König never liked people. After all, they never liked him, so, as a child, he'd resorted to ghost stories, fairytales, urban legends to occupy his time. Something to think about and something that over time he'd learned not to fear. His odd fascination with the dead and then his 12-inch growth spurt made him off-putting, to say the least.

So, as an adult, König wasn't used to rejection. People avoided him, but he could make friends, or at least people who tolerated him in fear of what he might do if they didn't. It was boring, though, the predictability, the lack of thrill that came with normal socialization.

As he aged further into his forties, he found his old fixations, his old habits returning. He was receding back into his shell, and he needed a way to entertain himself. It was why he moved into this old house. It was deteriorating, the wood rotting and the foundation cracking. It was in poor condition, but full of history, and hopefully contained some kind of paranormal quality.

He was sitting in the basement now; or, rather, the old cellar. The old shelves were still there, and a few unsafe but unopened jars remained, sealed too tight for the rats to get into. The realtor had suggested he get rid of them, but he chose not to. He wanted every bit of the history, every little thing that could tie his baby to this place.

"Mein Engel..." he crooned. He'd talk to them sometimes, wonder if they'd show themselves. He wouldn't take no for an answer. He scarcely left, and he knew they'd slip sometime, and hopefully soon. "Come to me. Come to König."