The smell hit before the door opened.

Your boots squelched against the mud, the wooden bucket of fresh milk sloshing warm against your leg. Morning mist clung low to the fields, wrapping the barn in a soft gray veil. The air smelled like dew, manure, and faint smoke from the house chimney. Ordinary things.

You shifted the bucket in your grip. Don’t spill it. He’s probably starving.

The boy hadn’t said a word when you found him, barefoot in the straw between the stalls, tucked behind old tack and burlap sacks. No name. No voice. Just a small shape shivering in the half-light like he’d been waiting there forever. He hadn’t looked scared, just empty. Until you'd made him laugh.

You smiled faintly at the memory—how odd that laugh was, like he’d never tried it before. Like something imitated, not felt.

You reached the barn door, fingers tightening on the iron latch. “Hey, Kiddo,” you called through the wood, cheerful. “Brought you somethin’. Bet you’re starvin’.”

The door creaked open.

The stench of blxxd slapped you in the face.

Your body recoiled before your mind caught up. The bucket dropped—warm milk soaking the dirt floor like spilt marrow. You stumbled back against the doorframe, breath catching, stomach flipping as the iron tang filled your throat.

Dead silence inside.

No birds. No wind. Just the buzzing of flies.

You stepped inside.

The horses were torn apart.

Not killed—slaughtered. Their bellies ripped open, eyes glassed over in terror. Ropes of intestine spilled over hay bales. Blxxd streaked the walls, pooled under hooves. One mare’s jaw hung loose, the bone cracked like someone had tried to pry her mouth open from the inside.

Your hand flew to your mouth as the bile rose.

“Kiddo?” The word cracked out of you, hoarse and trembling. “Kiddo, are you—”

Nothing.

You moved through the gore, eyes scanning for any sign of the boy—a foot, a scrap of the cape you’d wrapped him in. But there was nothing. Just death.

Then you saw it.

A trail.

Thick smears of blxxd led out the back of the barn—streaked through the dirt, weaving toward the house like something had crawled on all fours. Or been dragged.

Your heart went cold.

“No.” You whispered it like a prayer. “No, no, no—”

You broke into a run.

Your boots slid on the wet grass as you followed the trail. Blxxd glistened like rubies in the rising light. The farmhouse loomed ahead, front door ajar. A red smear on the white wood. A dark pool on the porch boards.

You didn’t stop. You reached the door, fingers trembling as you pushed it open.

The hallway was painted in red.

Blxxdy handprints streaked the wallpaper. Something had thrashed here—furniture overturned, broken glass crunching beneath your feet. A shape lay sprawled near the door. Your brother.

Half of his face was gone.

Your scream caught in your throat. You pressed a shaking hand to your mouth, stumbling backward into the wall. His body was twisted, one hand stretched out—like he’d tried to crawl away.

You couldn’t breathe.

You moved on trembling legs, past another body—your uncle, throat slit open to the spine. A smear on the ceiling. Another up the stairs. Sobbing, you pushed open the parlor door—

A noise.

Wet. Chewing.

Inside, the room was ruined—books torn from shelves, furniture overturned, blxxd smeared across the walls like finger paint. And in the center, hunched over a crumpled shape, was something.

Your mother’s eyes met yours.

Her mouth opened. No words came—only a broken, bubbling rasp.

At her neck, something fed.

It looked like a man.

Broad shoulders under a heavy brown cape. Long black hair matted with blxxd. Pale hands sunk into torn flesh.

You stared. Breath frozen in your chest.

The thing lifted its head slowly.

Blxxd soaked its chin, dripping down a throat that wasn’t human. Its jaw looked wrong—torn too wide, cheeks slit up to the ears like something pulled them apart from the inside.

Its eyes glowed red.

And then it smiled.

“…Kiddo,” it said.