Her uncle was the prime suspect, and I was sure my family was destroyed. Then the police analyzed the stain on her backpack. The lead officer looked at me and said, “Ma’am… the suspect isn’t human.”
It was a Monday morning like any other at Pinewood Elementary School.
The sun streamed through the classroom windows as children settled into their colorful plastic chairs, chattering about their weekend adventures. Mrs. Olivia Henderson moved gracefully between the desks, her warm smile putting everyone at ease as she prepared for the day’s first lesson.
Everyone, that is, except six-year-old Emily Taylor. “Good morning, class,” Mrs. Henderson announced cheerfully.
“Let’s start by sharing something special from our weekends.”
The children’s hands shot up, but Mrs. Henderson’s attention was drawn to Emily, who stood rigidly beside her desk, clutching her backpack to her chest like a shield. “Emily, sweetie, please take your seat,” Mrs.
Henderson said gently. The little girl shook her head, her blonde pigtails swinging, tears welling in her large blue eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Mrs. Henderson knelt beside her, speaking softly so the other children couldn’t hear. “Are you feeling sick, honey?”
Emily’s lower lip quivered.
She hugged her backpack tighter and shook her head again. “It hurts to sit,” she finally admitted, a tear sliding down her cheek. Mrs.
Henderson’s brow furrowed with concern. “Would you like to go see the nurse?”
Another emphatic headshake. Emily was now visibly trembling.
“It was big and thick, teacher,” Emily suddenly whispered, her voice barely audible. “And it scared me.”
A chill ran down Mrs. Henderson’s spine.
In fifteen years of teaching, she had learned to trust her instincts when something felt profoundly wrong. Right now, alarm bells were ringing, loud and insistent. Class, please open your reading books to page twelve,” she instructed, her voice a mask of calm despite her racing heart.
“Madison, you’re in charge until I return.”
She guided Emily to the quiet reading corner and pulled out a sheet of paper and some crayons. “Emily, can you draw what you’re talking about? What scared you?”
The little girl hesitated, then her small hand moved across the paper, creating crude, childish shapes that made Mrs.
Henderson’s stomach tighten with each stroke. When Emily finished, she pushed the paper toward her teacher with trembling fingers. Mrs.
Henderson stared at the drawing, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp. The sketch showed something that no six-year-old should ever have to draw. Her mind raced through a horrifying Rolodex of possibilities.
Who… who showed you this, Emily?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Sunday,” Emily whispered, hugging herself. “It was so big.
I didn’t want to get close.”
Mrs. Henderson’s hands trembled as she reached for the classroom phone, her heart pounding against her ribs as she dialed the principal’s office. “This is Olivia Henderson.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
