All that could be seen was the bottom of the door.

The sound of bodies being dragged across the floor echoed throughout the house.

Moans flooded the halls.

All that could be seen was the bottom of the door.

The light flickered as they paced in front of it.

Back and forth

and back and forth.

The handle jiggles, the perpetrator trying to enter.

She crawled as far as she could from the door,

while keeping the bed as her cover.

The door handle went from a jiggle

to vehement force.

All that could be heard was the sound of distant sirens

growing louder and louder.

The chorus arising amidst the once deafening silence.

All that could be heard was the sound of screaming and gunshots.

One man against tens of cops.

And a little girl hiding underneath the bed,

holding her bloody weapon with a deadly smile.

She's safe.

There are few relationships as sweet as that of father and daughter. As hard as times may be, at least Em knew her father would get them through. He had lost his job last month, the factory he worked for making up some lie about him being violent towards a coworker. Em knew it wasn't true. He was a teddy bear of a man if you bothered to look behind his tough exterior. He was gentle, the kind of guy who would help little old ladies cross the street for no other reason than to be kind.

Of course, Em was surprised when she followed him to the basement one night to find those same ladies piled on the floor, their snow white hair matted with something sticky and red.

"What are they doing, daddy?"

"Sleeping, baby. It's bedtime."

"Ok, daddy. Will you come give me a goodnight kiss?"

"Always."

Just as Sara was walking up to her classroom, she was confronted by two seemingly identical figures. They each grabbed one of Sara’s arms and dragged her to the playground, their long, red-stained fingernails digging into her skin. “Let’s go,” rasped one of the twins, in a voice much too deep for a five-year-old. As they dragged her to the playground, the nails digging into her arms seemed to get sharper with each step. At the opening of the slide, they roughly shoved her up to the top, where they simultaneously pulled knives out of their pockets. “Don’t worry,” they crooned in unison as they leered at her. “We won’t hurt you,” they said as they plunged their blades into Sara’s chest. As Sara’s terrified screams punctuated the air, she realized what was wrong with the Bernsteins. The pungent-smelling red liquid on their nails wasn’t nail polish, it was blood...

As Ryan regained consciousness, he shivered, cold. When he tried to move, chains rattled. That snapped him wide awake. He was bound to a chair in the basement. But why?

The door creaked open to reveal... "Olivia?"

His wife descended the stairs, wearing a white nurse's dress and cap for some reason, her blonde ponytail swaying. "Good morning, Ryan." Her voice sounded...off. Her green eyes shined at him with happiness. "Sleep well?" She carried a tray of food over to him and pulled up a chair.

"What the hell are you...?"

She placed a (manicured?) finger to his lips. "Shh," she hushed, holding up a spoonful of oatmeal. "You have to keep up your strength. Eat."

It was then that he recalled the hospital and the nurse who tended to him. "You're not..."

"Eat." The nurse shoved spoonfuls of oatmeal down his throat, almost gagging him, over and over again…