@ArtFan88

Table of Contents

Emma was sprawled on her bed, stylus in hand, her tablet balanced against her knees. The rain outside tapped gently at the glass, the kind of sound that made the world feel smaller, softer. On her screen, the latest sketch of her cat, Marbles, was nearly done—a simple digital line drawing, soft grays and warm browns, with a tiny heart doodled above his head.

She had been posting her art on DrawLoop, her favorite art-sharing app, for almost a year. It was a friendly, cozy place, or so it seemed. Most of her followers were other teens who loved to draw and share tips. She didn’t get a ton of likes, but the few comments she got made her smile.

When she posted the finished sketch of Marbles, she didn’t think much of it. She hit share, tossed her stylus onto the desk, and went downstairs for dinner. Two hours later, back in her room, her phone buzzed with a notification. New follower: ArtFan88 The username was new to her. The profile picture was a blurry snapshot of a tabby cat mid-yawn. She clicked his profile—only a few posts, all of cats. A moment later, a message popped up.

“ArtFan88: Love your drawings! I’m 13, wanna chat about cats?”

Emma grinned. Most people on DrawLoop just clicked like and moved on. Rarely did someone actually reach out. And it was nice to meet another cat person, especially someone her own age. They started chatting right away. He told her his name was Alex. His cat, Whiskers, was older, a little scruffy but cute in that well-loved way. They swapped pictures—Marbles curled in a sunbeam; Whiskers sprawled on a couch with threadbare cushions.

Their conversations became a daily thing. At first it was just cats—funny habits, favorite toys, the weird faces they made when caught mid-meow. Then came little details about life: school, hobbies, family. Emma didn’t think twice about the questions; they felt harmless, part of the normal way online friends got to know each other. A few days in, Alex asked:

“ArtFan88: Where does your cat sleep? Near your room?”

Emma smiled at the thought of Marbles snoring softly by her feet.

“Emma: By my bed. Always.”

She sent a sleepy-face emoji and didn’t give it another thought. That night, just past midnight, Emma was half-asleep, scrolling through fan art when her phone buzzed. A new message.

“ArtFan88: Look out your window.”

Her chest tightened. She sat up slowly, the glow from her phone painting her room in pale blue. She pushed the curtain aside and peered into the night. The streetlamp at the end of the block cast a faint circle of light, but the yard outside her window was empty. Just the faint shimmer of wet grass in the moonlight. She started typing—What are you talking about?—when her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a photo. Her breath caught.

It was Marbles, sitting on the windowsill outside her room, ears perked and eyes wide. The photo had been taken from just inches away, through the glass. And behind Marbles, blurred but unmistakable, was the dark outline of a man’s shoulder and head. Emma’s hand went cold around the phone. She stumbled backward, her voice cracking as she screamed for her mom. Footsteps thundered down the hall. Her mom burst in, eyes darting between Emma and the window.

“There’s someone outside—”

Emma shoved the phone at her. Her mom’s face drained of color as she looked at the photo. Without a word, she pulled the curtains shut, locked the window, and grabbed the phone to dial 911. By the time the police arrived, there was no one outside. No footprints in the mud, no sign of forced entry. Marbles was asleep on Emma’s bed, curled into himself like nothing had happened. The officers asked questions, took statements, and promised to look into the account. Emma didn’t say much—her voice kept trembling, and her mind wouldn’t stop circling back to one thought: He knew where my room was.

It wasn’t until later, when she was lying awake with her mom’s phone clutched in her hands, that the full weight of it sank in. She had told him where Marbles slept. She had posted pictures, drawings, even showing her window, her room, the exact way the light fell in. She had painted a map to her own door.

In the weeks that followed, Emma stayed off DrawLoop. The police said the account was fake. No Alex, no 13-year-old, no tabby named Whiskers. The photos of the cat were stolen from some other user. The messages came from an untraceable email. They never found the man. Marbles still slept by her bed. Some nights, when the house was quiet, Emma thought she heard soft crunches in the grass outside her window. She never checked.