Chapter 4: Chosen by Benny

The teacher replied quickly, “I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry.”

Her reassurance helped, but only a little. I knew she’d do her best, but part of me wished she’d sounded more alarmed.

The next morning, the teacher came to pick up my son. Our building has an in-house preschool, so it’s convenient for parents.

The sun was barely up when Ms. Carter knocked on our door. The hallway was still dark. She looked tired, but determined. The familiar sight of her bright cardigan and sensible shoes was oddly comforting.

The teacher looked at me seriously: “Mr. Harris, I’ll help keep an eye on Danny, but at home, you need to always pay attention.”

Her tone was gentle but firm. She met my eyes, letting me know she understood the gravity of the situation. I nodded, grateful for her support.

I nodded and thought of something. “Is 404’s kid also in our preschool?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it. I hoped I wasn’t overstepping.

The teacher nodded. “Yes, his name is Mason, also a boy.”

Her answer sent a jolt through me. Another connection. That couldn’t be a coincidence. I felt a flicker of hope—maybe together, we could figure this out.

I told her about my chat with 404 yesterday. She frowned, deciding to ask the other kids if they’d seen Benny. If all the kids had seen him, it might not be a simple prank.

She scribbled a note in her planner, her brows furrowed. "If there’s a pattern, we’ll get to the bottom of it," she promised. I felt a little less alone.

Just as the teacher left with my son, a message popped up in the owners’ group:

My phone buzzed again. I checked the group chat, my nerves on edge.

Management - Mr. Miller: “We checked yesterday, the park is safe. There’s no danger.”

His message was brisk, almost dismissive. My jaw clenched. I frowned, reading between the lines. Something still felt off.

I privately messaged Mr. Miller: “What did you mean by ‘seventh’ yesterday?”

I couldn’t let it go. I needed answers, even if they didn’t make sense.

Mr. Miller replied, “A total of seven people reported this yesterday. At first I thought they were joking.”

Seven. The number echoed in my mind. Too many for coincidence. I chewed my lip, trying to piece it together.

I nodded. This kind of thing is hard to believe. But then I frowned—seven people isn’t a coincidence. There had to be something going on.

I typed a quick "thanks," but my mind was racing. What connected us all? Why were our kids seeing the same thing?

I asked, “Can you tell me who reported it? I want to talk to them.”

I figured it was a long shot, but I had to try. Maybe together, we could make sense of it all.

Mr. Miller sounded troubled: “Sorry, we can’t share residents’ info.”

He was hiding something. I was sure of it. I let it drop, but made a mental note to find another way.

I didn’t press further. It looked like I’d have to find these parents myself.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to remember faces from the playground, names from the mailbox labels. Seven families. It couldn’t be that hard.

As I was thinking, the harsh sound of a chainsaw rang out again. I looked out the window. That strange black bear was actually following behind the preschool group. What… what was happening?

My blood ran cold. The bear lumbered after the kids. No one seemed to notice. I pressed my face to the glass, heart pounding. Was I losing my mind?

I immediately called the teacher: “I think I saw Benny—he’s right behind you!”

My voice shook as I tried to explain. I could hear the confusion in her reply, the disbelief. But I had to try.

The teacher immediately turned around, sounding confused: “There’s nothing there. Danny’s dad, maybe you saw wrong?”

Her words felt like a slap. Was I really the only one who could see it? I bit my lip, trying not to panic.

Right then, something bizarre happened. The teacher turned back, still confused. I looked down at the group below, and the black bear turned to look straight at me!

Its eyes locked onto mine, unblinking and cold. The world seemed to tilt. I felt exposed, like it could see right through me.

I didn’t dare say more and quickly hung up. The black bear also turned away.

I watched as it lumbered off, disappearing behind a hedge. My hands shook as I ended the call, my mind racing.

I hurriedly got dressed and rushed to the preschool gate. Everything was normal, as if the black bear had never been there. I had no choice but to give up.

By the time I got outside, the playground was full of laughter and sunlight. Kids screamed and laughed. The world was normal again. No bear, no chainsaw, just the usual chaos of morning drop-off. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality.

That evening, when Danny came home, he seemed excited. He jumped up and said, “Today Grumpy Gus was chased away by us and Benny together.”

He bounced on his toes, eyes shining. For a second, he was just a kid. For a moment, he was just a kid again, proud of some playground victory. But the words sent a chill through me.

I asked, “You guys? Who else was with you?”

I tried to keep my tone light, but my voice cracked. I needed to know who else was involved.

Danny suddenly went quiet, as if he realized he’d said too much.

He clammed up, lips pressed tight. He wouldn’t say a word. His eyes darted away, and he started picking at the hem of his shirt.

I tried to be gentle: “Danny, good kids don’t lie. You have to tell Daddy—who did you chase Grumpy Gus away with?”

I put a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him. "I promise I won’t be mad."

Danny looked so upset he was about to cry. “Daddy, if I tell you, Benny won’t take me to the forest cabin.”

His voice trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes. He looked so small, so scared. My heart ached for him.

No matter how I asked, Danny wouldn’t say anything else about today.

He turned away, curling up on the couch. I sat beside him, silent, unsure what else to do.

I called the teacher. She said that today was just normal classes and games, nothing unusual. I asked if she could send me the security footage. She said she’d report to the principal and send it to me later.

Her voice was calm, but I could hear the worry underneath. She promised to get the footage to me as soon as possible. I thanked her, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me.

I put down my phone and went to check on Danny. To my surprise, he’d locked his door. I called out several times, but there was no answer. I immediately thought of last night, when he almost jumped out the window, and kicked the door open.

My heart pounded as I forced the door, the memory of his near fall fresh in my mind. The splintering wood echoed in the hallway. I braced myself for what I might find.

Inside, Danny stood blankly, holding a red marker. He was trying to draw a pattern around the pinholes on his stomach, forming what looked like a hexagram.

My heart stopped. He moved mechanically, his eyes unfocused, as if in a trance. The red lines crisscrossed his skin, connecting the pinholes into a star shape. My stomach lurched.

I snatched the marker from him. Only then did Danny react, bursting into tears—as if he hadn’t been himself just now…

He snapped out of it, wailing and clutching at me. I hugged him tight, rocking him back and forth. His sobs were raw, desperate, and I felt my own eyes burn with tears.

Fear and confusion completely overwhelmed me.

I sat on the floor, holding my son, feeling more lost than ever. The world felt strange, tilted, as if the rules had changed overnight.

Just as I was about to call the teacher, I received the security video. I opened it—everything looked normal. After class, the teacher took the kids to play games. But halfway through, I saw Danny and a few other kids form a circle, surrounding one child in the middle. Some of them just stood there, staring straight ahead. Because it was a video, I couldn’t see their faces clearly. The child in the middle kept knocking on the ground. Was this some new game?

I watched, leaning forward, searching for clues. The kids moved slowly, their actions oddly synchronized. It didn’t look like play. The knocking echoed through the speakers, hollow and rhythmic. My skin prickled with unease.

I was about to skip ahead, when I remembered what Mr. Miller had said. I counted carefully—seven kids! Could these seven be the families who reported seeing the black bear?

I paused the video, counting the little heads. Seven. Seven kids. Just like Mr. Miller said. My heart pounded. The pieces were falling into place, but I didn’t like the picture they formed.

I kept watching. After the child in the middle finished knocking, the others left their spots. A few of them waved toward a mysterious direction. I paused the video and zoomed in on a black dot in the distance.

The camera’s focus was shaky, but I could just make out a shadowy figure. A shadow. Moving. Watching. I held my breath, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

The next second, a chill ran down my spine. It was the black bear! That strange black bear with the chainsaw!

I recoiled from the screen, heart pounding. It was unmistakable—the same warped grin, the same hulking shape. My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone.

I immediately called the teacher. “Ms. Carter, what game did Danny and the other kids play today?”

My voice trembled as I tried to explain. I needed her to see what I saw.

She sounded stunned. “Sorry, Danny’s dad, there were too many kids—I didn’t notice. What’s wrong?”

Her confusion was genuine. I could hear the concern in her voice, but also a hint of fear.

I said, “They saw the black bear!”

The words sounded crazy, even to me. But I had to say them out loud.

She was silent for a moment. “Danny’s dad, what’s going on? How could there be a black bear at our preschool?”

Her disbelief was understandable. I struggled to find the right words.

I told her, “At 2:18 this afternoon, there was a black bear in the upper right corner of the video.”

I gave her the exact time, hoping she’d see what I saw. My hands trembled as I waited for her reply.

There was a long silence. Finally, she said, “Maybe you’re just nervous. The black dot in the video isn’t clear at all.”

Her voice was gentle, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. I felt a wave of frustration, but also relief—maybe it really was nothing.

I opened the video again. This time… nothing was there! The black dot really wasn’t clear—just like the shadow of an insect passing by the camera.

I scrubbed back and forth, squinting at the screen. The shape was blurry, indistinct. Was I just seeing things?

I could only sigh. “Maybe I’m just too nervous. I’ll let you know if anything else happens.”

I tried to sound calm, but my voice shook. I hung up, feeling more lost than ever.

After hanging up, I called Danny: “Danny, tell Daddy—what game did you and the other kids play today?”

He shuffled over, looking uncertain. I knelt down, trying to meet his eyes.

He looked at me. “We didn’t play a game. It was that bad Grumpy Gus who ran in, and we drove him away.”

His words were flat, emotionless. He stared past me, as if remembering something far away.

I asked, “What does Grumpy Gus look like? Do you remember?”

I tried to keep my tone light, but my heart raced. I needed to know what he’d seen.

Danny shook his head. “I can’t see Grumpy Gus, but Benny said we should form a circle and trap him.”

He spoke with the certainty of a child following instructions. His eyes were wide, unblinking. He was so sure.

He thought for a moment. “But Mason saw him. He was in the middle and drove Grumpy Gus away.”

He sounded almost proud. I made a mental note to talk to Mason’s parents.

I was startled. “Where did you talk to Benny?”

The question slipped out, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Danny scratched his head. “Just inside the preschool.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. But it wasn’t. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I opened the video again. The black dot… was always there. It circled around a few kids, and when they formed a circle, it moved away.

I replayed the footage, watching the pattern repeat. The shadow moved with purpose, as if it were part of the game. My stomach twisted.

What was that?

The question echoed in my mind. I felt like I was on the edge of understanding something terrible.

Danny watched the video too. He suddenly pointed at a blank spot on the screen. “Daddy, that’s Benny!”

His finger jabbed at the screen, his eyes shining with excitement. I stared at the empty space, searching for something—anything—that made sense.

The black dot… isn’t Benny? Then what is it?

My mind raced, trying to untangle the mystery. If Benny wasn’t the bear, then who—or what—was?

Things were getting serious. There’s no way so many kids would mention this for no reason.

I paced the living room, chewing my thumbnail. The pieces didn’t fit, but I couldn’t ignore the pattern.

While Danny went back to his room, I called 404: “Hey, how’s your son today?”

I dialed quickly, hoping for answers. The line rang twice before they picked up.

404: “He came home and said Benny helped them drive away Grumpy Gus. But when I asked for details, he wouldn’t say.”

Their voice was tired, heavy with worry. I recognized the exhaustion in their words—it matched my own.

It seemed both our kids had experienced the same thing.

I felt a strange sense of relief, knowing I wasn’t alone. But it didn’t make the fear go away. Not even close.

I told 404 there were seven kids who’d been through this. We needed to figure out what was going on—I suspected they might be in danger.

I spoke quietly, not wanting Danny to overhear. "I think there’s something connecting them. We need to talk to the other parents."

404 agreed. “My Mason has more wounds on his body. I asked him about them, but he wouldn’t say.”

Their voice broke, and I could hear the fear. I promised we’d figure it out together.

I admitted, “My son has them too, just from today.”

Saying it out loud made it feel more real. I rubbed my temples, fighting off a headache.

404 sent me a photo of his son’s wounds. Six pinholes, and the hexagram was almost finished—just one line left.

The sight made my stomach turn. The lines were jagged, raw, as if drawn in a hurry. My hands shook.

404 sounded helpless. “Those pinholes must hurt, but my kid says they don’t hurt at all.”

Their voice was thick with worry. I wished I had something comforting to say.

But why did Danny cry in pain? I couldn’t figure it out. Could it be because I saw it?

The thought gnawed at me. Maybe the pain was in the seeing, not the wounds themselves.

So I asked, “Did you see anything strange? Like a black bear, or a black bear with a chainsaw?”

I waited, holding my breath. The silence on the other end stretched out, heavy and tense.

404 was silent. “I thought only I saw it. I didn’t dare say anything—afraid people would think I was crazy.”

Their confession made me feel less alone. We were both scared. I let out a shaky laugh, relief and fear mixing in my chest.

I gave a bitter laugh. “Me too. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

For a moment, we just sat in silence, sharing the weight of our fear.

After thinking it over, we decided that maybe we needed to gather all seven kids together. It’s easier for adults to get information from children that way.

We made a plan, tentative but hopeful. Maybe together, we could break through the silence.

It was almost ten, so I didn’t want to bother the teacher. I planned to talk to her about the seven kids first thing tomorrow.

I scribbled a reminder on a sticky note, sticking it to the fridge. My nerves felt frayed, but I was determined. I had to do something.

Just then, I heard noises from Danny’s room again. When I went in, he hadn’t noticed me at all, as if he was talking to someone. I could faintly smell honey in the air.

The scent was stronger this time, thick and cloying. Danny’s voice was low, almost a whisper. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see.

Benny? I quickly grabbed Danny and asked who he was talking to. He wouldn’t answer, his eyes darting away.

He stiffened, pulling away from me. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He wouldn’t answer. I felt a surge of frustration and fear.

At that moment, I heard the sound of “thump thump thump” footsteps, like something running out of the room. I searched everywhere but found nothing.

The footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into silence. I tore through the closet, under the bed, but the room was empty. My heart pounded in my chest.

The chainsaw roar sounded again from outside! I looked out the window, and that black bear with the chainsaw was staring right at me!

Its eyes glowed in the darkness, the grin wider than ever. I stumbled back.

I tried to coax Danny: “Were you just talking to Benny?”

My voice was gentle, pleading. I needed him to trust me, to let me in.

He froze for a moment, then his eyes lit up. “Daddy, you can see Benny too? Only the chosen can see him!”

His excitement was palpable, his fear forgotten. He was almost giddy. I forced a smile, trying to play along.

I continued gently, “I can see him, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk to Daddy.”

I watched his face, searching for any sign of the boy I knew.

Danny scratched his head. “No way, Benny has a gentle temper. How could he not want to talk to Daddy?”

His certainty was disarming. For a moment, I almost believed him.

Suddenly his eyes brightened. “I know! It must be because Daddy is an adult. Benny’s forest cabin only welcomes children.”

His words were innocent, but they sent a chill through me. I nodded, swallowing hard.

So it only targets children!

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I asked one last question. “Why does Benny hold a chainsaw?”

Danny’s face twisted in terror. “That’s Grumpy Gus! Daddy, run! He’ll kill you!”

His scream was raw, primal. He clung to me, shaking with fear. I held him tight.

I held him tight, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. Outside, the chainsaw roared into the night, and I knew—this was only the beginning.