Most parents tell their kids that the monster in their closet is just their imagination.

Your parents taught you how to kill it.

You curse as you pull into the driveway of the old, secluded cabin you’d grown up in. Your parents’ car wasn’t in the drive, and you hadn’t been able to reach them by phone for several days. Your siblings hadn’t heard from them, either. You grab your house key from the center console, and jog through the evening drizzle, raindrops freezing your skin. The sun had set rapidly in the late-autumn day, and the oncoming storm wasn’t helping you see. You hoped the power hadn’t been lost, as the old house was prone to doing, as you turned the key and stepped through the door.