It was a dismal morning. It was the kind of morning that staying in bed and curling up under a blanket would be nice. However, Wallace was out walking, just like he had been doing every morning for nearly fifty years. He had started taking long, morning walks at ten for his physical education part of his homeschooling. His father had been military and had moved the family all over the world, leaving Wallace to fall behind at the very beginning of his education and his mother unable to have her steady job as a teacher. Homeschooling had fixed both problems. Wallace had turned sixty a week before. It had been a quiet birthday after losing his wife the year before. The first of many birthdays alone, at least he hoped there would be more birthdays. He missed his wife, but as she was in the hospital bed in their living room, cancer eating her insides, she told him to keep on living and enjoy his life. She had even told him to find a date or two. Her laugh was still just as magical as it always had been. He always said that it was what fairies would sound like when they laughed.

Wallace smiled while he walked around the corner into the culdesac on the next street. He was remembering the sound of his lovely Patsy’s laugh. He expected to hear the sounds of people on the street. He expected to see the kids from the houses playing in the puddles in the gutters. The street was empty. It wasn’t too concerning, but it was still odd. A lot of kids usually play outside in the puddles, at least the young ones that weren’t in school yet. 

Once he got down to the end of the neighborhood, he noticed that the door was open to one of the houses and the car sat with the doors open still running. Wallace gripped his walking tighter and went to check the car. The front driver seat was soaked in blood. He reached down and touched the seat. It was still wet. Wallace’s hand jerked back and his brow knitted in concern. It was a lot of blood. Too much for the person to have survived. He slowly made his way up to the door. The little voice in his head was screaming to walk away and go call the police from his home, behind his locked door, with his hunting shotgun nearby. 

“Hello? Dana? Charlie? You guys home? Amelia? Paul?” The parents and kids were always home. The kids were homeschooled and came to Wallace’s house often to learn about all of the places that he had lived as a military brat. Dana and Charlie worked from home most days. Someone had to be at home. Wallace peeked in the door and saw a horrific scene.

Blood covered the floor. It was smeared down the walls as if someone had been using the walls to hold themselves up. Or they had been dragged. “Sweet Mother Mary,” Wallace breathed. He began stepping backward, nearly tripping on the front steps. He turned as quickly as his sixty year old body would turn. 

He had to get to his house. He needed to call the police. That family had been massacred. 

As he started moving as quickly as he could to the next street over, he began hearing things. One of the most bone chilling sounds was an inhuman shriek coming up fast behind him. Something small slammed into him, pushing him down to the ground. He cried out in pain as he felt tiny hands claw at the back of his head and neck. The warmth of blood trickling down his back made him start to panic. He cried out once more when he felt teeth sink into his arm. He did his best to turn his head to look at what was biting his arm. It was little Paul, he was already covered in blood and was… Dear God, he was eating his arm.

White hot pain flashed behind his eyes. He felt his bladder release and his bowels loosen. His vision began to go black as more bites ripped him to pieces in the street.