Foreboding Images
Those sketches haunted me—disturbing depictions of family members in situations that hadn’t happened, each one telling an eerie story that made no sense. “This isn’t normal,” I whispered, a chill crawling down my spine. The twisted faces, the strange shadows, the dark atmosphere—they weren’t the kind of drawings a child should make. I couldn’t brush them off. Something about them screamed that something was terribly wrong.
Foreboding Images
Grasping The Danger
As I studied the drawings, my pulse pounded harder with every page. This wasn’t just a child’s imagination running wild—there was something deeply sinister here. “This can’t stay hidden,” I realized. Sarah had to be carrying more than she was telling us, and these images were her only outlet. They felt like warnings, silent cries for help. One thing was certain: ignoring them wasn’t an option. Her safety depended on action.
Grasping The Danger
