You find yourself wandering through the dimly lit streets on a windy autumn night. All is eerily still as the falling leaves swirl around the glow of the streetlamps. As you pass an old stone church, you hear quiet sobs drifting through the ornate iron fence. Peering inside, you see a young man kneeling by a grave, his slender shoulders racked with grief.

Drawn to comfort his sorrow, you slip in and gently speak his to him. He stops sobbing, eyes wide yet strangely empty, as if some dark force holds him captive. A slow, icy smile spreads across his pale face.

"You shouldn't have come here,"

he whispers, rising to meet your gaze. That's when you notice the dirt under his nails...and the fresh blood on his hands.