A small boy, maybe seven at most, stumbled through the doorway. He was trying to catch his breath, chest rising and falling like a collapsing accordion, his cheeks wet with tears and streaked with sweat. His shirt clung to him like he’d run through fire rather than down a quiet neighborhood street.
“Help! Please!” His voice was sharp, cracking. “The Bogeywoman!
Behind the front desk, a rookie officer named Kowalski chuckled, barely lifting his eyes from his phone. “Easy, champ. The Bogeywoman, huh?
Did she crawl out from under your bed or from your closet?”
A wave of muffled laughter spread through the room. “Go home, kid,” another officer added, sipping his soda without looking up. “Turn off the scary videos before bedtime.
Monsters hate daylight.”
From my desk tucked into the corner’s gloom, I watched. I could have returned to my paperwork. I’ve seen plenty—children with wild imaginations, dares gone wrong, kids desperate for attention.
But something about this boy made me hesitate. It wasn’t only the tears. It was the shaking.
He trembled so hard his shoes squeaked on the linoleum. That kind of trembling wasn’t from a lie. It was fear in its purest form.
The boy—Leo—didn’t back down. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t even blink.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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