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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/genuinelygrim on 2024-09-07 12:16:57+00:00.

“YOU CAN USE THE BATHROOM NOW, MR. P.”

Bewildered, I gawked at the folded-over piece of paper sitting amidst a small pile of similar cards. I’d found them in one of my daughter’s inner backpack compartments while packing her school lunch. Look, I know what you’re thinking – ‘Ooh, Karen here doesn’t have any boundaries’, right? Well, first of all, my name isn’t Karen. It’s Margot. And Naomi isn’t your garden-variety teen preoccupied with obscure vegetable emojis. No. My daughter is seven years old!

I’d met “Mr. P.” during the numerous interim parent-teacher conferences I’d attended throughout Naomi’s first year at primary school – before I had my accident. His real name was Herve Paquet, but the French roots of his name were promptly trimmed down to “Packet” among English-speaking children. So, he’d started insisting that everyone – even the parents – refer to him as Mr. P.

Mr. P was in his late thirties and renowned within the parent community as an outstanding educator. He’d go out of his way to address any and all concerns expressed during parental meetings, expound the contents of each learning module in great detail, and allocate additional time to reassure us that little Richmond’s R’s were simply unparallelled despite his left-handedness, and that Fiona was whip-smart when it came to first-grade mathematics. 

Needless to say, I was pleased when my daughter returned from her first day of second-grade and announced that Mr. P. was “back”. After all, not having to question the quality of my child’s education was simply one less thing to check off on my list of parental duties. But now, as my eyes repeatedly scanned the handwritten sentence, I couldn’t help feeling that my initial happiness may have been somewhat…premature. 

I picked up and unfolded another white square, at random.

“I WILL COME VISIT YOU TONIGHT, MR. P.”

I gulped, patchy gooseflesh sprouting on the back of my neck. Just like the previous one, this note was in all-caps. Clearly, the message had been written by an adult intending to be read by a child. With clammy fingers, I fished another card out of the pile.

“I WILL COME VISIT YOU TOMORROW MORNING.”

And another. 

“I CANNOT VISIT YOU TONIGHT, IT’S TOO DANGEROUS.”

In spite of the stifling disdain I felt in that moment, my eyes welled up with tears. My daughter was obviously a victim of a heinous crime. There had to be at least two dozen notes. Cold claws clenched around my heart. Was Naomi meeting Mr. P. outside of school? But no. That couldn’t be. Giulia – our nanny – always saw her right to the gate and picked her up in the afternoon. Unless she was lying and was really out getting railed by some groundskeeper? Or was this all but a part of some twisted game – a class exercise that looked mega incriminating out of context? And what about–

“Mommy?” Naomi’s high-pitched voice chimed behind me, “Do you have my bag? Am I not going to school today? Giulia’s waiting in the car.”

I took a few deep breaths before turning to face her. Never in a million years had I thought I’d have to deal with something like this. But then again, what parent ever does? Right about now, we ought to be arguing about the new barbie doll that’s too expensive. I should be telling her I’m not made of money. Or–or that nail varnish isn’t made for little girls. That I don’t care if Simone’s mom allows it. That–

“Honey,” I began, willing myself to retain at least some semblance of parental composure, “W-what… Can you tell me what these are?”

I gestured at the clump of folded squares strewn across the floor with my chin. Naomi surveyed them earnestly, but I could see my reaction had caught her off guard.

“They’re… they’re messages,” she mumbled, “Mr. P. gave them to me.”

Electricity jolted through my veins as though a part of some repressed Eureka effect. I knew it! Although, of course, Naomi hadn’t said anything I hadn’t already figured out myself… I needed to dig deeper. What should I ask her next? Should I get straight to the point or should I spend some time analysing contextual clues? I couldn’t ask her what the notes meant because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to know. But then again, how many ways were there really to interpret them? Why was Mr. P. monitoring her bathroom use? And when… when on Earth was he…?

“Are you angry?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Naomi,” I started again, my heart thudding in my temples, “D-do you meet with Mr. P. outside of school?”

She nodded silently, her green eyes - saucers. 

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “When we’re alone.”

Paying no heed to the limited coherence of her phrasing, I whipped out my cell phone and dialled the number of Naomi’s school principal. A duality of fear and anger surged through me, ravaging my brain to the point where I feared my words wouldn’t be able to keep up. Had the circumstances been different, I would have marched straight into the school to confront Herve Paquet myself. I could already picture it – slamming his body against one of the whitewashed walls, taking off one of my high heels, and… Well, I suppose that–I glanced down at my leg brace–was hardly likely. But maybe Giulia could–

“White Oaks Primary,” a honeyed female voice emanated from the speaker, “This is Shirley, how may I help?”

I was all set to give her an earful right there and then, but held my tongue while little miss Tinkerbell figured out which buttons to press to transfer me to the principal. She has no power, I told myself. Keep it in check. But once I’d managed to explain the situation to the principal, I was met with a drawn out silence I hadn’t anticipated.

“Excuse me,” I snapped, “Have you heard a word I just said? One of your teachers is grooming my daughter!”

After a few more seconds of deafening silence the voice spoke, “I hear what you are saying, ma’am. But I am afraid the scenario you are describing is… impossible.”

“Wh–”

“Mr. P. hasn’t worked here since the last academic year…”

I stood transfixed by a scrap of peeling wallpaper next to the windowpane, a chill inching its way up my spine.

“Mrs. Walstone?” it appeared to be the principal’s turn to check-in on my livelihood.

“Y-yes. I’m here.” I choked, my voice barely louder than a squeak, “I-I’m sorry, there seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding? I am talking about Mr. P.– Herve Paquet? H-he teaches class 2A?”

“Mrs. Walstone,” there was a sudden edge to the principal’s voice, “We let Herve Paquet go last June, after some… incriminating information came to light. A parent-teacher conference was held about this. I presume you couldn’t make it?”

I gulped, “No, I have… No. I couldn’t. W-what incriminating information?”

“Well,” he drew in a deep breath, “Herve Paquet had been…stealing school property… Financial issues, apparently. Debt. That sort of thing. You understand. But I assure you, ma’am, the relevant authorities have been informed and Herve Paquet has since been apprehended by the police.”

I stared at my daughter, who was standing against the wall, observing  my every move.

“Naomi,” I said, jabbing at the “end-call” button and setting my phone down on the table, “Did…did Mr. P. give these messages to you last year?”

She looked as though she was struggling to choose between lying and telling the truth. You know that face children make when they know they’re doing something wrong, yet the honourable option doesn’t seem all too appealing? Well, that’s exactly what I was faced with. 

Where was the instruction manual for these types of situations?  What questions was I meant to ask? In what order? Did she have a new teacher? What had she meant then, when she’d said “Mr. P’s back” at the beginning of the year? How was he passing her notes if he wasn’t even employed by the school? Had he even been apprehended by the authorities?

“Can I have them back now?” Naomi was gazing up at me with a decidedly solemn expression, completely disregarding my question, “They are mine. Mr. P. gave them to me and I need them.”

I gaped at her.

“Of course you cannot have them, Naomi,” I probably sounded angrier than I had intended, because her eyes brimmed with tears, “What on earth do you need them for?”

She wouldn’t answer, instead turning her face towards the window. She seemed genuinely distressed.

“I’ll just put them here, okay?” I relented, stacking the paper squares on the highest shelf of her cupboard. I figured it’d be a provisional “compromise” until I could get to the bottom of this, “We can share.”

Although I couldn’t help questioning why she would need those vile pieces of paper to begin with. As a keepsake? For memories? Since when were seven year olds sentimental? I needed answers and I needed them fast. 

Well, that evening I got much more than I had bargained for. 

After I put Naomi to bed for the night and settled down in front of the television to watch reruns of EastEnders, I heard what could only be a child’s footsteps running down the hall. 

“Naomi?” I called out, pressing the pause button on the remote, “What are you doing out of bed?”

Silence.

“Naomi?”

Nothing.

Grunting, I heaved myself off the couch, balancing on my good leg. With heavy steps, I made my way towards her bedroom, ready to give her a piece of my mind, when something caught my attention. A piece of paper, half obscured by the door to the basement,  as though it was undecided whether it was coming or going. 

My heart hammering in m…

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