I’ll never forget the day I discovered my three-year-old daughter Emily’s secret drawings. Innocence radiated from her cherubic face as she sat at her small table, scribbling away with colorful crayons. I cherished those moments, unaware of the sinister tale her drawings would reveal.
At first, I dismissed them as ordinary child’s art—a splash of colors, abstract shapes, and crude figures. But as the weeks passed, I couldn’t help but notice a subtle shift in Emily’s creations. My heart tightened with each new piece she proudly presented to me.
The playful scenes began to morph into something disconcerting. Splatters of crimson appeared, hinting at violence hidden beneath the whimsical exterior. A figure emerged—a faceless silhouette, looming ominously in the corner of each drawing. It sent a chill down my spine, a whisper of unease that I couldn’t ignore.
Day by day, my worry grew. I watched Emily closely, wondering if there was a source from which these disturbing images sprang. But she remained blissfully ignorant, humming songs and giggling as she drew, unaware of the darkness that seeped onto the pages before her.
As my concern intensified, I turned to the news for distraction. But every night, the anchor’s voice echoed through the living room, delivering a grim count of the dead—victims claimed by an unknown serial killer haunting our city. Each number etched itself into my mind, intertwining with the haunting images my daughter unknowingly created.
Sleep became elusive as I lay awake, connecting the dots that were forming in my mind. The echoes of news reports and Emily’s drawings danced together in a macabre symphony. Was it possible that my innocent daughter had unwittingly witnessed these crimes? That her drawings were a manifestation of the horrors she had seen?
With trembling hands, I began sketching lines, mapping the similarities between Emily’s art and the victims’ fates. I collected newspaper clippings, creating a dark collage that grew with each passing day. The evidence was too stark to ignore—a synchronicity of details that could not be dismissed as mere coincidence.
As the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, my fear grew. The correlation between Emily’s innocent drawings and the unsolved crimes became undeniable. I had stumbled upon a truth that the killer couldn’t afford to let me keep.
Days turned into restless nights as paranoia gripped me. Every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking presence, every creak in the house a foreboding whisper. I knew too much, and the knowledge weighed heavily on my soul.
One fateful evening, as I tucked Emily into bed, a chill wind rattled the windows. My instincts screamed at me to protect her, to flee from the darkness that encroached upon our lives. But it was too late. In the dead of night, the intruder struck.
I awoke to a silent house, suffocating dread enveloping me like a shroud. Racing to Emily’s room, I found her bed empty, the sheets stained with a sinister scarlet. A chill ran down my spine as I followed a trail of crayons scattered across the floor, leading me to the basement—the heart of our home, now transformed into a chamber of nightmares.
The killer wore a white mask with small black slits for eyes, and a hood, just as described in the pictures. On the wall, in scarlet red crayon, said “you know too much.” now I’m in the forest, writing this to have a memory of what happened. My phone is going to die soon. I wont be alive much longer. just please, if you can, report this horrible series of events. I’ll update if im still alive.