The Witness

Category A: Highly Commended (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Krithika Vimal

The first thing I heard was a scream, ripping through the silence like a gunshot. A real scream. The kind that makes your body react before your mind can understand what is happening. I looked up from my tattered worksheet and glanced out the window. Across the street, a weak amber light flickered, casting a sickly glow over the empty road. It looked diseased rather than helpful.

A white van with chipped paint sat beneath the streetlight, its side door hanging open. A girl in a crinkled school uniform was desperately fighting against a man gripping her arm. For a moment, I froze. Maybe it was an argument. Maybe he was her father.

Then she tried to run.

The man seized her backpack, violently yanked her backwards, and shoved her into the van. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle disappeared around the corner before I could even catch a glimpse of the number plate.

My hands trembled as my phone slipped from my fingers and struck the floor with a sharp thud. I called 000.

"I just saw a kidnapping," I gasped.

Flashing lights and sirens flooded the street. Officers knocked on doors, examined security footage, and searched every nearby road. But there was nothing. No witnesses. Except me.

"Sometimes our minds fill in the blanks," my father said gently. Those words haunted me. Slowly, I began to question myself. Am I going insane? That is, until I opened my locker. A crumpled piece of paper slipped onto the floor. I slowly unravelled it. Three words stared back at me.

You shouldn't have been looking.

My breath hitched. I spun around, but the hallway was crowded with students. The moment they noticed the note, laughter spread through the crowd. Nobody believed me. To them, I was just someone who had imagined a kidnapping. I shoved the note into my pocket at the thought.

...

At 8:04 pm, headlights swept across my bedroom wall. I peered outside.

The white van slowly rolled past my house. The driver's face was concealed beneath a black cap, but as the van reached the end of the street, a gloved hand lifted from the steering wheel. A wave. At me. Chills spread throughout my body. I seized my phone and captured a photo before the van vanished. This time, the number plate was perfectly clear. The police traced it within the hour. The stolen plates were connected to several attempted abductions in nearby suburbs. Detectives later discovered the girl had escaped only a few streets away but had been too traumatised to explain what happened.

A week later, a detective arrived at our house.

"You did the right thing," he said. "You trusted what you saw." Life slowly returned to normal, and the nightmares faded like thin smoke.

Until one rainy afternoon, I found another frayed piece of paper beneath my bike seat outside the school gate. Only three words were written inside.

You looked twice.