I read somewhere during my pregnancy that when children begin grouping characteristics together to form an archetype, they base said archetype on commonalities between experiences. For example, most cats have four legs, but not everything with four legs is “cat,” and so the child learns that this new animal is something different... something ”not a cat.”

We wanted Maddox to be as intelligent as we were capable of helping him to be, and then some. The first time he saw a pig, pigs didn’t say “oink.” My husband emitted a swine-esque grunt to the best of his ability, and our son replicated the sound effortlessly. We were thrilled. From then on, before he could use proper words our boy began to learn and mimic sounds.

One night while my husband was away on business, I snuggled Maddox into his sheets and began to read his favorite bed time story. I turned the page to the familiar final scene; the whimsically-illustrated mother bidding her young son good night before closing the door. My sweet son pointed to the mother, making a little kissing noise. He then poked at the son and yawned a soft “nuh-night.” His gaze shifted to the boy’s window. He laid his chubby finger on it before dragging his fingernails across it over and over, raking them back and forth, as if trying to rip the page from its binding. The sound grated in my ears, like fork tines raked over a plate.

“Maddox, no.“ I gently removed his hand. “Be nice to your toys.” I placed the book back on the shelf and kissed my boy‘s soft blond hair. “Sleep well, angel. Daddy comes home in the morning.”

I slept like a rock, stretching languidly before sliding on my slippers to go wake Maddox for breakfast. As I opened the door, my usual sing-song good morning was replaced with a sob of terror. My baby... my son was gone. A frigid late-autumn breeze ruffled his curtains. I had sworn I shut his window, but even if I hadn’t, Maddox was far too little to have gotten out — unless someone had gotten in. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I raced to the window, scanning the outside for clues. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; our flower bed looked undisturbed and there was no broken glass. Still, I reached up to shut the window before calling the police. As I pulled down on the glass, my breath stopped. I raced across the house into the living room. Throwing open the curtains before checking the bathroom, the kitchen, my bedroom.... each and every window bore the same damage:

a series of deep, raking scratch marks.