Chapter 2: Seven Kids, Seven Scars

“What do you mean, seventh? Just hurry and notify everyone!”

My patience snapped. "Please, just do it!" I barked, voice sharp. I didn’t care about explanations—I just wanted everyone safe. My voice rose, echoing in the quiet kitchen. I glanced at my son, who was still muttering about honey.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! I’ll send out a notice.”

He sounded dismissive, almost bored. The nonchalance made my skin prickle. I wanted to yell, but bit my tongue. I needed his help, not an argument.

Mr. Miller’s muttering left me baffled…

I hung up, staring at the phone. Was he hiding something? Or just tired? Either way, something about his attitude didn’t sit right with me. I’d follow up. I had to. My nerves felt like live wires.

After hanging up, I tried to comfort him. Maybe I could get more information.

I sat beside him on his bed, running my hand through his hair. He looked small and lost, clutching his favorite stuffed dog. I tried to sound gentle, to coax him back to himself. The room felt too quiet, the shadows too deep.

“Buddy, tell Dad, who is Benny? Why did he say those things to you?”

I forced a smile, trying to keep my voice light. "Is Benny your friend from the cartoon? Or someone else?"

“Benny is the one who lives in the TV.”

He said it matter-of-factly, as if it explained everything. It didn’t. The way he tilted his head, lips stretching into a wide, unnatural grin, made my stomach twist. It was the same grin I’d seen outside.

My son tilted his head, the corners of his mouth stretching wide—just like the black bear’s grin outside.

His eyes sparkled with something I couldn’t name. It was like he was trying on a mask, mimicking the bear’s eerie smile. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he was still my little boy at all.

His breath on my wrist smelled faintly of fermented honey.

I leaned in closer, and there it was—a sweet, sour scent, like honey left out in the sun. I almost gagged, pulling my hand away. I’d never smelled anything like it before, especially not from my son.

“But why can’t Daddy see Benny?”

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. He looked at me with big, searching eyes, as if he wanted me to join in his secret. For a moment, I wished I could. Anything to make him feel safe again.

“Only kids who are invited can see Benny.”

He said it with a certainty that made my heart ache. It was the kind of logic only a child could believe, and yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it.

Suddenly, my son’s pinky finger twitched nervously and mechanically pointed at the Forest Defenders picture book by the bed. Then he started clutching his head and screaming, like he’d seen something truly terrifying.

His finger jerked toward the book, as if pulled by invisible strings. My stomach clenched. Then he let out a piercing scream, clutching his head and rocking back and forth. The sound tore through me, raw and desperate. I rushed to his side, panic rising in my throat.

I hurried over and picked up the picture book to flip through it. Next to a squirrel in the book, I found a string of strange numbers: CT-097. And the portrait of Benny inside had been altered to look like he was wearing a gas mask. In the blank space, someone had scrawled, “We are all good kids.”

My hands shook as I turned the pages, searching for answers. The numbers looked official. Almost clinical. Like a catalog code. The drawing of Benny was twisted, the gas mask giving him an alien, menacing look. The words scrawled in crayon sent a shiver down my spine. I traced the letters with my thumb, wondering who could’ve written them.

“Daddy, look!” My son suddenly lifted his pajama top.

He tugged up his shirt, revealing his pale stomach. I leaned in. Dread pooled in my gut. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Around his navel were six dark red pinholes, arranged in an equilateral triangle.

The sight made my breath catch. The pinholes looked almost surgical, too neat for a scratch or bug bite. Not a scratch. Not a bug bite. The skin around them was bruised and angry. I reached out, but he flinched away.

“Benny said these are the medals of the brave. He told us if we complete some special tasks, we can go to the forest cabin.”

His voice was dreamy, faraway. He sounded proud, as if he’d won a prize at school. The words chilled me to the bone. I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t move.

After that, I couldn’t get anything else out of him.

He closed up, retreating into himself. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the floor. No matter how gently I asked, he just stared at the floor, silent and withdrawn. The room felt colder, emptier.

Once I’d comforted my son to sleep, I thought back on all these bizarre things—and the evasive attitude from building management. I was sure they knew something.

I sat in the living room, staring at the TV’s black screen. The silence buzzed in my ears. I replayed every detail, every strange look from Mr. Miller, every odd word my son had said. The sense that something was being hidden from us grew heavier by the minute.

At that moment, the previously quiet neighborhood Facebook group chat suddenly exploded:

My phone buzzed. Again and again. The group chat lit up like a Christmas tree. I scrolled, heart racing, as neighbors chimed in with their own stories. For once, I wasn’t alone in my fear.

404: “Neighbors, did you hear a weird chainsaw sound just now? My kid said he heard a chainsaw outside, then started rambling about how Grumpy Gus hid an exploding pinecone in his closet.”

The message made my skin crawl. Another kid, another story. Exploding pinecones? Grumpy Gus? The names sounded like cartoon villains, but the tension in the air was thick.

607: “Our grandma too, said there was a black bear cutting trees outside, but we checked several times and saw nothing.”

Even the older folks were hearing things. It wasn’t just the kids. My mind raced, piecing together the pattern.

504: “It’s late, stop making a fuss. I didn’t hear anything.”

There’s always one. The skeptic. I rolled my eyes. The tension in my chest didn’t ease.

505: “If there’s something up, message Mr. Miller from management privately. Let folks sleep.”

The voice of reason, or maybe just someone tired of the drama. Still, I appreciated the reminder to keep things calm.

Management - Mr. Miller: “Everyone, don’t worry. Someone did report hearing a chainsaw. We’re already checking it out.”

Mr. Miller’s message was quick, almost rehearsed. Too quick. I wondered how many times he’d typed those words tonight. The lack of real answers gnawed at me.