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The Crooked Girl

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Kids grow like weeds. It’s hard to believe that my daughter is three now and she just loves to draw. She’s always bringing me a new scribble. A picture of the neighbor's cat, a picture of our dog, or sometimes even the playground.


She’s just a kid so the drawings of me don’t really resemble anything more than a balloon with legs and as an overweight single father, I try not to take offense.
 

After dinner, she’ll bring out her crayons and paper. Earlier this week, while I was watching my football game, she walked up to me with her latest masterpiece.
 

“This is beautiful!” I said with pride and watching her smile light up her face. My heart always fluttered when she did that.
 

The drawing was a simple view of our front yard and house. She sketched out a simple box with a square window and an oversized triangle for our roof. The usual depiction of me, a blob with legs, holding hands with her, and another figure that seemed far more detailed than both of us. It looked like a girl, somewhat bigger than her, triangle dress and with her head tilted at a ninety-degree angle and wild eyes that made her look like she was in a perpetual state of surprise and a laser focus on my daughter.
 

“Who is this?” I asked with concern.
 

“The crooked girl. She lives in the closet.” She exclaimed.
 

My heart beat a little faster after hearing that. I’m sure it’s just the child’s imagination. I glanced over at her little pink drawing table and noticed that this crooked girl was in almost every drawing she had drawn earlier.
 

“Who is the crooked girl, baby?” I inquired.
 

She muttered, not really answering me. I asked again, and she returned a watery-eyed glare, and then her lip started quivering.
 

“Okay honey, it’s okay. We don’t need to talk about her. Time for bed anyway!” I said scooping her up into my arms.
 

I tucked her in and gave her a kiss on her tiny warm forehead.
 

After I was sure that my daughter was sound asleep I walked over to the closet. Taking a breath and then opening the closet door I can’t say what I expected to find, but what I saw was the usual pile of toys and clothes. As I shut the door, I thought that I heard a faint gasp.
 

I’m sure it was just air escaping from the closet.
 

It’s now been twenty-four hours. The police have found no trace of my daughter. I try to not imagine the worst, but my heart is in a perpetual state of breaking and I am now living a parent’s worst nightmare.
 

But what scares me most is what I found when I went to wake her up this morning. Tucked away in place of where I thought she was sleeping, was one of her dolls.
 

Its head twisted at a ninety-degree angle. 

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Credits

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