The bell rang through the halls of Greyson's High like a distant alarm, far removed from the panic rising in Rose's chest. Students flooded the corridors, some laughing, others shuffling silently to their next classes. But Rose didn't hear any of it. Her world were sealed behind a veil of silence – except for the heavy thud of her heart and the feel of her sketchbook pressed tightly to her chest.
She hadn't plan to show him. Not again. Not so soon.
But something inside her knew she had to. Before it was too late.
Detective Crane had returned to the school that morning, unannounced, asking to "sit in" during one of Rose's counseling sessions. His calm demeanor and dark eyes always seemed to see more than most adults ever did. He didn't treat her like a fragile thing. He didn't speak louder or slower just because she didn't answer. Instead, he waited – quietly – until she decided to speak in the way only she could.
With sketches.
Rose waited outside the counselor's office until she saw him. Crane nodded at her, almost like he already knew. As the door closed behind them, the noise from the hallway faded into hush of the room. It was just the two of them.
He took the chair across from her and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You brought your sketchbook again," he said quietly, eyes narrowing with seriousness that made her stomach tighten. "Is there something else you want me to see, Rose?"
she hesitated for a long moment before slowly opening the worn black cover.
The first few pages were familiar. The woods. A man dragging a figure. A trail disappearing in the shadows. He had seen these before.
But then came the new drawings.
Page by page, she laid the truth before him.
One sketch shows her aunt standing in the kitchen, her face lit up by moonlight. It looked almost normal – until you saw expressions. Not frightened. Not curious. Just....still. And cold.
The next was Mr. Whitlock – closer now. Not standing at the fence, but beside the garden gate. His face was tilted up towards a window. Her window. His hands rested on the gate latch.
Crane borrows frowned, "he was at your house?"
She nodded.
Then, she turned the page again.
This one was darker – drawn in heavy graphite. Two figures in the kitchen, one tall and hunched, the other sharp and feminine. There mouths were open as if caught mid conversation. Words scrawled in charcoal floated around them like smoke.
"You said she doesn't talk."
"She's drawing again."
"Then you know what must be done."
Crane's jae tightened, "you heard them?" He asked gently.
She nodded again, eyes locked on his.
His voice lowered, "Rose..are you trying to tell me your aunt and Mr. Whitlock are trying to hurt you?"
She flipped to the last page.
It was a chilling composition. A single door. Her bedroom door. A hand reaching for the knob from the outside. In the shadows beyond the doorframe – two silhouettes. Watching. Waiting.
Crane sat back slowly, his fingers steepled before his mouth as he processed everything. "You're scared," more to himself than to her. "And you think they know that you've drawn them."
She reached into her pocket and pull out a crumbled note – one she had found slipped under her pillow that morning. She handed it to him with trembling fingers.
Crane unfolded it and read the crude, shaky words:
"Stop drawing. Stop remembering. Or it won't be just silence that follows you.."
His hands closed around the note like he was trying to crush the threat inside it.
He looked up at her, his eyes hard now.
Focused.
"Rose... thank you for trusting me. I need you to listen very carefully. Don't confront them. Don't go anywhere alone. And whatever happens keep drawing. Keep telling me everything, even if it's like this. Alright?"
She nodded, blinking back the tears she didn't want to fall.
Crane stood. "I'll be watching them now. Not just you."
Before he left, he paused at the door and glanced back, "Your silence speaks louder than any scream could ever. And someone's finally listening."
When the door shut behind him, Rose clutched her sketchbook tighter. For the first time since the night her world fell apart, she didn't feel completely alone.
But danger still lingered in every shadow. And night was falling fast.