Three days after Mira Whitman vanished, the case grew colder.
Flyers had gone up across Oaktown, volunteers scoured the surrounding woods, and search dogs were brought in—but there was no scent, no trail. Nothing.
Detective Elise Monroe sat in the dimly lit briefing room of the Oaktown PD, rubbing her temples. She had seen runaways before. Teenagers who left angry notes, emptied bank accounts, or left behind breadcrumb trails of teenage angst.
But this case felt… wrong.
And now, they finally had the house surveillance footage—downloaded from the security system Mira's father had installed last fall. He'd said it never caught much beyond deer in the yard and the occasional raccoon.
But maybe this time, it caught something more.
The footage played on the monitor.
Monday, 9:13 PM — Mira walked in through the front door. Normal. Backpack on. She put her keys down, glanced at the camera for a brief second—then vanished down the hallway.
Detective Monroe fast-forwarded. Around 11:00 PM, the footage glitched—brief static.
Then it went black.
For six full minutes.
When the footage resumed, Amanda and Shawn were in the living room.
Monroe leaned forward.
They looked… different.
Amanda sat stiffly on the couch, blank-faced, holding something in her lap.
A small pink dress.
Shawn entered the frame a moment later, carrying a makeup brush and a small box of jewelry. Their movements were slow. Robotic. Deliberate.
Then Amanda turned to someone just outside the frame. "Sit still," she mouthed.
The footage glitched again.
When it resumed, Mira was in frame—barely recognizable. She was seated, wearing the pink dress. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her parents moved around her, placing the jewelry on her, applying makeup with unblinking eyes.
Detective Monroe's skin crawled.
Then the footage cut to black again.
This time, for twelve minutes.
When the video returned, Mira was gone.
Amanda and Shawn sat silently on the couch, staring straight ahead.
Frozen.
Two hours later, Detective Monroe sat across from the Whitmans in the interrogation room.
The footage had been flagged as potential evidence of coercion—or worse.
A second detective, Patel, stood in the corner, arms crossed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Whitman," Monroe said carefully, "can you explain what you were doing to your daughter in that video?"
Amanda looked confused. "What video?"
"The security footage," Patel said flatly. "You dressed her in that doll's clothes. Jewelry. Makeup. She looked terrified."
Shawn shook his head. "No, no—what? We never—what are you talking about?"
Amanda's voice cracked. "I don't remember that. I swear to God—I don't remember any of it."
"There's a six-minute blackout," Monroe said. "Then again, later. That's not a system error. Something corrupted the footage."
Patel leaned in. "Do either of you practice ritual magic? Or… anything of that nature?"
Shawn's face went pale. "What kind of question is that?"
"Witchcraft, satanic rites, summoning, spirit-binding—anything occult?" Monroe clarified.
Amanda flinched. "No! We're not—that's insane!"
But neither detective said a word.
They just let the silence hang heavy in the room.
Because they both knew something the Whitmans didn't:
They'd enhanced one of the blurred frames from the footage.
And in the corner of the living room, just barely visible behind the mantel…
The doll's head had turned.
Its green eyes stared directly into the camera.
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