Chapter I: One fateful night.

This is the story of a man named Stanford.

The boy was 14 years old. He never knew his parents. His grandparents had always said they died in a car accident. He lived well, and he was happy. They all were. But good things don't last for long.

It was a quiet night. Peaceful. Stanford and his grandmother were about to go on a walk. "Have you got your coat, sweetie?" His grandma called through the halls. Stanford replied, "I can't find it!". His grandfather chimed in, "He can wear my jacket!". As the warm and comfy wrapped around him, he felt a sense of warmth. He walked through the house towards the back door. Things were peaceful. The flowers in the vase sat quietly on the shelf. The lamps dim glow illuminated the room. The only noise were the sound of his footsteps and the quiet song of the birds. The old dusty books sat on the shelf. Never used, yet somehow felt so welcoming. The carpets intricate flower patterns brought a sense of colour to the room.

He stepped outside, and walked with his Grandma. Eventually, they came to a river. Stanford and his Grandmother sat down, taking in the beautiful sight. The grass swayed as the gentle night breeze swept across. The river flowing fast. "Grandma, how come we've never gone past the river?" Asked Stanford, curious as to the reason why. His Grandmother sighed, "They say there are dangerous things out there. Things not of this world." "Demons?" "Exactly, my dearie.".   Stanford couldn't help but feel intrigued by this answer. Demons? That couldn't be true. As the crimson sun set and the sky began to turn dark, Stanford and his Grandmother got up, and began to walk back home.

As they walked, Stanford couldn't help but feel uneasy. The trees shifted. Oak became birch. The bushes swayed. Something felt.. wrong. This didn't feel right. Yet he had taken this path so, so many times. And yet it felt different. The only sound was the sound of their footsteps and his Grandma's walking stick hitting against the floor with her every step. Then they reached the house. Despite him living here for as long as his mind could recall, it felt empty. Like something was missing. His Grandma brought him to his room and tucked him in. But it didn't feel comforting. "Goodnight, sweetie." Said his Grandma. "Night, Grandma." Stanford replied, as he drifted off to sleep.

Stanford woke up in the morning, and headed downstairs. The emptiness of last night still lingered, despite morning light shining through the window. As he entered the living room, his eyes widened in shock. 

His grandmother sat slumped over on the sofa, her body bloody and broken. Something had killed her. As he entered the kitchen, he found out the same fate had claimed his Grandfather. His Grandfather's mangled corpse lay on the black and white floor. Entrails lay everywhere, blood splattered the marble counters. Something had done this. 

And it wasn't human.