Sabrina Lydia Patterson. The first girl to go missing from her home with no trace. Obviously the parents did it, right? They got away with it because there was no motive, evidence, or remains, but who else could it have been? Nobody had seen or heard anything. Their cameras showed nobody coming in or out of the house. Her brother Ace hadn’t stirred all night. The case went cold pretty quick and the neighbourhood searches came to an end. Her own parents gave up, cementing the idea in my mind that they were responsible for her disappearance.
That was until another missing child in the area was reported; Bridget Darleen Killian. She had nothing in common with Sabrina, but there had to be a connection. They’d both vanished in the exact same way. Sabrina was a blonde 13-year-old that did impressively in school and came from a wealthy family, whilst Bridget was a 4-year-old with hard working but poor immigrant parents who homeschooled her, but didn’t do a very good job of it. So why did they both disappear from their beds during the night as if they were never there at all?
We started warning people to keep an eye on their kids during bedtime and in general. For two months, it seemed like it was all over and although we hadn’t found the girls, at least no more were vanishing. Then came Randy George Tindall’s case. His mother was hysterical, just as the others had been. Randy was a 6-year-old boy who lived on the street over from the Pattersons. The story was the same as before; one minute he was safe and sound in bed, the next he was simply gone.
Finally, the culprit had left behind evidence. A few long black hairs were found on his bedroom floor, then found under his bed were enough of them to create three small black wigs. Outside there were areas of their perfect lawn that looked flattened down by someone’s strangely long, skinny feet. Everything had suddenly gone from weird to sort of… terrifying.
More calls started coming in, often with the same calling cards. Those vile black hairs, freaky footprints, and some even more disturbing things. Teeth. Fingernails. Crinkled, stained, and torn photos of the missing kids. Bloodstains. I started to lose sleep from it all. Those poor parents. Those poor kids. Their names circle around in my head at night and I can almost hear them calling me. Sometimes I catch myself whispering to them things like, “I’m sorry Cody, I’m sorry Natasha, I’m sorry Blake.” What was doing this? And why? And, my least favourite question, who was going to be next?
Well, last week Sabrina and Bridget were found. They were both found on the outskirts of a forest miles away from home, with bruises and scrapes nearly all over them. Sabrina had nearly starved to death, but is currently in the hospital improving daily. Her injuries were no where near as horrific as Bridget’s, who may not make it. Speaking with the different families and seeing the state these two girls were in, I started to fear for my kids. More children began to show up in very similar conditions, but in different places. Some appeared in playgrounds, some by or in lakes, but all still wearing their pajamas (though a lot more dirty). Still, more and more children were going missing and no one could figure out how, or where they had been taken to.
I’m writing this because tonight, my worst fear has come true. I thought I heard something fall from one of the shelves in my daughter Jade’s room, so I got up to investigate, all the while being as quiet as possible. (After five kids and a wife who’s not a morning person, I’ve mastered being dead silent when everybody else is asleep). Before I reached her bedroom, I noticed her door was slightly open and could see that her bed was empty and perfectly made as if she was never there. Immediately, I felt my stomach drop and my whole world fall to pieces. In the silence of the night, I could hear my wife gently snoring and my babies breathing on the baby monitors, but that was not all. Clear as day, I could hear husky breaths coming from behind my daughter’s door. I went back to my bedroom, where I am now, sitting in an armchair with a gun aimed and ready at my door. I can hear it in the hallway, shuffling and murmuring. I have no idea if it usually does this, if it knows I’m awake, or if I can even kill it. It’s started to turn the light in the corridor on and off and scrape its disgusting fingernails along the walls.
Oh. Looks like it’s attempting to open my door. Wish me luck.