Let me tell you something first.
Before the blood.
Before the basement.
Before you.
My dad used to carry me on his shoulders during thunderstorms.
I was terrified of lightning.
He'd walk around the living room while rain slammed against the windows and say,
"See? The sky's just taking pictures of us."
And I'd laugh.
Because if lightning was a camera, then thunder was applause.
Mom would bring hot chocolate.
Ivy would crawl into my lap even though she was too old for that.
We were warm.
We were safe.
We were ordinary.
And I need you to understand that.
Because horror only works when there was something beautiful first.
You see, you met them when they were breaking.
But I knew them when they were whole.
Dad's tired smile after long shifts.
Mom humming off-key while folding laundry.
Ivy sneaking into my room at night because she thought monsters lived in her closet.
She was wrong.
The monsters were always somewhere else.
Or maybe…
Maybe they were waiting for someone to look at us long enough.
Like you are now.