Scene: Eliza's Drawings

The café was three neighborhoods away from Bob and Liz's flat—far enough that they wouldn't accidentally run into Liz during her errands. Bob had insisted on meeting here rather than at home, making it clear this rendezvous was to remain secret. Mick arrived fifteen minutes early, selecting a corner table with a view of both the entrance and the street beyond.

When Bob arrived, he carried a manila folder tucked under his arm and Eliza balanced on his hip. The toddler, now around fifteen months old, had Liz's dark hair and Bob's serious expression—an oddly solemn combination on such a tiny face.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Bob muttered as he slid into the seat across from Mick. He settled Eliza onto his lap, where she immediately began examining the salt and pepper shakers with intense concentration.

"Your message sounded urgent," Mick replied, keeping his tone neutral. The text had been terse: Need to see you about Eliza. Don't tell Liz. Tomorrow, 2pm, Blackbird Café.

Bob glanced around nervously before sliding the folder across the table. "These are copies. Liz doesn't know I made them."

Mick opened the folder to find a stack of photocopied children's drawings—dozens of them, each featuring similar imagery rendered in the distinctively uncoordinated hand of a toddler.

"She won't stop drawing them," Bob said, his voice low. "The same images, over and over. Liz thinks it's just a phase—toddlers fixate on things. She's even talking about taking her to a child psychologist."

"And you disagree?" Mick asked, beginning to sort through the copies.

Bob hesitated, bouncing Eliza gently on his knee. "I don't know what to think. But these drawings... there's something wrong about them. Something she couldn't possibly know."

The first several images showed variations of the same basic motif—a black spiral with red lines radiating outward, like a stylized sun but inverted, as if light were emerging from darkness rather than the reverse. In some, the spiral was contained within a crude circle; in others, it broke free of boundaries, tendrils reaching toward the edges of the paper.

"When did these start?" Mick asked, carefully setting these aside.

"About three weeks ago," Bob replied. "She was fine before that. Normal. Then suddenly, all she wants to draw are these... things."

Mick continued through the pile, finding more variations on the spiral motif, then paused at a drawing that made his breath catch. This one showed a rough human figure—stick arms and legs with a circle for a head—but inside the circle where a face should be was only blackness, heavily applied crayon creating a void that consumed most of the page.

"This is new," Bob said, noticing Mick's reaction. "From yesterday."

The final drawings were the most disturbing—and the most revealing. Crudely rendered scenes that, despite their childish execution, conveyed unmistakable meaning. A building with black smoke pouring from it. A circle of stick figures surrounding what might be an altar. And most tellingly, a larger figure that appeared to be sleeping or trapped, surrounded by a dark barrier.

Marchosias. It had to be. Somehow, Eliza could see him, even in his dormant state.

"Has she said anything about these?" Mick asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

"Nothing coherent. She's only just starting to form words," Bob replied. "But when she draws, she gets... focused. Almost trancelike. It's not normal, Mick. Not for a baby her age."

As if sensing they were discussing her, Eliza looked up from the salt shaker she'd been examining. Her gaze fixed on Mick with an intensity that seemed impossible in one so young.

"Dark," she said suddenly, pointing at Mick's chest. "Dark man."

Bob paled. "That's the other thing. She keeps saying that. Liz thinks she's talking about shadows in her room, but..."

"Dark man!" Eliza repeated more insistently, struggling to climb onto the table toward Mick.

Bob adjusted his grip on his daughter. "She's never like this. Normally she's shy with people she doesn't see often."

"How much does Liz remember?" Mick asked carefully. "About what happened before Eliza was born?"

Bob's expression hardened. "Nothing. And that's how it should stay. She believes it was an attempted ransom kidnapping that went wrong—thankfully with no harm to her or the baby. The trauma specialist said the memory gaps are normal, a way of protecting herself."

"And that's what you've told her about these drawings?"

"I haven't told her anything," Bob said sharply. "I said I was taking Eliza to the park. I don't like lying to my wife, but I like the alternative even less."

"Dark man sleeping," Eliza declared, her tiny fingers now reaching toward Mick's face. "Wake up."

A chill ran through Mick. Even as a toddler, barely verbal, Eliza could somehow perceive Marchosias dormant within him.

"Bob," Mick said carefully, "I know you want to keep Liz in the dark. I understand why. But Eliza is trying to tell us something important."

"She's fifteen months old," Bob countered. "She babbles nonsense half the time."

"Does this seem like nonsense to you?" Mick gestured to the drawings. "These spirals match specific occult symbols related to binding and containment. This faceless figure resembles something I encountered recently at St. Catherine's Hospital. She couldn't know these things unless—"

"No," Bob interrupted, his voice tight. "Don't say it. Don't make me think about that again."

"I have to," Mick insisted. "Because you know, even if you don't want to admit it, that Eliza is different. What happened to her before she was born changed her."

Bob looked down at his daughter, who was now contentedly playing with a packet of sugar, the intensity of a moment ago vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Liz and I just want a normal life," he said quietly. "A normal life for our daughter."

"I know," Mick replied. "And I'm sorry."

Eliza suddenly perked up, dropping the sugar packet and pointing at the drawings on the table. "Draw! Me draw!"

"She wants to draw now?" Mick asked.

Bob sighed, reaching into the diaper bag hung over the chair. "She always wants to draw. That's the problem." He produced a small zip-bag containing crayons and a folded sheet of paper.

Mick pushed aside his coffee cup, making space on the table. "Let her."

With obvious reluctance, Bob set Eliza on the booster seat provided by the café and placed the paper and crayons before her. The toddler immediately selected the black crayon, her tiny fingers gripping it with unexpected dexterity.

What followed was remarkable. Eliza's usual energetic, somewhat chaotic movements became focused and deliberate. She began drawing with an intensity that seemed at odds with her age—a concentration more suited to an older child completing a complex task.

The image taking shape beneath her hand was familiar—the same spiral from the earlier drawings, but with new elements. Lines intersected the spiral at specific points, creating a pattern that Mick recognized from his studies of occult symbols.

"This is a binding sigil," he breathed, too quiet for the other patrons to hear but drawing a sharp glance from Bob.

Eliza continued drawing, adding a red circle around the entire design, then abruptly switching to blue crayon to add a single curved line that cut through the spiral. When she finished, she sat back, staring at her creation with an expression of satisfaction that seemed far too mature for her tiny features.

"Fix," she declared, pushing the drawing toward Mick. "Fix dark man."

Mick stared at the drawing, understanding slowly dawning. The blue line—it was a counter-sigil, the introduction of an element that disrupted the binding pattern. Had Eliza somehow perceived the exact counter-sigil needed to free Marchosias?

"What is she talking about?" Bob asked, his voice tight with concern.

Mick carefully picked up the drawing, studying the blue line that intersected the binding sigil. "She's helping," he said simply. "More than she knows."

Eliza had already grabbed another sheet of paper that Bob reluctantly provided, black crayon moving in the same deliberate pattern. But this time, she added a new element—a crude building with distinctive architectural features—a dome flanked by two towers.

"Bad place," she said, pointing to the building.

Mick studied the drawing, recognition slowly dawning. "St. Catherine's," he murmured. "The hospital where I found—" He caught himself, conscious of Bob's anxious attention. "Where I was investigating recently."

"What does any of this have to do with my daughter?" Bob demanded, though he kept his voice low. "I brought these to you because I thought you might recognize something, explain it somehow. Not to drag her further into whatever madness surrounds you."

"Bob," Mick said carefully, "I understand your concerns. But Eliza is already involved. These drawings aren't random. There's knowledge here she couldn't possibly have unless something was influencing her."

"Something?" Bob repeated, his face paling. "What are you saying? That she's... possessed?"

"No," Mick assured him quickly. "Nothing like that. But Eliza is special. What happened before she was born, the journey her soul took—it changed her. Made her sensitive to things most people can't perceive."

Bob glanced around nervously, as if worried someone might overhear. "Like what?"

"Like Marchosias," Mick admitted. "She can see him, even now when he's dormant inside me."

"The demon?" Bob's voice rose slightly before he caught himself. "That's who she means by 'dark man'? Your... passenger?"

Eliza looked up at the mention of Marchosias, her expression brightening. "Dark wings!" she said excitedly, making flapping motions with her arms. "Big!"

Both men fell silent, staring at the toddler. Marchosias's true form did indeed have massive wings—something Eliza could not possibly know unless she truly was perceiving him somehow.

"This isn't possible," Bob whispered. "She's just a baby."

"Babies see more than adults," Mick replied, remembering something Marchosias once told him. "Their minds haven't learned to filter out the impossible yet."

Eliza continued drawing, adding more details to the building—what appeared to be a specific window or entrance, marked with the blue line from her earlier drawing.

"Fix there," she said, pointing to the blue mark. "Draw blue there."

Understanding crystallized in Mick's mind. The counter-sigil Eliza had drawn wasn't just a symbol—it needed to be applied at a specific location. At St. Catherine's, where he'd encountered the Hollow Man. Where, perhaps, the original binding had been created.

"I need to go," Mick said, carefully folding the drawings and slipping them into his pocket. "Thank you, Eliza. You've helped more than you know."

"You're not taking those," Bob protested, reaching across the table.

Mick moved the drawings out of reach. "This isn't just about me, Bob. People are being hurt—transformed into things that aren't human anymore. And it won't stop with them. The people behind this, the Blackthorn Initiative, they're the same ones who tried to use your daughter as a vessel. Do you really think they've forgotten about her?"

The question landed like a physical blow. Bob paled, his hand dropping to his side.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice barely audible.

"I mean that ignoring this won't make it go away," Mick said. "The Blackthorn Initiative is still active. They're planning something called the 'Aggregation' in three days. And given their interest in Eliza before, there's no guarantee they won't come for her again."

"Is that a threat?" Bob demanded, anger replacing shock.

"It's a warning," Mick corrected. "I'm trying to stop them. These drawings might be the key to waking Marchosias, and without him, I don't stand a chance."

Bob watched as Eliza, oblivious to the tension between the adults, began drawing again—this time, what appeared to be a figure with wings watching over a smaller figure.

"What do I tell Liz?" he asked finally. "About where these drawings went? About why Eliza keeps talking about a 'dark man'?"

"Tell her you lost them," Mick suggested. "As for the rest... let her believe it's just an imaginary friend. Most children have them."

"An imaginary friend," Bob repeated flatly. "A demon as an imaginary friend. There's something fundamentally wrong with that."

"There's something fundamentally wrong with all of this," Mick agreed. "But it's the reality we have to deal with."

Bob gathered Eliza into his arms, his protective instinct evident in every movement. "Fix this," he said, no longer argumentative but simply desperate. "Wake your demon, stop these people, and then stay away from my family. Let us at least try to have a normal life."

"I'll do my best," Mick promised, though they both knew it might be an impossible task. Eliza's unique perception had already made her a part of this, whether her parents wanted to acknowledge it or not.

As if sensing his thoughts, Eliza looked up from where she was nestled against her father's chest and fixed Mick with that unnervingly direct gaze again.

"Dark man come back," she said with the simple certainty of a child stating an obvious fact. "Help."

"Yes," Mick agreed, gathering the drawings. "That's exactly what I'm going to do. Thank you, Eliza."

As he left the café, Eliza's final drawing clutched in his hand, Mick felt a strange combination of hope and dread. The child had given him what he needed—a way to potentially wake Marchosias, to restore their partnership and confront the Blackthorn Initiative.

But she had also demonstrated just how deeply the supernatural had already marked her young life. No matter what Bob and Liz did, no matter how hard they tried to create normalcy, Eliza would never be an ordinary child.

Some journeys changed you forever. Mick knew that better than most.

Now he just had to ensure that the changes would not destroy them all.