Chapter 1 - The Broken Crayon Box
Seven-year-old Toby refused to step into the kitchen.
He pressed his back against the hallway wall.
His lips were trembling.
“He took my mother’s voice away,” Toby whispered.
I froze on the carpet.
My little brother was pointing at our stepfather.
Julian sat at the head of the dining table.
He was calmly buttering a piece of toast.
My mother stood beside him.
She smiled, but her eyes were entirely dead.
“Toby, sweetheart,” my mother said softly.
Her voice sounded strained.
It sounded like a recorded tape played too slow.
“Julian is just trying to help us,” she added.
Toby shook his head violently.
A blue crayon rolled out of his pocket.
It hit my shoe.
I picked up the crayon.
It was snapped cleanly in half.
Julian didn't look up from his breakfast.
“Your brother is confused, Clara,” Julian said.
His voice was warm.
It was smooth and patient.
Every neighbor in town thought Julian was a saint.
He was a respected high school guidance counselor.
He had married my widowed mother eight months ago.
He bought us this large suburban house.
He cooked us big meals every night.
Yet Toby had stopped speaking three weeks ago.
Today was the first time Toby had spoken.
And those were his exact words.
“He took my mother’s voice away.”
My mother reached for her coffee cup.
Her hand shook so hard the liquid spilled.
Julian reached out.
He gently covered her trembling fingers with his hand.
“Be careful, darling,” Julian murmured.
My mother immediately pulled her hand back.
She flinched like she had been burned.
My pulse began to race.
Something was deeply wrong in this house.
Four months ago, my father died in a factory accident.
My mother fell into heavy depression.
Then Julian appeared.
He took care of the funeral arrangements.
He paid off my father’s medical bills.
He insisted my mother marry him quickly.
He claimed he wanted to protect us.
I looked at Toby’s blue crayon.
Toby loved to draw.
He used to draw pictures of our family every day.
Now all his sketchbooks were missing.
Julian had tossed them in the trash last week.
Julian had told me Toby was having nightmares.
He said the drawings were upsetting my mother.
I believed him then.
I was nineteen and overwhelmed by grief.
I had trusted Julian completely.
I walked toward Toby in the hallway.
I kneeled down to his eye level.
“Toby, what did you mean?” I asked quietly.
Toby looked toward the kitchen.
Julian was watching us now.
His warm smile had completely vanished.
His eyes were cold and sharp.
Toby clamped his mouth shut.
He pulled his small arm away from me.
He ran up the stairs.
His bedroom door slammed shut.
Julian stood up from the table.
He smoothed his expensive navy tie.
“Clara, don’t push the boy,” Julian said softly.
He walked toward me with slow steps.
“Toby is grieving your father’s passing,” he said.
“Grief makes children say strange things.”
My mother remained seated at the table.
She stared straight ahead at the wall.
She didn't look at me.
She didn't look at Julian.
“Mom?” I called out.
She didn't answer.
She just nodded once, mechanically.
“I have to go to work,” Julian said smoothly.
He kissed my mother on the top of her head.
She stiffened instantly.
He turned toward the front door.
“Clara, make sure Toby takes his vitamins,” Julian added.
He pointed to a small brown bottle on the counter.
“The doctor said he needs rest,” Julian said.
He opened the front door.
“I’ll be back at six for dinner,” he said.
The heavy front door clicked shut.
The house became dead silent.
I turned back to my mother.
“Mom, what is happening here?” I demanded.
My mother slowly turned her head.
Tears were spilling down her cheeks.
She looked at the ceiling.
Then she looked at the kitchen door.
She raised one finger to her lips.
“Shh,” she whispered softly.
She grabbed a paper napkin.
She grabbed a pen from her purse.
Her hand moved rapidly across the napkin.
I stepped closer to watch.
She wrote three words in jagged handwriting.
He is listening.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
She crumpled the napkin into a tight ball.
She shoved it into her sweater pocket.
Then she walked quickly to the sink.
She began washing a clean dish over and over.
I stood frozen in the hallway.
The silence in the house felt heavy.
It felt terrifying.
I walked up the stairs to Toby’s bedroom.
The door was unlocked.
Toby was sitting on his bed.
He was staring at his bare bedroom wall.
Julian had removed all of Toby’s posters.
He had removed Toby’s bookshelf.
He said a clean room would calm Toby’s mind.
It looked like a prison cell now.
I sat down next to Toby on the mattress.
“Toby, tell me,” I whispered.
He didn't look at me.
He reached into his socks.
He pulled out a tiny piece of blue paper.
It was folded tight into a tiny square.
He pressed it into my palm.
I unfolded the paper carefully.
It was a crayon drawing.
It showed three figures standing inside our house.
One figure had a red face and giant hands.
The giant hands held a thick black box.
Lines came out of the black box.
The lines reached toward a woman’s mouth.
Underneath the drawing, Toby had scribbled two words.
The box hears.
I looked up at Toby in shock.
“Where is the box, Toby?” I whispered.
Toby pointed down at the floor.
Not toward the ground floor.
Toward the floorboards beneath his bed.
I slid down onto my knees.
I looked beneath the wooden bed frame.
The dust looked disturbed under the center beam.
I crawled beneath the bed.
I reached out my hand.
My fingers touched a loose piece of floorboard.
I lifted the heavy wooden plank.
Inside the dark gap lay a small black device.
It had a blinking green light.
It was a hidden microphone recording system.
My hands began to shake violently.
Julian wasn't just controlling our lives.
He was listening to every word in this house.
Every conversation.
Every whisper.
Every cry for help.
Suddenly, a loud beep echoed from the floorboard.
The green light turned bright red.
A smooth voice erupted from a tiny speaker inside the box.
May you like
It was Julian’s voice.
“You shouldn't have looked under the bed, Clara,” the speaker said.
