It started with a cat in a tree.
Little Tommy loved to draw.
He filled page after page with wobbly stick figures, lopsided houses, and messy crayon scribbles.
But one day, he brought his mother a picture of a cat—high up in a tree, meowing for help.
That same afternoon, their neighbor's cat got stuck in the oak tree outside.
Tommy just smiled.
"I knew it would happen," he said.
His mother laughed it off.
Until it happened again.
A week later, Tommy drew a car crash.
Red scribbles all over the page. Two stick figures lying still.
The next morning, there was an accident just down the street.
Two people dead.
Tommy's mother stared at the drawing, her hands shaking.
"Sweetie," she whispered, "how did you know this would happen?"
Tommy shrugged.
"I just see it."
The drawings got worse.
A house on fire.
A man falling from a building.
A missing girl.
Each one came true, exactly as Tommy had drawn it.
His mother begged him to stop, but he couldn't.
"The pictures just come to me," he whispered. "I don't want to see them."
But the worst was yet to come.
One night, Tommy ran into his mother's room, clutching a new drawing.
His face was pale.
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I don't want this one to happen," he sobbed.
His mother took the paper, heart hammering.
And felt her blood turn to ice.
It was a school.
Tommy's school.
Children drawn in red crayon, lying still.
A stick figure in black standing over them.
Holding something.
A gun.
In shaky handwriting, Tommy had written:
"TOMORROW."
His mother called the police.
Begged them to listen.
Begged them to stop it.
But there was no threat. No warnings.
Nothing they could do.
The next day, she kept Tommy home.
Watched the news with her breath held.
Minutes turned to hours.
Nothing happened.
For the first time, the drawing had been wrong.
She sobbed in relief.
Then—
A knock at the door.
She opened it.
A man stood there.
Black coat. Cold eyes.
A gun in his hand.
Tommy's drawings were never wrong.
The massacre still happened.
Just not at the school.
And the last thing Tommy ever drew—
Was his mother.
Lying still.
Red crayon everywhere.