It was cute at first.

When my son Luca put on a sock with googly eyes and said, “This is Mr. Scribbles,” he was being very artistic. I thought it was just a cute phase because he helped me write. He would laugh and do his homework with the doll. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he would even whisper little secrets into it.

I didn’t think twice about it until he asked for lined paper. It’s not for school. Just to “get used to Scribbles.”

After that, the writing changed.

It wasn’t Luca’s usual messy, big writing. It was more tightly wound. Better. Kind of like an older person was writing.

But it wasn’t just nice; it was perfect. It was strangely perfect, like it was written by a skilled hand. The letters were small and clear, and each one looked like it was carefully put together. At first, I thought it was just an accident, or maybe a sign that Luca was getting better. When I went into the kitchen one day, I saw him hunched over the table, writing with Mr. Scribbles in his hand.

I stopped and looked at him. The words he was writing were the most difficult things I had ever seen him try. Even though they were written in English, they didn’t sound like the thoughts of a 9-year-old.

“Mr. Scribbles, don’t you think everything will work out?” He whispered to the dummy, almost as if he needed to feel better.

I moved closer and tried to read what was written on the paper. A boy met a strange old man who promised him “a way out” of everything he hated. It was a story, a dark and mysterious one. Even though they didn’t come from my son’s mind, the words seemed to come from somewhere else.

The doll came to mind. Hi, Mr. Scribbles. What was going on? I got down on my knees next to Luca and took the paper from him slowly.

“Guy, what is this?” I asked, trying to sound relaxed even though I was getting more and more uncomfortable.

He smiled at me, but it wasn’t the same as the last time. It was wide and watched me, like he was hiding something from me. “Just a story, Mom,” he said in a low voice. “Writing helps me.”

The words made no sense to me as I stared at them. My mind was going fast, though. Not only the writing or the dark tone of the story were scary, but so was the handwriting. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. We felt like something was wrong with this whole thing.

“All right, I think we should talk about this some other time.” I said, trying to get my feelings back under control. I didn’t want to scare Luca, but I couldn’t ignore how scared I was getting.

I chose to look through the papers Luca had left on the table after he went to bed that night. Now there were more stories, and they were all written in the same creepy handwriting. Some of them didn’t make sense at all. Some words, like “never forget” and “darkness follows,” kept coming up.

After that, I found the last one. When I read the words, my heart stopped:

The boy has to decide what to do. There is a door that leads to freedom. The other way will take you to a spot where nothing grows. He alone can make the choice, but time is running out. He can feel the darkness getting closer.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. What was it? He was writing these kinds of things, but why? These stories seemed to come from a different mind, one of an older person who knew more than a child should.

I ran quickly to the living room, where my husband Matt was watching TV.

“Matt, please look at this,” I said, shaking my voice. The papers were given to him.

He took a quick look at them and then turned to look at me. He turned the leaves and asked, “What is this really?” “Honey, it’s just stories.” “You know what? Kids are weird sometimes.”

I could tell he didn’t understand how worried I was, though. It wasn’t just strange. It didn’t feel right. I began to wonder if there was something else going on that I couldn’t explain the more I thought about it.

I chose to talk to Luca’s teacher the next day. She might have seen something strange at school. When I got to school, Mrs. Thompson was handing out grades in her classroom. She welcomed me warmly, but her face turned more serious when I told her about my son’s recent behavior.

“Well, Louie’s been a little different lately,” she said. His job has also changed. That kid seems like a whole different person. His work, in particular, has been so good. I sometimes wonder where he gets all of this.

“High-level”? I said it again, and my heart sank.

“Yes.” Not like the other things we do in class. It’s not just the writing either. He seems to be… I don’t know how to describe it. It seems like he knows more than a kid his age should.

I got a chill.

Mrs. Thompson said, “I’m worried.” “He’s also been drawing weird things.” Like, dark, shady people. He won’t talk about it, though. He just smiles and says, “It’s all part of the game” every time I ask him about it.

My mind was going crazy as I looked at her. This wasn’t just a harmless phase anymore. Luca was going through something. Something that went beyond what most kids imagine when they are young.

I went right home from school, but my mind was cloudy. I needed to know. I needed to know what was going on with my son. I went to the kitchen table and stared at the stacks of paper that had begun to form. It was hard for me to figure out what was going on.

It dawned on me.

The plaything. Hi, Mr. Scribbles. Was it there all along? I forgot what it was. I looked through the house room by room until I found the old sock puppet hidden in Luca’s room. When I picked it up, my hands were shaking. The way it felt in my hands made me think it was… alive.

I felt a cold gust of wind come through the room all of a sudden, even though the windows were shut. The doll moved around and looked up at me with its googly eyes. My thoughts were going fast. Is it possible? Did this happen by chance, or was there something more evil going on?

I went on the internet to look for anything that might help me understand what was going on. Then I found it. A strange, fringe idea that things, like dolls and puppets, could somehow connect with forces from other worlds and carry the thoughts and plans of other beings. I thought the idea was crazy at first, but as I read it, it seemed like it could explain everything.

My hands were shaking as I read blog posts and stories. It’s possible that the puppet had something to do with this dark and strange force. It was possible that it had taken over Luca’s thoughts and imagination.

I sat next to Luca’s bed that night and watched him sleep. That man’s face looked so calm and pure. But I knew there was something else going on below the surface. I didn’t understand something.

That’s when I understood that I couldn’t stop this cycle by controlling what Luca wrote or drew. It was in getting him away from whatever had him bound.

I did something the next morning. Matt wouldn’t get it, so I didn’t tell him. I carefully packed up all of Luca’s stories, along with the puppet, and drove to a nearby church I had heard of briefly. It was said to have a strange power that could drive away evil. I had to try even though I wasn’t sure if it would work.

While I looked at the shrine in front of me, I promised myself that I would always look out for Luca. The stories stopped when I left the shrine, the character was gone, and Luca went back to being himself.

I didn’t tell anyone about the shrine for weeks. But I knew something was different. Luca’s world seemed to have turned around on its own. What about me? The lesson I learned was that answers can come from the strangest places. And that the way we think about saving the people we love isn’t always the way it actually is.

If you’re going through something similar, whether it’s something you can’t explain or an emotional problem, know that answers are sometimes hidden and waiting to be found. Always keep an eye out and guard what’s most important to you.

If this story spoke to you, please share it, and don’t forget to like the post if you believe in the power of hard work and trust.