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ARCHIVE ENTRY 001
Primary School Incident Report (Reconstructed Account)
Location: Little High Nursery
Witness: Mrs. Eleanor Jefferson
It was lunchtime at Little High Nursery.
Mrs. Jefferson, as she always did, wrapped her scarf around her neck, buttoned her coat, and stepped outside to supervise the children as they scattered across the playground.
They moved quickly, like fireflies—each one finding something small to occupy themselves.
Chalk. Balls. Lines painted on the ground.
Routine.
She noticed Oscar near the far end of the playground.
Sitting alone.
Drawing.
Chalk was allowed.
What he was drawing was not.
Mrs. Jefferson approached slowly, hands clasped, voice light.
“Hello, Oscar. What are you drawing there?”
The boy didn’t look up at first.
Then:
“Yes, miss.”
She crouched beside him.
On the concrete, a face had been drawn in chalk.
Rough. Simple.
But wrong.
“Is that a person?” she asked gently.
“A face?”
Oscar nodded.
“Is it yours?”
He shook his head.
“Is it your mummy?”
A pause.
“Yes, miss.”
She looked again.
The chalk was heavier near the neck.
“She looks sad,” Mrs. Jefferson said softly.
“Is your mummy sad, Oscar?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Why is she sad?”
Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
He kept drawing.
Slow circles over the same place.
“Was it last night?” she asked.
“At bedtime?”
Oscar nodded.
“Was Daddy there?”
“No, miss. Work.”
“Okay,” she said. “That’s alright.”
A pause.
“Was someone else there?”
Oscar stopped drawing.
“Strange man,” he said.
“Night.”
Mrs. Jefferson felt a slight shift in her chest.
Still calm. Still controlled.
“Did you know him?” she asked.
Oscar shook his head.
“Was he in your room?”
Oscar nodded.
Mrs. Jefferson glanced across the playground.
Children still running. Laughing. Nothing out of place.
She turned back.
“What did he do?”
Oscar pointed at the drawing.
At the face. Under an eye. The cheek.
“Behind Mummy,” he said.
“With a rope.”
Mrs. Jefferson frowned slightly.
“Rope?” she repeated.
Oscar nodded.
“Like skipping.”
Mrs. Jefferson leaned forward, placing her hand gently over his, stopping the chalk.
“Alright,” she said softly.
“Let’s not draw any more for now.”
She followed his finger.
To the railings at the edge of the playground.
Beyond them—an empty stretch of field.
Nothing there.
Mrs. Jefferson stayed crouched beside him.
Still looking.
Oscar stood.
And waved past her.
“Hi, Mummy.”
End of Report
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