It started with one drawing. Just a crayon sketch—messy, crooked lines—but something about it made me pause.

A tall man. Black coat. Red shirt. Big hat. Hands at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

I asked who he was. She shrugged and said, “The man who stands by my bed.”

I laughed it off at first. Kids have wild imaginations, right? I figured it was someone from a cartoon or a storybook I didn’t recognize.

But then she drew him again. And again. Always the same. Same expression. Same colors. Same weird posture. Dozens of pages filled with this one figure—just standing there, blank-eyed.

I checked her books. Her shows. Even asked her teacher if there was some character they’d been talking about at school.

Until one night, she drew him again, but this time, the picture was different. It wasn’t just a simple drawing. There was a word, written in the corner, in shaky letters, “Help.”

I stared at it, the cold creeping into my bones. I asked her again, more gently this time, “Who is this man?”

Her eyes met mine, and there was something in them—a quiet depth, a seriousness that seemed too old for her small face. “He says he needs help,” she whispered.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. She was only six. Kids say a lot of things, but this felt… different. Like something I couldn’t fully understand was hovering just beyond my reach.

The next night, the man in her drawing was there again—except now he was looking directly at me. His eyes weren’t blank anymore. They were dark, almost hollow, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I stared at it.

I tried to calm myself down. It had to be a phase, right? Some weird childhood thing. So I decided to ignore it. I kept reassuring myself that kids had strange obsessions—sometimes they just fixated on things for no apparent reason.

But the more she drew him, the more uneasy I became. She’d never mentioned him standing by her bed again, but the drawings kept coming, each one more detailed than the last. Sometimes she’d draw him in different places, standing by windows, or behind trees in the park, but it was always the same man with the same unsettling expression. And every time, the word “Help” would appear somewhere on the page.

It wasn’t until I came home from work one evening and found her sitting quietly on the floor, her art supplies scattered around her, that things truly began to unravel. She was staring at something in her hands.

“What are you doing, sweetie?” I asked, walking toward her.

She didn’t answer right away. Slowly, she looked up at me, her eyes wide and serious.

“I saw him today,” she said softly.

My heart skipped a beat. “Saw who?”

“The man,” she said, almost matter-of-factly, “standing outside the window.”

I froze. The window she was talking about was in her room, on the second floor, facing the street. I quickly glanced out the window to check, but the street was empty. Still, a chill ran through me.

I knelt beside her. “Honey, what are you talking about? There was no one out there.”

But she just shook her head, her voice unshaken. “He was there, Mommy. He’s always watching.”

I felt a pang of fear. This couldn’t be real. Was my daughter just imagining things? I had to get to the bottom of this, no matter how impossible it seemed.

The next day, I asked my husband, Matt, if he’d noticed anything strange—anything out of the ordinary with our daughter’s behavior. He laughed it off at first, dismissing it as one of those weird, temporary phases kids go through. But when I showed him the latest drawing, he stopped laughing.

“Maybe we should talk to someone about this,” he suggested, his tone serious now.

We decided to take her to a child psychologist. The doctor was patient, and after a few sessions, she told us what we were afraid to admit: our daughter’s obsession with the figure could be a form of trauma, something her young mind was processing in a way we couldn’t understand. The therapist suggested we might need to make some changes in our home, like adding more light and possibly even moving her room around, to see if it helped ease her anxiety.

But things only got worse after that. The more we tried to fix the situation, the more intense the drawings became. The man was always there—looming over her bed in new positions, now holding objects, now looking angry. And always, without fail, the word “Help” appeared.

Finally, after a sleepless week, I decided to do something drastic. I went through the family photos. Maybe there was something I had missed—some old relative, some forgotten family member that might explain who this man was. And that’s when I found it.

A photo from an old family gathering, tucked in the back of an album. It was a picture of Matt’s parents, our families together at a holiday dinner. But standing at the edge of the photo was a man I didn’t recognize. He was wearing a long black coat, a red shirt, and a large hat. His eyes weren’t visible, but his posture… it was the same. The same weird stance. The same eerie presence. I nearly dropped the photo.

“Matt!” I screamed, rushing into the living room where he was sitting. “Who is this man?”

Matt looked at the photo and went pale. “That… that’s Richard.”

“Richard?” I repeated, my voice shaking. “Who is he? Why does he look like the man in Emma’s drawings?”

Matt swallowed hard, his face contorting with a mixture of confusion and dread. “He was my brother. He… disappeared years ago. No one knows what happened to him. But the last time anyone saw him, he was staying with my parents. He just… vanished.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, and the sudden realization hit me like a wave.

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘vanished’?” I asked, my heart racing. “Where did he go?”

Matt’s voice trembled. “He… went out one night. After that, no one ever heard from him again. We searched for months, but there was nothing. Not even a trace.”

I looked back at the photo. The man who had been “vanished” was standing right there, on the edge of our lives, waiting to be noticed. And now, somehow, he was in my daughter’s room.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” I whispered. “Why is he in Emma’s drawings?”

I didn’t know the answer. But that night, we both sat in silence, pondering the impossible. Was Richard’s spirit trying to reach out through Emma? Was he trying to tell us something from the other side?

The next day, we decided to do some research on Richard, digging through old newspapers and public records. And what we found was unsettling. Several months after Richard had disappeared, there had been rumors—whispers about sightings, strange occurrences in our neighborhood that no one could explain. But no one ever mentioned him again. It was like he had been erased.

And then, we discovered something even more chilling: Richard had been involved in a car accident the night he disappeared. But his body had never been recovered.

That night, after we’d pieced everything together, Emma drew one last picture. This time, the man wasn’t standing at her bed. He was kneeling, with his hands pressed together, like he was praying. And this time, there was no word “Help.” Instead, it read, “Thank you.”

The next day, a miracle happened. A small, seemingly insignificant news story popped up in the local paper. A construction crew had uncovered an old, abandoned car in a remote area, and inside it was the remains of a man. The police hadn’t identified him yet, but the connection to Richard was undeniable. The man who had been lost for years had finally been found.

It was like a weight lifted from our lives. Emma stopped drawing the man. The atmosphere in our house shifted, and the unsettling feeling that had haunted us for so long faded away.

And the lesson I took from all of this? Sometimes, the most inexplicable things happen for reasons we can’t understand. But when we face them with open hearts and minds, we can find peace, even in the most unexpected ways.

If it touched you or made you think about something in a new light, please share it. You never know who might need to hear it today.