“I so need caffeine…” growled Azzy as she walked out of the house, her steps rolling and carrying the suggestion of anger and frustration with them. “’No, Azzy,’” she said in a mocking imitation of her mother’s voice, “’you can’t have any of these precious muffins until you find your idiot brother!’” She kicked a pebble into the street as she made her way down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched and her dark brown hair obscuring her face. “Where are you, you little brat?” she hissed, more to herself than anyone else.

Azure Redfield (preferred to be called ‘Azzy’) lived in a fairly average suburban neighborhood… unless you count that time with the weird, two-headed dog thing that happened a few years ago, but that’s another story.

The weather was gloomy in nature, cloudy with enough wind-chill to require that she wear her black, knee-length jacket, and the sun had barely peaked out all day. It was approaching winter, and in a few weeks Azzy’s aunt and uncle – with their detestable daughter, Janet, who was a prissy, bottle-blonde little bitch – would be visiting for Christmas. Consequently, Azzy’s mother was putting up decorations for the house already so that they would have plenty of time to make them look perfect, and Peter – Azzy’s little brother – was supposed to help, while they would both be rewarded with muffins.

The arrangement was ruined by the fact that Peter had gone to play with his friends and had yet to return.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” said Azzy, spitting excess saliva into some old man’s lawn as she passed it. “He’s probably still playing at Ron’s.” Yeah, that was probably it.

Her hypothesis was shattered as a pale, terrified looking Ron Quincy ran past her. Her brow furrowing in confusion, she quickly turned around and grabbed at Ron’s shirt before he got too far away. He let out a very un-masculine ‘yelp!’ and she dragged him in, turning him around to face her.

“H-h-hi Miss Azzy!” he said, shaking like jackhammer, his blue eyes simply radiating an old, deep seated fear. Azzy grinned, recalling how she had finally instilled an undying fear in the otherwise impudent whelp – something she had never managed on Peter. “A-a-are you looking f-f-for Peter?” he asked, smiling nervously, his left eye ticking… something that Azzy knew he only did when there was something seriously wrong.

Her face grew cold and stony, although inside she started panicking.

“Where’s is he?” she asked, her voice frostier than the coming winter. The boy winced. “What’s wrong, Ron?” she asked again, this time trying to sound soothing. Ron took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. She asked him again. “Where is my little brother?”

“He went into the old Jenkins’s place,” he said. “On a dare,” he continued, “Lars double-dogged him to do it.”

Leroy Jenkins had lived in the neighborhood a few years ago, before being carted off to the mental hospital a few miles east from town, screaming about paper bags and barbed wire. He had always seemed a bit unstable, so his sudden ‘episode,’ as it were, had not caught the other residents by surprise. The house’s ownership had been moved to the man’s elder brother, although he hadn’t done anything with it in the last few years, so everyone considered the derelict building to still be Leroy’s place. It had been up for sail for a while, too, but nobody had bought it. Leroy hadn’t really been one to take care of the place, and the grass had been overgrown before he was taken by the men in the white coats. Leroy himself had received the house in his grandmother’s will, which Azzy was sure had an interesting story behind it. However, Leroy had never been one to talk much either, so she never managed to find out, no matter how much she had harassed the thin, bug-eyed man in her childhood.

It was a general rule that nobody enter the house, for both safety and legal reasons. Thus, naturally, the local idiot teenagers and preteen wannabees tended to go in at least once a week, before hauling ass back to the street after taking a few steps inside. What really worried Azzy though, is that Peter never did anything halfway. If Peter went into the old Jenkins’s house, he went all they way in, and then he looked through every nook and cranny. She hoped that he wasn’t hurt… she really wanted those muffins.

Oh, and she loved her little brother. Yeah. That too.

Anyway, after a few more minutes of running and vaulting over some woman picking at grass in her lawn (she didn’t want to know), Azzy had arrived at the old house, and confirmed that Peter was located inside when she saw his bike lying in the grass.

It had everything that one would expect in a creepy, abandoned, and possibly inhabited by a serial killer and/or ghosts, house; Unkempt lawn, filthy porch, vandalized walls and door, ominous feeling that nobody could quite place or rationalize, the whole shebang. The windows, one of which was shattered, seemed to glare at her like the eyes of some awakened beast, while the chimney cut at the air like a spire erupting from the depths of Hell itself. The picket fence, once a pure, snowy white, was now broken apart in some places and overall colored a dark, smoky grey color. It was truly devoid of life, as even the crows and various rodents refrained from trespassing upon its boundaries, a quiet sanctum with and underlying, sinister air. The entire thing stood seemingly alone, the homes on either side of it fading out of view as an observer’s vision was ensnared by the gloomy citadel.

Naturally, Azzy felt no qualms about yelling at it.

“PETER, GET YOUR SORRY BUTT OUT OF THERE! MOM’S MAKING MUFFINS!” she shouted, pounding on the door with her fist. She waited, but received no response. Sneering, she wiped some dirt and grime off of a window with her sleeve and peaked inside. Only darkness greeted her. With a huff, she slammed on the door again.

It promptly fell to the ground with a ‘whoomf,’ kicking up dirt and dust from years of having nobody to sweep the floor with tons of kids running in and out of the threshold.

“PETER!” she shouted again, her voice reverberating through the house as she pulled out her flashlight keychain. Clicking it on, Azzy pointed the beam of light into the house. It was, as expected, absolutely filthy, cobwebs and dust covering almost ever inch of the walls, floor, and furniture. The air itself teemed with the particles, the beam from her flashlight illuminating the clouds of dust as they flew about in the air after Azzy’s abrupt entrance. She stepped carefully, as if carrying a large wait on her shoulders. The air in the house was more than just dusty and stale. It felt heavy. Foreboding, even. There was an unnatural coldness in the atmosphere, even worse than outside. She called for her little brother once again, her voice echoing throughout the derelict house.

Still, he wasn’t answering her. That meant one of three things: He was more of a little shit than she thought, he wasn’t there (highly unlikely), or he was incapable of answering, either because he was dead or some other reason. She grimaced at that last thought.

Azzy stepped in, holding the flashlight up chest level, and began scanning the room. The remains of what used to be the living room lied to her left, the couch overturned and the TV with large cracks running through the screen from a central point near a corner, probably from the busted remote that lay before it when someone (probably Leroy) threw it at the TV.

“I wonder what made him want to throw something at the TV,” Azzy murmured, continuing her survey. Directly on the other end of the floor was the kitchen, the refrigerator tipped on its side with the doors open, spilling out food that had rotted away ages ago, leaving only their containers. After a few moments of investigation, Azzy was certain that Peter was not there. Ergo, he must have gone even further upstairs, probably in search of a souvenir for his trouble.

As she stood in this place where a middle-aged man had gone mad, however, Azzy couldn’t help but stare and wonder. What could have happened to drive the quiet old Leroy Jenkins into such a state? Despite his unstable personality, he had never been particularly violent in nature. At worst, he would start yelling and throw a fit when people would get onto his property, telling them to get out of his sight. She stared at the walls, and something new caught her attention.

Long, deep gashes tore at the wallpaper. It looked as if a tiger or bear had gone to town in the very room, ripping apart the wall and tearing away chunks of lumber and insulation. Her curiosity getting the better of her – something she apparently shared with her sibling – she stepped closer, moving her hand to run her fingers over the scars of the wall.

“What the hell happened here?” she asked in a soft voice. She touched the gashes, and then immediately jumped away, as if she were burned. However, the gashes were not hot – they were cold. It was an unbearable, miserable, unreal kind of coldness, even worse than the freezing air of the house, which could not be found in even the deepest depths of the arctic sea. At the same time, he fingers now felt filthy, even as she wiped them off on her jacket unconsciously.

Swallowing, Azzy shook her head and tried to shake off the unnerving feeling that the claw – no, slash – marks gave her.

“Must’ve gone berserk on the wall with a knife or something,” she rationalized, a shiver bolting down her spine. She wanted to get out.

She wanted to get out NOW.

But first, she had to find Peter.

Tearing her eyes away from the brutal marks on the wall, she headed for the stairs and carefully ascended to the second floor, careful not to break the rotting steps. The staircase creaked with each step, like a wounded animal as she continued her arduous journey. After what seemed like hours, her feet touched solid floor, and she allowed herself to relax for a moment.

She felt something brush past her, and she jumped, a small yelp escaping her throat.

“God damn it, Peter,” she snarled, “stop being an immature little bastard and come out! Now!” Azzy scanned the hallway with her flashlight, listening for the footsteps of her mischievous little brother. There were none. “Peter?” she asked again. Then she felt… something.

It was behind her.

She turned, pointing her flashlight ahead of her, backing away as the light struck the thing behind her.

It was tall, slender, built like a tree. Long limbs sprouted from a thin trunk of a torso, barbed wire cutting into the bloodied and tattered shirt on its chest, toned muscles bulging from behind the material, except down the center, where the barbed wire lead into the chest cavity, ribs poking out like the maw of a mutilated beast, with pure blackness looking at her from inside the bloody chest, absent of the sound of a beating heart. Above that was the head, covered in a paper bag with a crudely drawn crayon happy face on it, more barbed wire tying it closely to the skull and cutting through the paper. Old bloodstains had died the material a rusty color. Long, filthy white hair sprouted out from various tears and holes in the bag, reaching down to the thing’s elbows. Its hands were just as mutilated as its chest, the fingers small stubs with bone tearing out of old, rotted flesh. Grey and mottled, it looked as if the thing had once been a man, and then died in water and left to rot. The tips of the stubs had long, wicked hooks stabbed into them and either sewn or cauterized and welded to the bone and flesh, the hooks covered in rust and misshapen. Old, tattered shorts covered the crotch and thighs, with more barbed wire cutting into the groin and seeming to be sewn through the thighs. The shins and feet, like the hands and arms, looked as if they had rotted while under water, with gashes and chunks torn out by some scavenging animal. Bony toes, long and sharp like the talons of a bird of prey, cut into the floorboards, while the thing seemed to stare at Azzy.

“Jesus Christ,” she wretched. With her free hand, she groped for a weapon of some sort as she backed away. The thing didn’t move, watching her through its paper bag mask. Eventually, her hand found something long and blunt. She brought it out in front of her, holding it like a sword. It was a baseball bat, probably as old as the house, but in serviceable condition… she hoped.

They stared each other down like that, neither moving. It seemed like days and nights, maybe even years as Azzy tried to just comprehend what she was seeing. The thing’s body was inhumanly thin and angular, like a thin blade. It clicked its talons on the floor, the muscles and tendons in its legs shifting beneath the grey skin.

“Where is my brother?” she asked, her voice steely but with and undercurrent of fear and revulsion. “D-did you hurt him?!” she rasped.

And then it shrieked like a banshee as its posture shifted into an aggressive, predator-esque stance, claws out and hands flexing. The sound was unholy, tearing into Azzy’s skull and cutting through her body. Her heart beat fast in her chest, her lungs freezing over, and she fell to her knees with her hands over her ears.

Then it was over, and the thing was all over her. It lunged, fast as lightning, bringing one of its claws down on her head like a stone falling from the sky. Regaining her senses, Azzy made a quick intake of breath and rolled to the side, avoiding the blow. On instinct she kicked at the thing’s shin, causing it to temporarily loose balance. Rising to her feat, she ran down the hall.

“PETER, WE’RE LEAVING! WHERE ARE YOU?!” she shouted, holding up the flashlight and baseball bat. A small, young but masculine voice answered her from below.

“In here, quick!” it hissed. The closet door opened, and small hands dragged her inside before slamming the door shut. Azzy turned the light to her little brother.

Peter, like his elder sister, was a skinny child, with a mop of dark brown hair on his head, green eyes shining at her in the light. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, he was shaking as if he were butt naked in the middle of a snowstorm.

“What the fuck is that thing and what the fuck are you even doing here in the first place?” Azzy was absolutely livid, in addition to being terrified. “Me and mom always told you to stay the fuck away from here, didn’t we?!” she hissed.

“Yeah, I know.” Peter sounded miserable, and she heard his shirt scrape against the wallpaper as she sat down, dragging his back on the wall. “It was stupid…”

“You’re damn right it was,” Azzy said, in what she wanted to be an angry voice, but it came out more like a tired growl. She paused, thinking for a moment. “Are you sure we can talk? Won’t that thing find us?”

“No, for some reason it just ignores the closet. I ran inside of it with it right there, but it didn’t do anything. It just kept walking,” replied Peter. “We’re safe in here.”

“Yeah, from it,” grumbled the teenager. “But we can’t stay in here forever, and I doubt that thing will just let us out.”

“We need a plan, then.”

“No shit?” she asked sarcastically. In a high-stress situation, Azzy threw patience out the window and tore through it with a blade of sarcasm and quick thinking. A trait she had inherited from her father, Azzy managed to put together the best plan for the situation.

“We’re running away?” asked Peter incredulously, wrinkling his freckled nose. Azzy snorted at his disgust.

“Yeah, or what? I try and play baseball with his head?” she asked, grinding her teeth. “That thing looks like something out of Satan’s toilet, Peter, and I doubt I could put up with infernal shit like that with a baseball bat.

“Alright, so I’ll open the door, with you on my back, and I make a break for it. You hold the flashlight and keep the path lit for me, and I’ll haul us out of here. If that thing gets in the way, I’ll smack it a little bit with the baseball bat and keep running.” Azzy gave the flashlight to Peter, and knelt down. The closet had just barely enough room for him to maneuver onto her back. She stood with baseball bat in one hand, and a cane she found in the closet in another.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Y-yeah…” he whimpered, holding the flashlight and lighting up the door in front of her.

“Alright then,” she breathed. Gulping, she breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, and then opened the door.

It was right in front of her.

After only a millisecond of shock, she struck at its face with the cane, stabbing it in where one of its eyes should have been. It backed away and let out a groan, and she ran off towards the staircase. She heard heavy foot-falls behind her, and realized the thing had recovered and was now on her tail. She leapt over the rail of the staircase, not thinking as the soles of her shoes hit the old steps. They creaked ominously, but she paid them no mind in the rush and continued her rapid descent. Unfortunately, it would seem that fate had it in for her and her brother.

One of the steps was so rotted that it caved beneath her forceful step, allowing her foot to crash through the wood. She yelped and tripped, and her brother flew from her back and rolled down the stairs. The old wood slashed at her leg, but she sucked it up and lifted herself from the rotting wood, limping down the stairs as fast as she could.

Then the thing appeared. It didn’t leap from above, or brush past her. It just appeared, stepping out of the darkness, and sunk its hooked, wicked claws into Peter’s shoulder. The boy let out a shrill scream of pain and terror as he was snatched up by the thing, struggling against its hold.

“Oh no you don’t, you ugly son of a bitch!” Azzy roared, and she vaulted at the creature, baseball bat held over her head. She brought it down on the thing’s skull, and heard a satisfying ‘crack’ as she did so. However, the thing was only phased by the blow, and it smacked her away with a backwards sweep of its long arm. Azzy spat and threw herself once again at the thing, but was caught by the arm by its other hooked claws. They cut deeply into her bicep, and she hissed in pain. It wrenched and twisted its claw, tearing up the muscle and flesh, before flinging her away again, and then kicking her in the face with its talon-adorned feet, cutting at her face.

“Azzy!” shouted Peter, still struggling as the thing brought him closer to the maw of its chest. There was the stirring of something inside of the blackness, and skeletal hands erupted from the void, grabbing at him. Tentacles, black and slimy, slithered around his throat and limbs, assisting their bony counterparts in dragging the child into the netherworldly blackness of the thing’s chest.

Azzy stood, throwing the cane at the thing before tackling it head on. She grabbed her brother’s hands, trying to pulling him away. She managed to drag him out as far as his knees, when the thing put its claws on her face and pushed her away, hooks cutting into her cheeks, the arms and tentacles pulling even harder on Peter.

“No, he’s mine!” shouted Azzy. “He’s my little brother, you freak! MINE!”

The thing leant backwards, and struck its bony foot at her chest, sending her flying across the room and out the door. The talons had stabbed into her chest, and blood flowed from her wounds. She stood again, her injured body powered by adrenaline, and she blindly ran into the house…

…just in time to see her brother be completely swallowed by the maw of the thing. With a shriek of rage, she tackled the thing, reaching into its chest to try and catch her little brother’s hand… but it was all for naught. The thing stood up without effort, sunk its claws into her torso, and flung her out of the house. Dark, cold wind accompanied the gesture, and the door was blown back into place. A staccato of clicking sounds came from inside, and Azzy tried and failed to open the door.

“NO!” she shouted. “Give him back! GIVE HIM BACK! GIVE HIM BACK!”

Hours later, the police arrived on a call from annoyed neighbors, and they had to taser the poor girl to drag her away from the door. She was taken down to the station for questioning, and she told them what happened.

They didn’t believe her.

Weeks later, Azzy was put on trial for the murder of her little brother, Peter, whose body was never found. She got off on insanity, which everyone was absolutely convinced of, given her story. An investigation into the house was conducted, nonetheless, and nobody was inside.

That was a month or so ago. Her mother didn’t talk to her anymore, and was now living with her sister. Azzy was the talk of the town for a while, branded ‘Blood Redfield.’ She now sat in her room at the juvenile ward, just a couple blocks from the mental ward that Leroy Jenkins had been sent to.

Azzy stood next to her barred window, dressed in the ward uniform, bloodshot eyes with dark circles beneath them staring at the building. Her hands gripped at the bars, knuckles white.

Jenkins knew what was in that house. He knew where it came from. She was sure of it. And she was going to find him. She was going to get her little brother back, or at the very least take vengeance upon the grotesque phantom that haunted the house where her entire life had been shattered.

And in that very home, shadows stirred. The frigid air remained, sunlight just barely reaching past the windows before being blotted out by a cloud of dust, which flew about in the air like the souls of the damned. In this house’s hallways lurked not just a monster, or a human fiend, but… something else.