My 5 Y.O. showed me his drawing. In red ink, his teacher had scrawled, “This is lazy.” I was furious.

But when I handed it to my husband, he turned d3athly pale, grabbed it, and threw it in the fireplace.

Something felt wrong. I dug through the ashes. What I saw made me feel sick.

The drawing was mostly burned, but one piece hadn’t turned to ash yet. There was something scribbled in the corner—not by my son. It was tiny, almost hidden in the swirl of red ink. It said, “I remember you.”

I froze.

It wasn’t my son’s handwriting. And it definitely didn’t look like anything a teacher would write. I felt a tight knot form in my stomach. My husband, Tanner, was pacing behind me, rubbing his temples, visibly shaken.

“What does this mean?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ashes like they might suddenly disappear.

“Tanner. Talk to me. Who remembers you?”

He didn’t look at me. “It’s nothing. It’s probably just a weird kid. Kids write weird stuff sometimes. You’re overthinking it.”

That’s when I knew he was lying. Tanner’s not a great liar. His voice goes too calm, and he avoids eye contact. And I’d been married to him for eight years—I knew the difference between nervous and guilty.

I let it go that night, for our son Kian’s sake. But something about that note gnawed at me. “I remember you.” From who? From what?

The next morning, I asked Kian to show me the drawing again. He looked confused and said, “Daddy took it away. He said it was scary.”

Scary?

I asked, “Who gave you that paper, sweetie?”

He shrugged. “I drew it at school. Miss Landry said it was bad and wrote stuff on it.”

Miss Landry was his new teacher. She’d just started at the school last month after the last teacher went on unexpected medical leave. I hadn’t met her in person yet.

Something about that didn’t sit right with me either.

I dropped Kian off at school and asked the secretary if I could speak with Miss Landry for a moment. She said Miss Landry wasn’t available, which seemed odd at 8:15 in the morning.

“Can I just leave her a note then?” I asked.

The secretary hesitated. “I think it’s better you contact the principal first.”

That’s when the alarm bells really started ringing.

I drove to my sister’s house. She’s always been the type to go deep with internet sleuthing. I told her everything. At first, she looked at me like I was being dramatic. But when I mentioned the note—“I remember you”—her eyebrows shot up.

She started looking up the teacher online, digging through school board announcements, social media, anything.

An hour later, she found something. It was a public news archive. About ten years ago, in a different city, a young woman named Lyla Landry had gone missing. She was 22. College student. Went on a date with a guy she met through mutual friends—and never came back.

The article had an old photo of her. She had brown hair, a birthmark under her left eye.

I stared at the photo. Something about it was familiar.

My sister zoomed in on the face.

“She looks like Miss Landry,” I whispered.

“But she disappeared. Never found,” my sister said. “That’s where it gets weird. No body. No trace. Nothing. Case went cold.”

I pulled out my phone and looked up the staff directory on Kian’s school website.

There she was—“Ms. L. Landry, Kindergarten.” And the photo? Same woman. But a little older, a little thinner. No birthmark under the eye.

“Maybe she had it removed,” I muttered.

My sister looked at me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

I nodded slowly.

What if the woman who disappeared had come back under a different identity?

And what if my husband had something to do with her disappearing?

I drove home feeling like my stomach had been replaced with ice. Tanner was in the garage, working on the old motorcycle he never finished fixing.

I didn’t even pretend to be casual.

“Who’s Lyla Landry?” I asked.

His entire body stiffened. Like someone had unplugged him.

“Why are you asking me that?” he said without looking up.

“Because her name showed up in a message on our five-year-old’s drawing. Because she went missing ten years ago. And because her name is now on the school staff directory.”

He looked at me, pale again.

“She’s not supposed to be here,” he said softly.

“What?”

“I mean—she… she shouldn’t be here. I didn’t think she’d ever—”

“Tanner. What did you do?”

He sat down on the tool bench, rubbing his hands like he was trying to wipe off something sticky.

“I dated her. A long time ago. Back when I lived in San Vista. She was obsessed. She’d show up at my job, call my parents, leave notes on my door. I broke up with her. And then she disappeared.”

I stared at him. “And what? You think she followed you here? After ten years?”

He nodded, slowly.

“But why would she write ‘I remember you’ on our son’s drawing?”

He looked like he was about to cry. “Because she thinks he’s mine. She thinks I replaced her.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying everything. The note. Tanner’s face. The missing girl. Our son, caught in the middle of something he didn’t understand.

The next morning, I got a call from the school.

Miss Landry had quit. Left no forwarding address. Didn’t even pack her things. She just vanished.

Again.

I felt like someone had poured cold water down my back. This woman was playing some twisted game—and now she was gone.

But three days later, something even weirder happened.

Kian got a letter in the mail.

It was addressed to “Little Kian” in pink cursive writing. No return address.

I opened it before he could.

Inside was a drawing.

It was the same one he’d made. Recreated exactly.

Except this time, in the bottom corner, next to a heart, were the words: “You’re better than he ever was. You deserve more.”

I took it to the police.

They said it wasn’t threatening. That it was probably a disturbed person with boundary issues. They filed a report, but didn’t seem too concerned.

But I was concerned. Deeply.

And furious.

I started digging again. Not into her this time—but into Tanner.

If Lyla had “disappeared” after dating him, maybe she wasn’t the only one.

I searched his past carefully—old news archives, forums, Reddit threads.

And then I found it.

Another girl. Different city. Different name.

Her name was Eloise Mercado. She’d also dated Tanner. Briefly. Also disappeared. No official charges were ever filed, but Eloise’s sister had posted on a true crime subreddit years ago, naming “T. Myers” as the last known person she’d been with.

Tanner Myers.

My blood ran cold.

I confronted him.

He denied it. Said it was “coincidence,” “bad luck,” “unfair assumptions.” But I didn’t buy it.

That’s when I made a quiet decision.

I didn’t tell him. I just packed a bag for Kian and me, and left while he was at work. Moved in with my sister for a while. Changed my number. Started documenting everything.

The worst part? Kian missed him. Kept asking, “When’s Daddy coming?”

I’d smile and say, “Soon, sweetheart.” But inside, I was terrified he would.

Three weeks later, the police contacted me.

They’d re-opened Eloise Mercado’s case after someone—anonymous—sent them new information.

It was a journal.

With dates, details, names.

It arrived in a manila envelope with no return address.

Inside was one photo, too.

Lyla, smiling. Holding a sign: “I’m not the one you should be afraid of.”

It was dated just two weeks ago.

The police began looking into Tanner more seriously. They brought him in for questioning. And then, in a strange twist of fate, they let him go.

Insufficient evidence.

But it wasn’t over.

A week later, Tanner’s car was found torched in the woods behind his workplace. Inside, they found a USB drive.

And on that drive—video footage. Conversations. Hidden camera recordings. All showing Tanner being manipulative, controlling, even confessing disturbing thoughts while alone.

That footage was enough to charge him. They arrested him the next day.

He’s awaiting trial now. Denies everything, of course. But the evidence is strong.

And the anonymous person who brought it all to light?

I’ll never know for sure. But I have a feeling it was Lyla.

Not because she wanted revenge.

But because she wanted justice—for herself, for Eloise, and maybe even for me and Kian.

Sometimes, people don’t come back to haunt.

They come back to heal what was broken.

Kian is safe now. We moved to a new city. I homeschool him now, at least until he’s a little older.

And every once in a while, we get letters.

No return address. Just small messages.

Like, “He’s free now.”

Or, “Thank you for protecting him.”

Always signed, L.

I don’t know where she is. But I hope she’s okay.

I hope she’s finally free, too.

Sometimes the monsters aren’t under the bed. They’re the ones smiling across the dinner table.

And sometimes the people we fear most… are the ones who end up saving us.

💌 If this story moved you, share it with someone who needs a reminder that listening to your gut is never a mistake. And don’t forget to like—because you never know who’s watching, waiting to be brave.