In the eerie silence of the early hours, here I am, lying frozen in my bed, the clock glaring 5:35 AM back at me. It's a hell of a situation to find oneself in, especially when the room you're in is supposed to be your sanctuary. Here's the kicker – my parents are here with me, or at least what's left of them, casting their empty gazes in my direction, mouths agape in a silent scream that echoes the terror I feel. The metallic stench of blood hangs heavy in the air, suffocating me with fear.
Here's the horrifying truth: the moment I betray any sign of consciousness, it's game over. Death is certain, and my screams will find no savior. The only escape plan that's crossed my mind is a desperate dash for the door, out into the night, screaming for anyone who might hear me. It's a slim chance, but it beats waiting for death in this room. He's out there, biding his time, waiting for me to witness his grotesque handiwork.
Let's backtrack for a moment. Roughly three hours ago, the night shattered with screams from another part of the house. Curiosity overcame me, but so did nature's call. In a decision that could've cost me my life, I chose the bathroom over investigation. Upon exiting, the sight of blood smeared across the carpet sent panic coursing through me. I retreated to my room, a coward hiding beneath the sheets, trying to convince myself it was all just a nightmare.
Then my bedroom door creaked open.
Peering from my shaky refuge, I witnessed a scene straight out of a horror movie. A creature, inhuman and grotesque, dragged the lifeless bodies of my parents into the room. Its skin was pale, hairless, eyes nowhere to be found, moving with an uncanny, primitive hunch yet exuding an intelligence that was purely malevolent.
It arranged my father's body at the foot of my bed, a macabre audience member frozen in death. My mother was placed in a chair opposite me, her dead eyes locked on mine. The creature then turned artist, smearing the walls with blood, crafting a pentagram within a circle, its masterpiece. The final touch was a message scrawled in the darkness, a message meant for me.
Now, as my eyes have adjusted to the dark, the urge to read that message gnaws at me, a morbid curiosity before my impending doom.
I muster the courage to look.
The message reads: "I know you're awake."
