My daughter Alice is ten years old, a bright and bubbly girl who loves school. So, naturally, I was thrilled when a new teacher, Miss Jackson, arrived at her school a few months ago. Miss Jackson was young, energetic, and genuinely seemed to care about her students. Alice absolutely adored her, and I was happy that she had such a positive influence in her life. Recently, I was waiting outside the school to pick Alice up when I bumped into Karen, another mom. We started chatting about our kids and school stuff, as moms do. I casually mentioned how sweet it was that Miss Jackson was doing extra lessons with Alice. It was after school hours, and I saw Alice stayed back in class a few times, so I just naturally assumed she was getting some extra help on homework.
Karen’s face suddenly changed. A look of pure shock and confusion washed over her. “Extra lessons?” she asked, her voice laced with concern. “Honey, my Mark isn’t doing any extra lessons. Neither are any of the other kids, as far as I know!” My blood ran cold. A knot formed in my stomach, tightening with each passing second. I tried to brush it off, telling myself it was probably just a misunderstanding. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
That night, I tried to talk to Alice about it. “Honey, are you getting extra lessons from Miss Jackson?” I asked gently. She clammed up, her eyes darting around the room, avoiding my gaze. “It’s nothing, Mom,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible. “Just a little help with my reading.” But her evasiveness only fueled my suspicion. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something, something important.
The next day, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I arrived at school way earlier than usual, parking my car a block away and sneaking towards Alice’s classroom. The windows were slightly open, allowing snippets of conversation to drift out into the quiet morning air. Peeking through a gap in the curtains, I saw Alice sitting at her desk, Miss Jackson standing beside her, leaning in close. I strained my ears, trying to decipher their hushed words.
Miss Jackson was speaking in a soft, almost hypnotic tone. The sunlight was casting long shadows across the room and created an eerie environment. I pressed my ear closer to the window, heart pounding in my chest. I could hear Miss Jackson’s words clearly now. She was teaching Alice, alright, but not reading or math. Not anything that belonged in a classroom. She was guiding my daughter through some kind of bizarre ritual, whispering strange incantations and asking questions that made my skin crawl. [ “She was teaching Alice how to cast spells, teaching her how to summon spirits, teaching her secrets that no ten-year-old should ever know.” ]
I burst through the door, screaming. Miss Jackson whirled around, her eyes widening in alarm. Alice gasped, her face pale with shock. The classroom was silent, except for my ragged breaths. Miss Jackson didn’t say anything. She grabbed her bag and bolted out the back door, disappearing into the morning fog. But as I gathered Alice into my arms, I noticed something even more horrifying. Carved into Alice’s desk, barely visible beneath a pile of books, was a symbol. A symbol I recognized from an old book I’d once read… a symbol of demonic invocation. What exactly had Miss Jackson planned for my daughter?
