All that’s left of my daughter is a jagged, bloody hole in her bedroom window, and I think it’s all my fault. 

It’s not that I would ever have hurt her. No, I would NEVER have hurt my little seven-year-old, Lucy. She was—IS—the apple of my eye and the pride of my life. And I believe she’s still out there. But where? And with whom?

I guess the best thing to do is to start from the beginning.

That Saturday was like any other: a mix of chores, fun, and relaxation. We closed it out, as usual, with my Saturday night bedtime story. Although I’d tell Lucy bedtime stories throughout the week, the one on Saturday was generally longer and more involved. That night, as she listened, snuggled up in her comfy blankets, her twinkling eyes staring up at me with an even greater amount of interest than usual, I told her a story of fairies living amongst the rose bushes, and how their babies were born as the flowers bloomed. When I finished, she let out a long, contented sigh and asked, “Even in our garden, Daddy?”

I shrugged. “Well, I guess so. I mean, I haven’t seen any, myself, but I suppose they do.” I gave her a kiss on the forehead, and as I recall, she went to sleep that night with a huge smile on her face, surely dreaming of fairies, fairy babies, and garden adventures.

The next day, Lucy was up early and on a mission. She gobbled down her breakfast cereal and was soon out in the garden. I was busy with some home repairs, so I didn’t pay much mind to her, but I’d occasionally see her passing by the back window and in good spirits. When she came in, several hours later, she was covered from head to toe with cuts and lacerations.

“Brian!” my wife, Janelle, admonished me from the kitchen. “Brian! Look at your daughter! She’s been in the rose bushes out there and she’s bleeding everywhere!”

But Lucy didn’t seem to mind. Despite the blood dripping down her forehead, her eyes were bright and her smile was like the moon. “Daddy! I got one! I got a fairy baby!” She wriggled out of her shocked mother’s grasp and showed me what was clutched between her small hands.

It was the most foul and disgusting-looking, black beetle I’d ever seen. It seemed to ooze some sort of dark liquid which had stained her palms.

“Oh! I don’t think that’s a fairy baby, Lucy,” I said, gently. “I think we should put it back outside.”

“NO! NO! NO!” she screamed, snatching her hands away from me. “She’s mine!” Then, before we could stop her, she ran off down the hall to her bedroom. My wife shot me a look that said, See what you did?

We gave chase, but the “fairy baby” was nowhere to be found by the time we reached the bedroom.

“Where is it, Lucy?” I asked, trying to keep calm. “Where did you put it?”

Her face was defiant. “I don’t have it! I don’t know where she went and YOU CAN’T HAVE HER!”

We turned that room upside down. Janelle hates bugs worse than anything on Earth. It was nowhere to be found. Although Janelle was not sure, I figured it must have gone out through the air ducts or something. We cleaned Lucy up and went about our business.

But it wasn’t gone. 

There would be times I’d pass her room when I’d hear wings buzzing, softly at first, but the sound grew distinctively louder, as time went on…as if it was growing. However, whenever I’d open the door, the sound would go quiet and I wouldn’t see anything. Sometimes, if Lucy was in there, I’d hear her whispering and giggling as the wings buzzed. When I asked her about it, she’d just say she had been talking to herself. 

This went on for weeks. Then, a couple days ago, I was walking by Lucy’s door and I caught sight in her bedroom mirror of a large, black object hovering around by her closet. It seemed to be a good few feet in length now. Its insectile face was an abomination to behold; its wings were humming away as it passed to and fro before the closet door. 

My first thought was, That thing is too big for me to squash! I need a gun! But I don’t keep guns. I carefully closed the door and ran into the garage to look for something, anything, to help. I finally settled on a shovel, but by the time I got back, it was gone. 

Where the hell could something of that size be hiding, I wondered, all the while expecting to be dive-bombed or attacked from behind. My shovel felt much too small.

Again, we picked that room apart, floor to ceiling. Nothing. Not a single thing. Well, that’s not entirely true, as we did find a sizeable puddle of black ooze beneath Lucy’s bed.

When Lucy returned home from school, we grilled her with questions about where the thing was living. She insisted that it wasn’t there. No matter how much we bribed or threatened her, she maintained her story.

Then last night happened. I awoke in the pitch darkness of my bedroom to the sound of a very loud crashing and breaking noise. At first I thought it came from my bathroom, but then I realized it had come from Lucy’s bedroom. Still unsteady and bleary from sleep, I grabbed the shovel which I still keep beside my bed, and stumbled and groped down the hallway. A cold breeze was wafting from beneath the door, chilling my feet. I threw open the door and…

…the jagged, bloody hole was all that remained.

I can’t be sure it was that…thing. That bug. And the connection with my story, well, I’m hoping there is no connection. I just want my girl back.