Black-Eyed Children Encounters: Don’t Let Them In

Black-eyed children are one of the most unsettling modern paranormal legends strange children appearing at doors, beside cars, or in quiet places, asking to be let in.

In this episode of Real Unexplained Stories, we explore eerie Black-Eyed Children encounters from people who claim they came face to face with something that looked human… but felt deeply wrong.

From late-night knocks at the door to impossible moments that left witnesses shaken, these stories all carry the same warning:

Don’t let them in.

Listen now to real unexplained stories of fear, mystery, and the unknown.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:35

Story one The Knock in Midland Texas by Mark My name is Mark. This happened to me back in 2009 on the edge of Midland Texas. If you've ever been in West Texas at night, you'll know the silence. The roads go dead quiet. Fields stretch out forever. Even the wind feels out of place. I was twenty seven then, renting a small one story house on a lonely stretch of road. Behind me were miles of empty fields. In front of me the faint glow of the town in the distance. One flicklin' street light down the block and nothing else. That night it was late, close to half past eleven. I'd crashed on the couch, TV buzzing low, the glow of the screen was the only light in the room. Then I heard it. A knock at the door. Three taps. Slow, even. I sat up frowning. Nobody ever comes by this late, not out here. I stayed quiet. Then it came again. Louder this time. My porch light had been out for weeks. I kept meaning to fix it, but I never did. I walked to the door, lent into the peephole. Two ships stood there faintly lit by the street lamp down the road. I slid the chain across the door, opened the door just a crack. Two kids standing there, a boy and a girl. Couldn't have been older than twelve. They look ordinary enough. Hoodies, jeans, backpacks, but the way they were stood was wrong. Still, too still. The boy spoke at first. Sir, can we come inside? We need to call our mum. His voice was calm, flat. Too steady. I started to answer, but the girl lifted her head. Her eyes black, not dark brown, not shadowed, completely black, no whites, no pupils, just endless black. Master McDropped. I stumbled back, trying to close the door. The boy spoke again. Please let us in. It didn't sound polite. It sounded sharp like an order. I slammed the door, locked every bolt, pressed my back against the wood. For a moment silence. Then came knocking again, harder, faster, relentless. And then it stopped. I crept to the window, pulled the curtains just enough to see. They were still there, standing perfectly still, heads tilted up towards the house. The girl was smiling, not a child's smile, a slow, deliberate grin. Then both of them turned at the same time and walked away. Not running, not looking back. Just steady steps until the darkness swallowed them. I didn't sleep all that night. A week later I stopped at a little gas station down the road. The old guy behind the counter asked how I was settling in. I laughed it off and told him about the strange visit. His face went pale. You too, he said. Then he leaned in closer. You're not the first. Others have seen them. Always the same two kids, black eyes always asking to be let in. He shook his head. Don't ever say yes. I've never seen them again, Leon. Every time there's a knock after dark, I think about that night, and I wonder how many people out there didn't say no and just let them in. The Children in the Hallway by Sarah. My name is Sarah. Back in 2016, I was living in a rundown apartment complex on the edge of El Paso, Texas. The building was old, thin walls, pipes that banged when someone upstairs flushed, hallways that smelled like dust and bleach. Most nights it was quiet enough. You'd hear the hum of traffic from the freeway or the neighbour's TV leaking through the wall. It wasn't much, but it was home. One night just after 1am in the morning, I was still awake. I couldn't sleep. I was sitting up in bed scrolling through my phone when I heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Slow shuffling. Too light to be one of the guys in the building. It sounded more like children. I thought, what kids would be out in the hallway at this hour? Footsteps stopped right outside my door. Then came a voice. A boy's voice. Mom, can we come in? I froze. Did I hear that right? I thought. My door was thin. You could hear a neighbor sneeze through it. But still, something about that voice didn't sound right. I slid out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and pressed my ear against the wood. Another voice. A girl's this time. Please, we need to call our mum. My stomach turned cold. I reached for the payhole. Two children stood there in the dim glow of the hallway light. A boy and a girl. Both in hoodies, jeans, and just standing there. They didn't fidget. They didn't even move. Just stared straight at the door. Then the boy leaned forward as if he knew I was watching. When he lifted his face, I saw his eyes black. Not dark. Not shadows. Complete black. The whole thing. I stumbled back from the door, heart pounding. My hands were shaking. I forced the bolt across the door and backed away. That's when the handle rattled. Not hard. Not like something trying to break in. Just slow, steady twists. Like they were testing it. I covered my mouth with my hand to keep me from making a sound. The girl's voice floated through the door. Let us in. We won't hurt you. The words sent chills down my spine. That's not what a child says. Not in that tone. The handle stilled. Silence. For a moment I thought they'd gone. Then clear as anything. Three slow knocks came from the other side of the wall. Not the door this time, the wall. My bedroom wall. Backed onto the hallway. And that's where the sound came from. Knock, knock, knock. I pressed myself against the far corner of the room, shaking, whispering prayers. I hadn't spoken in years. It went quiet after that. At some point, exhaustion must have taken over me because I woke up to sunlight peeking through the blinds. I checked the hallway, empty, but there was dust along the skirt and boards outside my door, and right there, in it, two sets of small footprints. They stopped dead at my door and went no further. A few days later, I told the neighbour what had happened. I expected her to laugh, but her face tightened. She said she'd heard voices outside her own door once. A boy and a girl asked to be let in. She hadn't opened it either, and she told me this. They'll come back, they always do. The Children on Highway 50 by David. My name is David. I've been a long haul trucker for most of my life. If you've ever driven through Nevada at night, you'll know how empty it feels. Miles after miles of nothing but desert, sky and road. This happened to me back in 2012 along Highway 50. They call it the loneliest road in America, and believe me, it earns the name. It was close to two in the morning. The road was quiet, too quiet. I hadn't passed another set of headlights in over an hour. Inside the cab I kept the lights dim, radio off, just the steady hum of the engine and the low whistle of wind around the mirrors. The kind of monotone that lulls you if you're not careful. My eyes were heavy. I knew I needed a rest before I started drifting, so when I saw the glow of a little rest stop sign, I pulled in. And if you've ever stopped at one out here, you'll know what I mean. Nothing more than cracked roads, dented trash can, single lamp throwing pale light onto the concrete. Everything else swallowed by a desert knife. I rolled to a stop, switched off the engine, and everything went quiet. No mortar, no tyres on the road, just silence. I leant back, rubbed my eyes, and thought about shutting them just for a few minutes. Then I saw movement. Two figures, small approaching from the dark. At first I thought it was my tired eyes were playing tricks, but no, they were real. Coming out of the darkness straight towards my truck, my stomach tightened. He was out here at this hour. There was no reason for anyone to be walking. They stepped into the pool of light. Two children, a boy and a girl, maybe ten, eleven years old. They stopped a few feet from the cab, standing side by side, faces tilted up towards me. The boy spoke at first. Sir, can you give us a ride? We're lost. His voice carried too well in the empty air. No fear, no hesitation. Just steady flat. I cracked the window an inch. Where are your parents? I asked. Neither answered. The girl just lifted her face to look at me, and that's when I saw her eyes. Black Dark No shadows. Completely black. No whites, no pupils, just bottomless darkness. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The boy stepped closer, placing his hand against the glass. Please, we need to get in. His tone had shifted. Sharper. Not a plea anymore, an order. I glanced at his hand. His nails were long, too long for a boy his age, and the tips looked dark, burnt. Every instinct screamed at me to leave. I turned the key. The engine roared to life. The girl tilted her head, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile, the kind of smile that doesn't belong on a child's face. The boy's hand pressed harder against the glass. For a moment it looked like the skin was leaving behind faint black smear. I threw the truck into gear. Tyre screeched on the gravel as I pulled away. In the mirror, they didn't chase, they didn't move. They just stood side by side in the lamps glow, watching me. I pushed the truck harder than I should have, sixty, seventy, eighty miles after miles of empty black top, my hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. Finally, after ten long minutes, I risked a glance at the passenger side window, and my stomach dropped. There was a handprint clear as day, small, perfect, pressed into the glass. But it wasn't normal. The outline was dark, as though soot had been burnt into it. The longer I stirred, the more wrong it looked. The edges twisted almost like veins. I didn't stop until the sun broke the horizon. When I finally pulled into a truck stop hours later, the first thing I did was check the window. The glass was clean. No smudge, no handprint, nothing. But I knew what I saw. I know what was pressed against that glass, and I tell you this, I've been driving highways all my life, and I've seen wrecks, storms, things that make most people never get behind a wheel again, but nothing scares me like those children on Highway fifty. The children at the Desert Gas Station by Mike The Desert at night plays tricks on you. It's too quiet, too open. Every sound feels wrong. Back in two thousand three I was working nights at a small gas station outside Holbrook, Arizona, and that was the night when the children came. The job was simple, long hours, low pay, but I needed it for the bills. The station sat alone on the highway. One small shop, two pumps, a soda machine that hardly worked. The nights were always the same, empty, dead quiet, flat desert in every direction, no cars, no voices, just the buzz of the lights and the hum of the fridge. That night felt no different. I was on the stool flipping through a magazine. The radio hissed static more than music. It was just after midnight when I heard a knock. I looked up at the glass door and it shook. Two figures stood outside, just beyond the glow of the sign. Kids, a boy and a girl, maybe twelve years old. They stood side by side, hoods up, their hair wet hanging over their faces. But it hadn't rained in days. The boy looked up. Sir, can we come in? His voice was flat, too calm, and too still. I frowned. Where are your parents? I called. No answer. They just stood there. Then the girl raised her head, and that's when I saw her eyes, Leon. Black, completely black. No whites, no pupils. A chill ran through me. I shook my head. No, I can't let you in. The boy pressed his hand against the glass. The girl smiled. The light flickered, buzzed, then steadied. When I looked again, they were gone. I stepped outside. Nothing, only desert and sand stretching for miles. I told myself, I must have been tired. I went back inside, locked the door. Five minutes later another sound. Tap, tap, tap at the side window. I turned, the kids were back. Their faces pressed to the glass, smiling this time. The lights flickered again. The radio went dead. Then both spoke at once. Let us in flat cold together. I stumbled back, grabbed my phone. No dial tone, just dead air. The lights flickered again. This time they went out. The whole place dropped into silence, no lights, no fridge, just darkness pressing against the windows. When the light came back on, the glass was empty. There was no kids, no voices, only me staring at my own reflection in the glass. I stayed behind the counter with a bat in my hand until the sun came up. I didn't move. I didn't breathe right. When my manager came in that morning, I told him that the power could out. He said nothing. And I said nothing about the kids. But a week later he called me into the office. He said he checked the CCTV cameras. He wanted to know why I left the doors locked and why I didn't let those customers in. My stomach turned. What customers? I asked. There was nobody here. He didn't believe me. He just turned the monitor. The black and white tape showed the pumps, the sign flickering, the door, and there they were, two kids, a boy and a girl standing outside the glass, not moving, not blinking, just staring in. The tape ran minutes past, then an hour, then two. The children never moved. They never spoke, they just stood there. But here's the worst part. On the tape the power never cut out, the lights never flickered, and the radio never failed. It looked like a normal night. Me pacing behind the counter, clutching the bat, and outside those children waiting. I quit that job the next week, and I'll tell you this, whatever those kids were, they weren't human. The Children by the Roadside by Thomas. My name is Thomas. This happened to me in 2017, driving home late through Staffordshire, England. It was just after midnight. The roads were empty. A light drizzle tapped against the windscreen. The wipers squeaked every few seconds. The headlights cut through the darkness. Hedge groves crowded both sides of the lane. No houses, no pubs, no other cars to be seen. That's when I saw them. Two figures standing at the roadside standing still, waiting. At first I thought they were kids from a nearby village. Maybe they'd missed the bus or got lost walking home. I slowed down, wound down the window just to crack. The heater hummed against the damp. They stepped into the beam of my headlights. It was a boy and a girl. No older than twelve. The clothes were strange. Hoodies, jeans, small rucksacks. Soaked through, clinging to them as if they'd been in the rain for hours. The boy lifted his head. He said, Sir, can you give us a lift? We need to get home. His voice was calm. Too calm for children out after midnight. Something felt wrong. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. The girl moved closer to the passenger side. She raised her face. That's when I saw our eyes. Black. Dark. No shadows. Completely black. No whites, no pupils. My stomach dropped. The boy leaned in closer. Please let us in the car. Not a request, a demand this time. My heart pounded. Every instinct screamed at me to leave. I hit the accelerator and the tyres slipped on the wet road, then caught. The car launched forward. In the mirror I saw them still standing there in the headlights, perfectly still, watching me. I didn't stop until I reached the main road. Didn't breathe easy until I pulled into town. When I parked outside my flat, I leaned forward to switch the heater off, and that's when I froze. Tiny black handprints marked the inside of the windscreen, faint but clear, as if someone had pressed against the glass from the passenger seat, but no one had been there. This is my story, my name is Emma. This happened to me in 2004 at my home in the West Midlands. It was late, close to midnight. Rain had been coming down steady all evening, dripping down the windows in long streaks. The house was quiet. Just me, the lamp in the living room and the hum of the old boiler in the hall. I'd been reading on the sofa, half drowsy when I heard it. At first I thought it was nothin', just the wind whistling in the gutters, but then I caught it again. Not the wind, voices, children's voices. Faint just outside my front door. I sat up, book sliding from my lap. My stomach tightened. I wasn't expecting anyone, not at this hour, and certainly not children. I held still, straining to listen. The voices came again. Whispers this time. Two of them, soft as if they were talking to each other. I stood, moving carefully into the hallway. The floor creaked beneath my bare feet. I stopped by the door, ear tilted towards the frosted glass. For a moment there was only rain. Then there were slow taps. Knuckles against the door. I nearly jumped out my skin. I swallowed, forcing myself to speak. Who's there? Silence. Then the sound of shuffling. Two dark shapes blurred behind the frosted panel, small still. A boy's voice spoke muffled through the glass. Who will come in? I froze. The voice was steady, too steady, not the nervous tone of a child out in the rain. My throat was dry. I whispered back Who are you? There was a pause. Then the voice repeated me, the exact same words, the exact same tone. Who are you? My chest went cold. The knock came again, louder this time. The voices overlapped now, raising in unison. Lousin, Lazin, Lausin. I backed down the hallway, shaking my head, whispering No, no. And then I heard it. My own voice thrown back at me, a girl's voice this time echoing my words No, no. The same pitch, the same fear, like a recording of myself played through a stranger's mouth. I stumbled into the living room, picked up my phone from the side table, but my hands were shaking too much to dial. I crouched there staring at the hallway, waiting. Knocking stopped, then just silence. I didn't know how long I sat there. Five minutes, ten, maybe more. The rain ticked against the glass steady and slow. Finally I forced myself to creep back into the hall. The frosted window showed nothing. The step outside was empty. Relief washed over me. I exhaled hard, put the chain across the door, and turned back towards the living room. But then I noticed it. The lock. It was open. The handle tilted down. The chain was the only thing keeping the door shut. Now I know I locked it earlier. I remember turning the key, sliding the bolt, and yet it was undone. I slammed it tight, double checked every window, every latch, then I sat there in the armchair, with every light on in the house until the sun came up. Even now, years later I remember that night, the whispers, the knock, the way my own feet. Voice came back to me from the other side of the door, and I'll tell you this I never left that lock undone again. My name is Daniel. This happened to me back in 2006 when I was a student in Liverpool. The house was on Breck Road, not far from Anfield, one of those long rows of red brick terraces. You see all over the city, peeling paint, damp on the skirting boards and rattling windows when the wind got up. But the rent was cheap, and when you're twenty and broke, cheap is enough. I shared it with two other housemates, but they both worked nights at a bar in town. Most evenings it was just me and the dog. A scruffy collie mixed with more sense than I had. That November night, rain had been coming down steady since tea time. By eleven the street outside was empty. Orange lamps glowed in the drizzle, the light bouncing off slick pavements. A faint siren echoed in the distance. The rain was closer by what was the only other sound. I was slumped on the sofa in the front room. Telly on low, dog asleep by my feet. That's when it started. A knock at the door. Three sharp knocks on the door. The dog's head shot up, ears flat. A low growl rumbled in his chest. That made me sit forward. He never growled. Not a postman, not at neighbours, nothing. I muted the telly and listened. The rain tapped steady on the glass. Then it came again. Knock, knock, knock. Slow, deliberate. I stood uneasy and stepped into the hallway. The frosted panel in the door blurred two shapes, small still. My first thought was kids pulling a prank. Plenty of that round here, but something about the way they stood, too still, too patient, made me hesitate. Who is it? I called. Silence. The dog pressed against my leg growling louder this time. I leaned closer, peering through the glass. Two children, a boy and a girl. Jeans, hoodies, school bags slung over their shoulders, rain dripping from their hair. The boy spoke first through the door. Can we come in? It didn't sound right. Not scared, not tired, just like a flat sound. I unlocked the door but kept the chain on, cracked it an inch. The dog snarled now, teeth buried. I never heard him sound like that. The girl lifted her head, and that's when I saw her eyes. Black, like a deep black, not brown, completely black. No whites, no pupils, just an endless void. My stomach dropped. I slammed the door shut, fumbling the lock, with my shaken hands. The boy's voice came again. Please let us in. Not a play this time, he demanded. The knock followed. Harder now. Rattling the letterbox. I pulled the dog back from the front door, heart racin, but the sound moved with us. From the door to the window, then to the side alley. Tap tap tap. As if fingers dragged across the glass. I clicked the kitchen light on. Quick. Rain streaked the back window. Two faces looked in. The boy and the girl were smiling. The dog barked so hard I thought he'd choked. I grabbed his collar and pulled him back. The girl mouthed a word through the glass. Her lips moved slow, deliberate. I yanked the curtain across. The knock circled the house now. Front door, side window, back door, always just ahead. I grabbed the phone from the whole table and dialed nine nine. Nothing. Only static. I thought I heard nothing. Only static through the phone. The faint clear. The boy's voice repeating over and over. I dropped the phone. Hands shaken. The duck bolted upstairs till between his legs. No matter how I called, he wouldn't come back down. I stood in the hallway with a poker from the fire, gripped in one hand, and every light blazing in the house. A knocking kept circling and then faded. Rain took its place. The house breathed again. I must have dozed off there, on the bottom step, because when I opened my eyes, the sky was pale. It was morning, drizzle easing off. For a moment I thought I'd dreamt it all. Then I saw the front door. It stood wide open, chain unlatched, the lock undone, rain puddling just inside the threshold. The dog whined from upstairs, refusing to come down, and me, I just stood there staring, knowing I'd locked every bolt. But in the cold grey light of that Liverpool morning, the door was wide open, and the wet pavement outside showed no footprints leading the way. The Children in Cannock Chase by Jamie. My name's Jamie. This happened to me back in 2005 when I was 16. I grew up just outside Cannock. The chase was on my doorstep. If you've been there you know what I mean. It's endless woods, old oak and pine, past that twist forever. Deep hollows where the sun barely reaches. As a kid we were warned about it. Stories of ghosts, witches, even werewolves. But when you live nearby, you shrug it off. It's just the chase. I'd summer I worked weekends at a calf in town. The pay wasn't much, but it kept me going. To get home I had to cycle across the chase. It was quicker than the roads, and I knew the tracks well. But at night the place changes. The trees feel closer, the silence feels heavy. Every sound makes you think you've been watched. One night I finished late, nearly ten o'clock. By the time I wheeled my bike out, the streets were empty, the shops were shut, just the buzz of the odd car far away. I turned onto the gravel track that cut through the chase. The air was damp. Mist curling between the trees. My bike light shook on the path, catching white gravel and black shadow. I kept pedaling steady, not fast, not slow, just enough to get through. Halfway along the trail I saw them. Two figures. Right there in the centre of the path. I braked hard. The tyre skidded. The beam of torch caught them. It was two children, a boy and a girl, both wearing hoodies and trainers, and both standing perfectly still. I thought maybe they were lost. Plenty of kids have ended up wandering too far. I opened my mouth to ask if they were alright, but stopped. They didn't move. They didn't flinch in the torchlight. They just stared. Alright, I called. My voice sounded thin in the dark. The boy lifted his head. Can we come with you? He said. His voice was strange, too steady, like it had been practiced. The girl lifted her face, and that's when I saw her rise. Black, completely black, nothing but darkness. A cold shiver shot through me. I lowered my head and pedaled hard. Branches clawed up my jacket. The tyres slid in the mud, but I pushed past them. Twenty yards the track cleared, and I thought I'd left them behind. Then the beam of light swung forward and caught them again. The same boy, the same girl, standing side by side, waiting. I swerved. My heart was pounding. And I rode past. The light shook widely across the trees. Voices rose behind me. Let us come, please let us come. But they weren't coming from behind me anymore. One voice from the left, one voice from the right, one whispered right behind my ear. I pedaled harder. The forest blurred. The mist thickened. Shapes twisted into shadows. Branches looked like arms, roots curled up like figures rising from the ground. Then ahead again, two shapes waiting. I braked hard. The bike skidded. I nearly lost control. They didn't move. They didn't step aside. They just stared. Their voices overlapped. Flat, steady. Let us come, let us come. Let us come. These sounds came from everywhere. From the trees, the mist, from the path under my wheels. I dropped my head and peddled with everything I had. The trees thinned, then suddenly the road. I burst out of the chase like I'd been spat out. The open space felt like air after drowning. I didn't stop until I reached home, threw the bike against the step, ran inside, locked the door, and I leaned against it, chest even, telling myself it couldn't have been real that. It couldn't have been real. Just shadows. Just my tired eyes. Then I turned. The back door, the glass panel smeared with handprints, small, child sized, wet with mud on the inside. I stumbled back into the kitchen table. The chair toppled with a crash. Our collie padded in from the lounge. He froze in the doorway. Heckles raised. He wouldn't come near the door. I bolted every lock, drew every curtain, and sat up for the rest of the night with the lights on. By morning the prints were gone. The glass was clean, but I knew what I saw, and I haven't cycled across Cannock Chairs at night ever since. The Children at the Farmhouse by Clare. It was 2011. I was living alone in a converted farmhouse in Derbyshire. Stone walls, wood beams, dress that found their way through, no matter how well you sealed the windows. It was quiet out there, too quiet sometimes. Just fields and hedgerows in every direction. That autumn the weather turned rough. Rain came hard. The wind rattled the roof and moaned in the chimney. One night close to midnight, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket round me, and reading a book when it started. A knock. Three dull foots against the front door. I thought to myself, nobody visits that late, not here. Then another knock, slow this time, even. I stood, heart already racing. I stepped into the hall, and through the frosted glass I saw two shapes, small still. It was children. I froze. Something deep inside whispered no, but another part of me thought, these kids are out there in this storm. I cleared my throat and said, Who is it? Silence. Then a boy's voice. Please let us in. But the tone was wrong. It didn't sound like a child. It sounded like an adult trying to copy one. I stared back from the front door. My hand shook on the frame. Then a girl's voice spoke next. Her voice was lighter, but out of sync, like she was echoing him a second too late. Please let us in. I gasped, stumbled back. That's when they smiled, through the glass. I saw their mouths stretch wide too wide, cheeks pulling further than they should. Teeth smiled white perfect. Too many teeth, rolls of them. The boy pressed his face closer to the glass, still smiling. The girl joined him. Her grin stretched ear to ear. I ran into the liver's room, screaming. I was shaking. The rain hammered hard. The lights flickered once, twice, and then tap tap tap at the side window. I pulled the curtain just enough to peek. Two faces staring back at me, grinning, mouth stretched so wide the skin at the corners looked ready to tear. I let the fabric drop. My legs nearly give out. Then came another sound, voices, but not outside now. Inside, whispers spiling from the walls, the sailing, and the very air, repeating my own words back to me. Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? I clamped my hands over my ears, whispering, Stop. The girl's voice echoed at me. Stop! The same pitch, the same fear, like a mirror held up to my mouth. I staggered into the kitchen, grabbed the phone. It was just a dead line, just hiss, and a breath that hissed laughter, like childlike, but wrong. The lights flickered again, then went out. The farmhouse dropped into darkness. No hum of the fridge, no tick of the clock, just the storm pressing close. I lit a candle, shaking my hands, it glowed withering across the beams, and in that glow I saw them at the far end of the room, beyond the window. Two children standing still smiling, mouths stretched impossibly wide. Their voices didn't come from outside now, they came from inside my head. We don't need the door. I stumbled back, candles shaken in my grip. Shadows leapt huge across the walls, then silence. No knocking, no laughter, just the storm. I sat in the armchair with a fire poker across my lap until exhaustion dragged me into a shallow, broken sleep. When I woke, pale light spilled through the curtains. The storm had passed. The world outside lay clean and quiet. For a moment I thought it had all been a dream, until I checked the locks, every door, every window unlatched, and then I saw the walls. There were smears all over. Fingerprints drawn shapes in the mud. Not handprints this time, drawings. Finger drawn shapes in mud. Not handprints, drawings, children's drawings. Stick figures stretched into the plaster, some smiling, some crying, all with dark circles for eyes. And at the end of the trail, just outside my bedroom door, two stick figures side by side, grinning wide.