Chapter 1: An Innocent Question

"Michael, you know this isn't appropriate behavior," I said, holding up the paper he had turned in. At the top, he had scribbled, "I am the sign of the beast" instead of his name, and everywhere else he had marked 666. While some kids often drew silly things on assignments, this was a step beyond the usual antics. I had seen my fair share of doodles, but this was unsettling.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his expression a mix of innocence and confusion.

"Why did you write this? Your name should be here."

"I did put my name," he insisted.

"No, you wrote this," I pointed to the ominous phrase on the paper.

"I didn't do that."

"Michael, you need to tell the truth. This is your work."

"What's the beast?" he asked, looking genuinely perplexed. His eyes were wide, and for a moment, I hesitated. Did he really understand what he had written? I had seen him submit the paper myself.

"That's not the issue right now. Just remember, you shouldn't be writing things like that."

"What's 666?" he pressed on.

"What?" I replied, taken aback.

"Why is that number all over your paper?"

"I have no idea," I stammered.

"Did someone tell you to write it?" he asked, his gaze dropping to his shoes, a classic sign of guilt in children.

A sudden chill swept through the classroom, and I glanced around for an open window. Michael lifted his head, a serious look on his face. Could children even look serious?

"Something wicked is coming," he said, his voice deeper than usual.

"What did you say?" I questioned, feeling a knot form in my stomach.

His serious demeanor faded, replaced by confusion. "Huh?"

"Forget it, Michael. Just go outside."

"Okay," he replied, still looking bewildered.

As he left, a shiver ran down my spine. I had encountered many odd things in my career, but this was unsettling. The rest of the day dragged on, but I couldn't shake the feeling of dread.

After school, I walked home, only three blocks away, but my mind was clouded with thoughts of that paper. I considered calling his parents, but he usually behaved well, so I dismissed it as a child's mischief.

However, an unsettling sensation crept over me, as if someone were following me. I glanced back repeatedly, but saw no one, which only made me walk faster. When I reached my apartment, the familiarity I once appreciated now felt vulnerable. I opened the door, eager to leave the day behind, but was met with chaos.

I should have alerted the authorities immediately. It was the logical step, but curiosity got the better of me. My kitchen had been ransacked, food scattered across the living room, and everything from the refrigerator dumped onto the floor.

To my horror, all my kitchen knives were gone. The walls were defaced—every photo had its eyes cut out, leaving eerie holes where their gazes once were. The TV flickered with a blue screen, adorned with a smiley face drawn in my lipstick. The mess seemed to lead into the bedroom, yet there were no footprints—only trails of food.

With my heart racing, I pushed open the bedroom door, half-expecting an intruder, but found only sile