My daughter is 10. Not long ago, a new teacher started at her school—Miss Jackson. She was young, kind, and had this calming presence about her. All the kids adored her, especially my Alice. She couldn’t stop talking about how Miss Jackson made learning “magical.” One afternoon, as I was waiting to pick Alice up, I ran into another mom, Karen. We chatted for a bit, and I casually mentioned how amazing it was that Miss Jackson was offering extra lessons after school. Karen froze. She blinked at me and said, “Extra lessons? Honey, Mark’s in Alice’s class. He comes home right after school—there are no extra lessons.” My heart dropped.

I laughed it off, but something in Karen’s eyes unsettled me. That night, I asked Alice about it. “Sweetie, what do you and Miss Jackson do after school?” She paused, stared down at her hands, and quietly said, “It’s just our time… She says I’m special.” When I pushed further, she shut down completely. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next day, I left work early and got to school almost 40 minutes before dismissal. I parked, walked quietly through the halls, and stopped outside Alice’s classroom. The door was open just a crack. Inside, Alice sat at her desk, hands folded. Miss Jackson was kneeling beside her, speaking softly. I leaned in to listen. Miss Jackson’s voice was sweet… too sweet.

“Alice,” she whispered, “you must never tell your mommy about our talks. They wouldn’t understand. You’re different. You were chosen. They don’t get it, but I do. I can show you the truth… if you’re ready.” I felt my blood run cold. Miss Jackson stood and pulled something from her desk drawer—a thick old book wrapped in cloth, with symbols etched into the cover. She opened it slowly and began reciting words I didn’t understand, but the room suddenly felt… heavy. Like the air itself had shifted. Alice stared blankly at her, as if in a trance. I slammed the door open. Miss Jackson jumped back. The book snapped shut. Alice blinked, confused, as if waking up. “I’m taking my daughter,” I said, my voice shaking. “And I’m calling the school board.”

Miss Jackson just smiled, completely calm. “She’ll come back. They always do.” I didn’t wait to hear more. I grabbed Alice and left that school like it was on fire. We never went back. Later, I learned Miss Jackson was never officially hired. No one knew how she got access to the classroom. The school said they were “looking into it,” but no real answers ever came. Her personnel file was… empty. But here’s the worst part: A week later, Alice handed me a drawing. It was of her and Miss Jackson standing under a strange, swirling sky. At the bottom, in neat handwriting that wasn’t my daughter’s, it read: “Don’t worry, Mommy. She still visits me. In my dreams.”