The cold, icy breeze of night gushed into the house through the smashed windows. The doors shrieked open, and the floorboards groaned as Lorenzo walked into the living room. If you could call it that.

An intense, inescapable sense of dread filled whoever walked into the home, it was a ramshackle.

Rachel and Lorenzo were lucky that they still had a home after the incident, black smudges of chatted wallpaper still seeped around the home.

Rachel was sat in her armchair. It was okay velvet, wrinkled and worn down, her flesh almost sinking into it because she never left it as much as she should've.

The television set, a small, twenty inch box TV, was shrieking, buzzing endlessly.

Rachel had the television on full volume, it let out choked, gargled noises and small chunks of coherent and or intelligible dialogue. She glanced outside the broken windows every few minutes.

Watching. Waiting. Listening.

She couldn't wait for her babies. Her babies. Her babies. The little children, starting away from their parents on Halloween night. And she could be a mother again, just for a little while. Until she let her husband, Lorenzo, butcher then.

She still had her photo album, every page a picture dated on Halloween, showing many, many different children.

Rachel took those photos to remember them, as if she had the right to "honour" their memories. She really felt like she was their mother, oh, she really, really did.

Rachel was humming to herself, rocking backwards and forwards, controlling herself so that she wouldn't twitch. She was growing more and more insane by the day; only communicating with her husband, so that they wouldn't yet caught for their heinous murders of young, naive, innocent children.

When Rachel felt Lorenzo, her husband, gently grasp her shoulder with his clawed fingers, she snapped her head towards him.

"Lorenzo," she whispered, her eye twitching. "Where are my babies? My babies should knock. Why haven't any little boys or girls knocked?" she asked, nearly ripping her hair out. Her leg shaked.