the sun still in the sky? It’s so hot, I’m so thirsty, God, I just wanna go home.”

“I know. Me too. Just keep walking.”

As we walked, the crowds of people brushed past us. They avoided touching us, but we could still feel the wind from their brisk pace.

The fence looked farther away than ever. I couldn’t help it. My mind was bending and threatened to snap at any moment. That’s why I grabbed my girlfriend by the wrist and started running as fast as I could down the path, dragging her behind me and refusing to let go of her arm.

That’s when the leaves started changing. The previously green leaves on the branches above us morphed before our very eyes. Bright yellow. Dark orange. Then brown. Until, finally, they all began to fall from the trees one by one.

We crunched through the dead leaves, pounding our feet against the ground until our legs became wobbly and unbalanced.

When the snow started falling, it fell in buckets, coating the ground in white powder and burying the decaying leaves as we stopped to catch our breath.

“How… is this… possible?” I heaved, my lungs burning. “It just… can’t be possible.”

I felt myself begin to cry. The frigid air froze the tears to my cheek and left my nose bright red and dripping with mucus. I knew I had to pull it together for my girlfriend, though. She looked empty. Completely hollow and void of life. I couldn’t afford the luxury of emotional release right now. I needed to be precise.

“Honey, listen to me. We can’t stop. If we stop, we’re only falling further behind. I’ll carry you if you need me to.”

She didn’t even respond. Instead, her eyes fixated on the ground as she dragged herself forward. She was quiet for a long while after that. I don’t know how long we walked, but by the time the snow melted and the sun came back, the fence looked so close I could reach out and touch it.

My girlfriend’s gaze remained fixated on the ground. She hadn’t spoken a single word in what felt like minutes, days, weeks, and months all at once. With each step, her feet dragged through the dirt, leaving a small trail every foot or so.

I realized that there was no one else on the trail anymore. Just me and her. Completely alone. The trees had their leaves again, and for the first time since we started walking, the fence didn’t seem to drift further away the closer we got.

We inched closer.

And closer.

And closer.

We finally found ourselves just on the other side of the fence, a step away from being done with this nightmare. Only, my girlfriend seemed hesitant. As if she weren’t ready to leave.

Her silent hesitance soon exploded into a violent emotional outburst, however, as she began thrashing around, prying my hand off her wrist with the strength of a full-grown man.

“You just don’t get it. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I swear to God you don’t get it.”

She was laughing and sobbing all at once, throwing herself to the ground and hugging her sides while tears fell down her cheeks.

I didn’t know what to do, but honestly, who would in such a situation? All that made sense to me was to physically drag her through the white fence and off the trail.

She screamed like a wild animal as we walked through, but the moment we crossed, she fell completely silent. Her eyes went dead. I can only describe her appearance as completely and utterly hopeless. And I can’t even blame her, because I was too. After all that walking, all that batshit psychological mind-fucking that the universe had decided to dump onto the two of us for the last… however fucking long… we somehow ended up right back in the empty parking lot.

My girlfriend started laughing again. No tears this time. Just pure, insanity-driven laughter that brought her to her knees.

“I told you. I fucking told you that you didn’t get it. Ahh, if only you could see that look on your face.”

I checked my watch.

It had been… one… single… hour since we started our walk.

I turned to look at my girlfriend.

“What do you mean I don’t get it?” I begged. “What are you getting that I’m apparently not? What do you know? What’s the big secret?”

She laughed harder, falling nearly silent as she heaved.

“Stop laughing and fucking tell me,” I screamed, grabbing her by the face.

Her smile faded almost immediately, and in a dull, monotone voice, she gave me the exact answer I’d hoped so desperately not to receive.

“We’ve always been here.”

She went back to laughing. Softer now. More giggling than anything.

“Yeah, well, we’re leaving now. Before you actually do lose your mind completely.”

Pulling my keys from my back pocket, I turned to the parking lot again and felt my heart fall into my stomach before shooting back up into my throat.

Every single empty space was now occupied by a white Kia. Dozens of them. Hundreds, even. Each one identical to ours.

Like the fence, it seemed like the more I searched, the further away I got from the car. We must’ve gone to every car in the parking lot before finally finding the original Kia. You’d think that identical cars would have identical keys, right?

“It doesn’t matter,” my girlfriend laughed. “None of what you’re doing matters.”

I ignored her, backing the car out of the parking spot before burning rubber towards the exit. As we approached, I noticed that the people from the trail were all lined up along the fence, watching us as we peeled out of the parking lot.

“See you soon,” my girlfriend muttered, waving towards the crowd of people.

I side-eyed her. She was definitely gonna need some professional help after this. Hell, we both were, really.

We made it about 10 miles down the road without exchanging a single word. I didn’t want to push or prod. I just wanted to forget.
We’d made it. And after a tiny bit of shock therapy, we could put this whole ordeal behind us.

While these thoughts circulated around in my head, the car made a sound that it probably shouldn’t have, and black smoke began to pour out from the hood.

“Fuck,” I cursed while my girlfriend’s snickering started up again.

I had no choice. There were no other options. All I could do was limp the car into the nearest parking lot.

Luckily, there were plenty of empty parking spaces.

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

Pre-school. A nightmare for both children and parents alike. The kids are finally getting a taste of what the next 15 or so years of their lives are gonna look like, and the parents have to finally let go of their little angel for what’s likely the first time of their lives. It’s painful.

Well, for me it was. I’m not sure if that’s exactly how other parents feel. Seems like they should, but to each their own, I suppose.

All I know is that it was complete waterworks for both me and my son on his first day of school. I was ugly crying from the moment we pulled into the car-rider lane. I think it scared my son, and that made him cry, which made me cry even more, and it only got worse when I had to watch him tearfully get taken away by one of the members of staff who led him into the building.

Let me just say, the whole day I was a wreck. Like, I genuinely felt like I was dying inside. That look on his face as they took him away. God, how it lingered.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling despair that day. I remember when I picked him up, that look the staff lady gave me. Like she was relieved to get rid of him.

“There you go, there’s your daddy. Go see daddy,” she begged, patting my son on the back.

Before I could even ask my boy how his first day of school had gone, the staff lady was at my window. She sounded twice as exhausted, but also relieved to finally be speaking to the parent of this apparent rioter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she announced in a customer service voice. “We had a little issue with Ryan. Nothing too major. He just… he wouldn’t stop screaming and crying for hours after you dropped him off.”

I glanced at Ryan in the rearview mirror. He stared down, almost mindlessly, at some sheets of paper in his lap while this lady laid into me.

“Oh, no,” I responded. “Well, you know, he’s a kid. First day of school. Gonna definitely take some getting used to.”

“Oh, believe me, we understand completely,” she shot back. “We eased him into things. Only thing that soothed the crying was colorin’, though. As soon as those crayons came out, it was like he turned into a completely different kid.”

Her face didn’t seem to match what she was describing. She looked concerned. Borderline worried.

“Daddy, look,” Ryan chirped from the backseat.

“Daddy will look as soon as we get home, buddy. Ah, sorry, ma’am. Should probably get this one home. I swear he’ll be on his best behavior tomorrow, won’t you, Ryan?”

He nodded eagerly from the backseat.

The entire drive home, all he seemed to talk about were those drawings. Asking me to look at them every mile or so. It was honestly driving me crazy, and pulling into the driveway felt like a relief.

“Alright, Kiddo,” I chimed, sliding the back door to the van open. “Let’s see those pictures you drew.”

My heart melted when he showed me.

“This one’s you,” he quirked, showing me the picture.

“This one’s mommy.”

“And this one’s the man in the hallway.”

I gasped at the black scribbles on the page. It was hardly “man” looking. What was on that page was more like a black mass. The only remotely human features he had drawn were the two bright red eyes at the top of the figure.

“What do you mean the man in the hallway, Ryan?” I asked, completely exasperated.

“You know,” he chirped. “The man who sees you and mommy sleep sometimes.”

Let’s just say dinner that night was pretty tense. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. I even talked to my wife about it, and all she could say was, “Kids have wild imaginations.”

I wanted to accept that explanation. I wanted more than anything for that to be the answer. And I almost did. I had almost completely convinced myself that all this could be boiled down to kids being weird.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed when I awoke at nearly 3 in the morning that night. I don’t even know what woke me up, but I know it was a jolt when it happened.

I shot up in bed, scanning the room in a cold sweat.

I saw nothing.

I was about to lie back down when I heard the bedroom door creak open.

The entire house was dark.

Save for two glowing red eyes that stared furiously at me and my wife.

Pre-school. A nightmare for both children and parents alike. The kids are finally getting a taste of what the next 15 or so years of their lives are gonna look like, and the parents have to finally let go of their little angel for what’s likely the first time of their lives. It’s painful.

Well, for me it was. I’m not sure if that’s exactly how other parents feel. Seems like they should, but to each their own, I suppose.

All I know is that it was complete waterworks for both me and my son on his first day of school. I was ugly crying from the moment we pulled into the car-rider lane. I think it scared my son, and that made him cry, which made me cry even more, and it only got worse when I had to watch him tearfully get taken away by one of the members of staff who led him into the building.

Let me just say, the whole day I was a wreck. Like, I genuinely felt like I was dying inside. That look on his face as they took him away. God, how it lingered.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling despair that day. I remember when I picked him up, that look the staff lady gave me. Like she was relieved to get rid of him.

“There you go, there’s your daddy. Go see daddy,” she begged, patting my son on the back.

Before I could even ask my boy how his first day of school had gone, the staff lady was at my window. She sounded twice as exhausted, but also relieved to finally be speaking to the parent of this apparent rioter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she announced in a customer service voice. “We had a little issue with Ryan. Nothing too major. He just… he wouldn’t stop screaming and crying for hours after you dropped him off.”

I glanced at Ryan in the rearview mirror. He stared down, almost mindlessly, at some sheets of paper in his lap while this lady laid into me.

“Oh, no,” I responded. “Well, you know, he’s a kid. First day of school. Gonna definitely take some getting used to.”

“Oh, believe me, we understand completely,” she shot back. “We eased him into things. Only thing that soothed the crying was colorin’, though. As soon as those crayons came out, it was like he turned into a completely different kid.”

Her face didn’t seem to match what she was describing. She looked concerned. Borderline worried.

“Daddy, look,” Ryan chirped from the backseat.

“Daddy will look as soon as we get home, buddy. Ah, sorry, ma’am. Should probably get this one home. I swear he’ll be on his best behavior tomorrow, won’t you, Ryan?”

He nodded eagerly from the backseat.

The entire drive home, all he seemed to talk about were those drawings. Asking me to look at them every mile or so. It was honestly driving me crazy, and pulling into the driveway felt like a relief.

“Alright, Kiddo,” I chimed, sliding the back door to the van open. “Let’s see those pictures you drew.”

My heart melted when he showed me.

“This one’s you,” he quirked, showing me the picture.

“This one’s mommy.”

“And this one’s the man in the hallway.”

I gasped at the black scribbles on the page. It was hardly “man” looking. What was on that page was more like a black mass. The only remotely human features he had drawn were the two bright red eyes at the top of the figure.

“What do you mean the man in the hallway, Ryan?” I asked, completely exasperated.

“You know,” he chirped. “The man who sees you and mommy sleep sometimes.”

Let’s just say dinner that night was pretty tense. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. I even talked to my wife about it, and all she could say was, “Kids have wild imaginations.”

I wanted to accept that explanation. I wanted more than anything for that to be the answer. And I almost did. I had almost completely convinced myself that all this could be boiled down to kids being weird.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed when I awoke at nearly 3 in the morning that night. I don’t even know what woke me up, but I know it was a jolt when it happened.

I shot up in bed, scanning the room in a cold sweat.

I saw nothing.

I was about to lie back down when I heard the bedroom door creak open.

The entire house was dark.

Save for two glowing red eyes that stared furiously at me and my wife.

Pre-school. A nightmare for both children and parents alike. The kids are finally getting a taste of what the next 15 or so years of their lives are gonna look like, and the parents have to finally let go of their little angel for what’s likely the first time of their lives. It’s painful.

Well, for me it was. I’m not sure if that’s exactly how other parents feel. Seems like they should, but to each their own, I suppose.

All I know is that it was complete waterworks for both me and my son on his first day of school. I was ugly crying from the moment we pulled into the car-rider lane. I think it scared my son, and that made him cry, which made me cry even more, and it only got worse when I had to watch him tearfully get taken away by one of the members of staff who led him into the building.

Let me just say, the whole day I was a wreck. Like, I genuinely felt like I was dying inside. That look on his face as they took him away. God, how it lingered.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling despair that day. I remember when I picked him up, that look the staff lady gave me. Like she was relieved to get rid of him.

“There you go, there’s your daddy. Go see daddy,” she begged, patting my son on the back.

Before I could even ask my boy how his first day of school had gone, the staff lady was at my window. She sounded twice as exhausted, but also relieved to finally be speaking to the parent of this apparent rioter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she announced in a customer service voice. “We had a little issue with Ryan. Nothing too major. He just… he wouldn’t stop screaming and crying for hours after you dropped him off.”

I glanced at Ryan in the rearview mirror. He stared down, almost mindlessly, at some sheets of paper in his lap while this lady laid into me.

“Oh, no,” I responded. “Well, you know, he’s a kid. First day of school. Gonna definitely take some getting used to.”

“Oh, believe me, we understand completely,” she shot back. “We eased him into things. Only thing that soothed the crying was colorin’, though. As soon as those crayons came out, it was like he turned into a completely different kid.”

Her face didn’t seem to match what she was describing. She looked concerned. Borderline worried.

“Daddy, look,” Ryan chirped from the backseat.

“Daddy will look as soon as we get home, buddy. Ah, sorry, ma’am. Should probably get this one home. I swear he’ll be on his best behavior tomorrow, won’t you, Ryan?”

He nodded eagerly from the backseat.

The entire drive home, all he seemed to talk about were those drawings. Asking me to look at them every mile or so. It was honestly driving me crazy, and pulling into the driveway felt like a relief.

“Alright, Kiddo,” I chimed, sliding the back door to the van open. “Let’s see those pictures you drew.”

My heart melted when he showed me.

“This one’s you,” he quirked, showing me the picture.

“This one’s mommy.”

“And this one’s the man in the hallway.”

I gasped at the black scribbles on the page. It was hardly “man” looking. What was on that page was more like a black mass. The only remotely human features he had drawn were the two bright red eyes at the top of the figure.

“What do you mean the man in the hallway, Ryan?” I asked, completely exasperated.

“You know,” he chirped. “The man who sees you and mommy sleep sometimes.”

Let’s just say dinner that night was pretty tense. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. I even talked to my wife about it, and all she could say was, “Kids have wild imaginations.”

I wanted to accept that explanation. I wanted more than anything for that to be the answer. And I almost did. I had almost completely convinced myself that all this could be boiled down to kids being weird.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed when I awoke at nearly 3 in the morning that night. I don’t even know what woke me up, but I know it was a jolt when it happened.

I shot up in bed, scanning the room in a cold sweat.

I saw nothing.

I was about to lie back down when I heard the bedroom door creak open.

The entire house was dark.

Save for two glowing red eyes that stared furiously at me and my wife.

Pre-school. A nightmare for both children and parents alike. The kids are finally getting a taste of what the next 15 or so years of their lives are gonna look like, and the parents have to finally let go of their little angel for what’s likely the first time of their lives. It’s painful.

Well, for me it was. I’m not sure if that’s exactly how other parents feel. Seems like they should, but to each their own, I suppose.

All I know is that it was complete waterworks for both me and my son on his first day of school. I was ugly crying from the moment we pulled into the car-rider lane. I think it scared my son, and that made him cry, which made me cry even more, and it only got worse when I had to watch him tearfully get taken away by one of the members of staff who led him into the building.

Let me just say, the whole day I was a wreck. Like, I genuinely felt like I was dying inside. That look on his face as they took him away. God, how it lingered.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling despair that day. I remember when I picked him up, that look the staff lady gave me. Like she was relieved to get rid of him.

“There you go, there’s your daddy. Go see daddy,” she begged, patting my son on the back.

Before I could even ask my boy how his first day of school had gone, the staff lady was at my window. She sounded twice as exhausted, but also relieved to finally be speaking to the parent of this apparent rioter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she announced in a customer service voice. “We had a little issue with Ryan. Nothing too major. He just… he wouldn’t stop screaming and crying for hours after you dropped him off.”

I glanced at Ryan in the rearview mirror. He stared down, almost mindlessly, at some sheets of paper in his lap while this lady laid into me.

“Oh, no,” I responded. “Well, you know, he’s a kid. First day of school. Gonna definitely take some getting used to.”

“Oh, believe me, we understand completely,” she shot back. “We eased him into things. Only thing that soothed the crying was colorin’, though. As soon as those crayons came out, it was like he turned into a completely different kid.”

Her face didn’t seem to match what she was describing. She looked concerned. Borderline worried.

“Daddy, look,” Ryan chirped from the backseat.

“Daddy will look as soon as we get home, buddy. Ah, sorry, ma’am. Should probably get this one home. I swear he’ll be on his best behavior tomorrow, won’t you, Ryan?”

He nodded eagerly from the backseat.

The entire drive home, all he seemed to talk about were those drawings. Asking me to look at them every mile or so. It was honestly driving me crazy, and pulling into the driveway felt like a relief.

“Alright, Kiddo,” I chimed, sliding the back door to the van open. “Let’s see those pictures you drew.”

My heart melted when he showed me.

“This one’s you,” he quirked, showing me the picture.

“This one’s mommy.”

“And this one’s the man in the hallway.”

I gasped at the black scribbles on the page. It was hardly “man” looking. What was on that page was more like a black mass. The only remotely human features he had drawn were the two bright red eyes at the top of the figure.

“What do you mean the man in the hallway, Ryan?” I asked, completely exasperated.

“You know,” he chirped. “The man who sees you and mommy sleep sometimes.”

Let’s just say dinner that night was pretty tense. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. I even talked to my wife about it, and all she could say was, “Kids have wild imaginations.”

I wanted to accept that explanation. I wanted more than anything for that to be the answer. And I almost did. I had almost completely convinced myself that all this could be boiled down to kids being weird.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed when I awoke at nearly 3 in the morning that night. I don’t even know what woke me up, but I know it was a jolt when it happened.

I shot up in bed, scanning the room in a cold sweat.

I saw nothing.

I was about to lie back down when I heard the bedroom door creak open.

The entire house was dark.

Save for two glowing red eyes that stared furiously at me and my wife.