People on the street spotted a little girl and called the police. She told the officer that voices had told her to leave, then pointed to a house at the end of the road.
At first, no one knew where she’d come from. The girl, about six years old, stood on the pavement in a pretty white dress—like she’d just come from a party.
Passers-by stopped. Someone offered her water, another suggested calling social services. The girl looked well cared for, not like a runaway. But she stayed quiet—until she whispered,
“I heard the voices…”
That unsettled everyone. Someone called the police.
Fifteen minutes later, a sergeant arrived—young but with tired eyes. He knelt beside her, speaking gently.
“Hello, love. What’s your name? Where’s your mum or dad? Why are you out here alone?”
The girl looked up and said softly,
“The voices told me to leave home.”
“What voices, sweetheart?”
The officer froze at what came next.
“I didn’t see. I was behind the door… First, there was a bang. Then the voices said, ‘Run. Or you’ll end up dead too.’”
She paused, then asked,
“Mister… what’s ‘dead’?”
The sergeant’s blood ran cold.
“Where do you live?” he asked, forcing calm.
She pointed down the street—a neat semi-detached house, curtains drawn.
The sergeant stepped inside. The door was ajar.
He barely made it past the foyer before stopping.
In the lounge, a woman lay on the floor. Pale. No breath. No pulse. No words were needed.
Later, it all came out. The girl’s father, in a rage, had killed her mother. Hearing screams, the girl had crept to the bedroom door—but didn’t go in. Then, through the chaos, her dad’s voice hissed:
“Go. Get out. Now.”
He’d tried to spare her the sight. He hadn’t realised she’d already sensed it all.
So she ran. Alone. In her party dress. To strangers—because they’d listen.
And she escaped. From the man who should’ve protected her.
