I stood there, numb, my eyes drifting to the baby crib in the corner of the room. I asked, almost in a whisper, “Where’s my daughter? Where is she?”
The old butler hesitated, clearly reluctant to speak. Fortunately, my persistent questions finally wore him down. Thus, the butler told me my daughter was in the shed out back.
That place was cold, damp and filthy. What could my daughter possibly be doing there?
When I found her in that shed, I felt a surge of hot blood rush to my head, followed by a chilling cold that crept up from my feet.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. My five-year-old daughter was tightly clutching my memorial tablet, locked in a massive dog cage with a half-grown wolfdog that towered over her.
Once chubby and healthy, my little girl was now skeletal. Her small body seemed even more fragile than before.
Her clothes were ripped and torn, exposing bruises and wounds on her arms, legs and even her face. Some of the wounds were so deep you could see the bone.
The wolfdog, once a vicious beast, was sleeping soundly beside her, its muzzle caked in blood.