I Watched Her Draw a Unicorn. Then I Watched It Kill

Listen to the original story on YouTube:
👉 She Whispered to Something in the Woods…

“Not all monsters live under your bed. Some sit next to you in class.”

People ask me why I rarely talk about high school. The truth? It’s not because of heartbreak, or awkward dances, or bad grades. It’s because of Megan—the girl they called Spacegirl. And the thing she drew.

I think about it more than I should. A lot of it blurs together—names, locker numbers, hallway echoes. But I remember the unicorn. I remember what it did.

The Girl in the Corner

Megan always sat alone. Always drawing. Always distant. I wish I could say I was one of the good ones, but I wasn’t. I was a coward who stood beside the bullies, laughing when it was easier than helping.

She never fought back. Not when Sasha stole her notebook. Not when Tanya ripped out her drawings and mocked her in front of the class. Megan just sat there, shrinking smaller every day.

But I remember the way her hands moved—graceful, deliberate. Like her pencil was the only voice she trusted.

The Apology That Came Too Late

When I finally gave her notebook back, it wasn’t out of courage. It was guilt. And maybe fear—fear of becoming like Sasha.

I’d torn out the worst pages before I returned it. The ones Sasha had drawn. Suicide sketches, ugly things meant to break her. Megan didn’t thank me. She didn’t say anything. But she started drawing again… in the same notebook.

I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

What I Saw in the Snow

That winter, Tanya died. They said it was a wild animal. But animals don’t leave symmetrical holes through the chest. They don’t leave hoof prints shaped like lined notebook paper.

Sasha disappeared not long after. Some say she ran away. But I saw her. I saw her struggling—being pulled into a painting.

Into the very portrait Megan had drawn of me.

And the version of me in that painting… was smiling.

Life After the Woods

I never told anyone what I saw. I don’t need to. Megan knows. She never talks about it either. We live together now—quiet, older, changed. Some people say trauma binds you. Maybe they’re right.

Her studio is filled with paintings. Castles. Mermaids. Forests that seem to watch you. And tucked in the corner, covered by a black cloth, is that portrait. The one Sasha vanished into.

I’ve never asked why she kept it.

I’ve never asked if she drew the unicorn again.

If You’re Reading This…

I’m not looking for sympathy. Or forgiveness. Just understanding.

Sometimes, when people say “art is powerful,” they mean it figuratively. But I’ve seen what guilt can become when it festers inside someone long enough. I’ve seen what a pencil in the wrong hands—or the right ones—can summon.

So if you’re ever walking through the woods, and you hear a faint whisper…
…don’t follow it.

It might be coming from a page that was never meant to be turned.

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