Oliver's disappearance remained a mystery.
The nurseries were searched one by one, repeatedly, until every crib had been overturned and every cupboard emptied. The only thing that recovered was a small red ball, found wedged beneath the special nursery bed where Oliver had last been seen. There were no signs of struggle. No broken locks. No open windows. Nothing that suggested anyone had entered or left.
Search parties were organized immediately. For an entire week, volunteers combed the surrounding streets, fields, and abandoned buildings. Dogs were brought in. Flyers were posted. Questions were asked until voices went hoarse. Still, nothing surfaced. No footprints. No witnesses. No evidence.
It was as If Oliver had simply ceased to exist.
Joseph was the last person to claim he had seen him that night.
At first, his account was treated seriously. He described waking up to a strange stillness in the nursery, the kind that felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. He said Oliver had been crying softly, not loudly, but in a way that sounded wrong too low, too strained. When Joseph looked toward his bed, he saw something standing there, something tall and dark, bending unnaturally close.
When Joseph finally gave his full confession, his story no longer sounded like testimony; it sounded like a myth. He said Oliver hadn't been carried away. He said Oliver had been taken. Taken and possessed by something that wore his body only briefly. He claimed the entity had tried to move that same night, searching for another child to inhabit, but had failed.
Margaret believed him.
She said Joseph had never been a liar, that his fear was too real, too specific to be invented. But belief meant nothing without proof. The idea that a child could be taken by an unseen entity, one that moved without force and left no trace, was impossible to accept, especially for the police.
Joseph remembered the last question the officer asked him before the interview ended.
"If I told you the same thing you just told me," The man said quietly, "would you believe me?"
Joseph had no answer.
A few days after Oliver vanished, Joseph began seeing things.
Shadows lingered too long in corners. Reflections moved when he didn't. At night, he heard the soft bounce of a ball that no one else could hear. He stopped sleeping. He stopped eating. His fear became constant, etched into his face so deeply that even the caretakers grew afraid of him. He was resisting whatever it was, but it was too strong.
He didn't last a month.
Joseph disappeared without warning, without sound, without evidence; just like Oliver.
Then five more children vanished in one night just a week after Joseph disappeared.
Each time, the nurseries showed no sign of forced entry. No alarms. No witnesses. Nothing is missing except the children themselves. St. Brigid's Home for Children was sealed off and declared a crime scene. Rumours spread quickly about human trafficking, an inside job, a hidden tunnel system no one had found yet.
Interrogations followed alongside accusations and suspiciousness, investigations that went nowhere and eventually, the case was closed. The remaining children were relocated to another orphanage. The building was abandoned, its playground left to rust, its nurseries left untouched. Officially, the files listed the case as unresolved. Unofficially, it became one of the town's biggest mysteries; seven children gone, zero leads, and no explanation that fit the evidence. That is what history wants the incident to be remembered as.
Except for Joseph's story.
It has been fifteen years since the seven kids got missing. A memorial is done every year reminding people of one of the mysterious events that happened in TownPort. This does not erase the fact that the TownPort school was one of the best in its time. Its standards for excellent minds had greatly overshadowed the concerns for the individuals. Parents send children to school to bring out the best of them and whenever they perform below expectations, it becomes a horror show.
The school has painted a serious disciplinary picture in the minds of both parents and students to see everyone as competition which made it possible for those unable to keep up to feel less human.
The town Is almost defined by the school, and every child dream was to be in the good books of Principal Dawson, probably in a frame of honor. Her cold stare gave children the chills; you don't get called to the principal's office for a good reason, at least this was the stage poor Alex found himself; staring at the frames of honor he didn't see himself in the next school session. Their faces gave the mocking grin like they were laughing at him through the glass.
It was not long she came in through the entrance door, and she walked past him like he was invisible then dropped her full weight on the chair. He Swallowed hard knowing the words she was about to utter would not be pleasant.