Chapter 4 - The Digital Witnesses
The house was eerily quiet once my mother and sister finally left, taking Olivia with them to my mom’s house for the night. I couldn't bear the thought of my daughter sleeping in a home that had become her personal prison.
I sat alone at the kitchen table, the remnants of the ruined dinner still sitting cold on the plates.
My laptop was open in front of me. I logged into the security camera’s cloud storage, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
I prayed that the cameras had captured nothing, that Olivia had just misunderstood a punishment. I wanted to be wrong. God, I wanted to be wrong.
I clicked on the timeline from three days ago, right after I had left for my accounting firm at 8:00 AM.
The video loaded.
At 8:05 AM, the front door closed behind me. The house was silent for a few minutes.
Then, Madison walked into the living room. The warm, loving wife I had kissed goodbye was completely gone. Her posture changed. Her expression was cold, annoyed.
Olivia walked into the frame, holding a small bowl of cereal.
“I dropped my spoon,” Olivia’s tiny voice echoed from the laptop speakers.
Madison didn’t fetch a spoon. Instead, she snatched the bowl of cereal right out of Olivia’s hands.
“You’re eating too slowly,” Madison snapped. “I don’t have time to wait for you to chew. Breakfast is over.”
She dumped the cereal into the trash can.
I watched in horror as my daughter’s shoulders slumped. She didn't cry. She just accepted it, conditioned to the cruelty.
I fast-forwarded to the afternoon.
1:30 PM. The hallway camera outside Olivia’s bedroom.
Olivia was sitting on the floor, quietly playing with her wooden dollhouse. Madison walked past, tripping over a small wooden chair that Olivia had left near the doorway.
“Watch where you put your garbage!” Madison yelled.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia whispered.
Madison grabbed Olivia by the arm, lifting her off the ground with a rough jerk. “I am sick of looking at you. Go in the closet. Now.”
My breath caught in my throat. I watched, paralyzed, as Madison dragged my crying daughter down the hall.
She opened the door to the deep linen closet—a small, windowless space meant for towels and blankets.
“Please, no!” Olivia begged, tears streaming down her face. “It’s dark! I’ll be good!”
“If you make a single sound,” Madison hissed, leaning down into Olivia’s face, “I’ll bury you in the dirt with your dead mother. Get in.”
She shoved my four-year-old into the pitch-black closet and locked the door from the outside.
Madison walked away, pulling out her phone and laughing at something on the screen.
For two agonizing hours, the video showed nothing but the closed closet door.
I slammed the laptop shut, shoving myself away from the table. I ran to the kitchen sink and vomited.
I fell to my knees on the cold tile floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The pain was physical. It felt like my chest was being ripped open.
While I was at work, trying to build a future for us, my daughter was locked in the dark, mourning her mother, terrified that she would be buried alive.
The monster wasn't hiding under the bed. I had invited her in through the front door. I had put a ring on her finger.
I wiped my mouth, standing up slowly.
The sadness vanished, replaced by a dark, consuming, and terrifying rage.
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Madison wanted to play games. She wanted to call my daughter a liar.
I had all the evidence I needed. And I was going to destroy her.
