[ WP ] After years of research , you uncover the horrifying truth behind why some people are left handed .

I run my hand over the weathered pages, the crude depiction making more sense than ever before. 
 
 Rubbing my eyes, I try to clear my hazy vision. For the past five years, I ’ ve made some progress but this is leaps and bounds of anything I had found before. 
 
 Recently fired from my previous job, I somehow landed this job with the US government. It pays well, has all the benefits I need, and allows me to work from home – it seemed almost *too* perfect at first. That is, until now. 
 
 At first, I couldn ’ t understand why I was tasked with such a strange job. I ’ ve supposed to find the origins of the left-handed people. I ’ m pretty sure this study had been done dozens of times before. 
 
 But besides that, it has its merits. My son happens to be left-handed so I thought it would be a fun way to teach him how he ’ s normal. Through my studies, I ’ ve found that while left-handed people have been discriminated for over a millennia, they have also flourished in some places. It ’ s been a huge boost to his egos while the other kids tease him at school. 
 
 But this, this is different. For the past week, I ’ ve been scouring a wide berth of medieval literature for a report to my higher ups. I need to convince them to let me keep my job, after all. 
 
 The first few books were dull, the language too archaic to read and pictures few and far between. Yet, the picture in front of me stood out. 
 
 In the center of the page, a man with strange proportions contorted his body in an impossible way. A black and red shadow towers behind him, devil horns sprouted from what appeared to be his head. It extends from the left hand of the man, snaking around him with a sadistic grin. Around the duo, dozens of bodies litter the ground, broken into pieces and stained red with blood. 
 
 I ’ ve read about how left-handed people were considered spawn of the devil but this is a stretch. I ’ ve seen gruesome depictions yet this one is visceral, almost too real to be fake. I take a picture of the drawing, attaching it to an email to send to a coworker of mine. Maybe they could tell me what ’ s up with this. 
 
 The sound of footsteps pull me back into reality, light enough to hear with a trained ear. My son must have finished his nap. 
 
 “ Daddy, ” he says, his high-pitched voice ringing in the silence. 
 
 “ What ’ s up bud? ” I ask, proofreading my email. 
 
 All of a sudden, the room grows cold. The lights die out, an inky darkness overtaking the room. A growl came from behind, shaking me to my very core. I turned around, only able to make out the same sadistic grin I saw in the book. It spoke, a deep voice syncing with my son ’ s. 
 
 “ You shouldn ’ t have found that. ”
