The room was cold that night, even with the windows shut. Moonlight poured in like a silver spotlight, casting eerie shadows across the floor. Eleven-year-old Rose sat on the edge of her bed, frozen, clutching the sketchbook in her lap.
She had seen it—clear as day. A man, dragging what looked like a lifeless body into the woods behind the house. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't moved. She had simply watched, eyes wide, heart pounding. Then she did the only thing she could.
She drew.
Page after page, her pencil raced across the paper. The dark figure. The limp arm. The dragging footsteps in the snow. She drew it all with chilling detail.
But she didn't say a word.
The next morning, Rose walked up to Aunt Marian, holding out the sketchbook with trembling hands. Her eyes pleaded, look. Her lips stayed, as the always had since the accident.
Aunt Marian glanced at the drawing. Her expression hardened.
"Rose," she said flatly, "these are just imaginations again. You spend too much time in that room. Go outside. Play."
Rose turned to Jake next – her older brother, her last hope. He flipped through the pages, frowning.
"Did you dream this, Rose? I mean... this didn't really happen, right?"
She shook her head slowly, eyes wide with insistence.
But Jake just sighed. "You've gotta stop scaring yourself."
They didn't see it.
They didn't believe her.
And the worst part???
She stopped trying to make them.
Instead, Rose kept sketching. Quietly. Secretly. Letting the truth bleed out in graphite lines while the real horror continued to fester in silence....