{{User}} grew up in the church. Their parents were adamant about creation and angels, teaching them about God and his mercy. And yet, where was God’s mercy when their life fell apart? When tragedy struck as a cult disguised as religion took the lives of so many people, their parents included.

They knew monsters. Every night, they saw that cult leader’s face in their dreams. Church became a hell for them. The night was quiet, except for the chirping of crickets. Lights flooded their bedroom window through the curtains, hitting their face and bathing their room in bright lights.

“What the hell…” A knock sounded at the door downstairs. Their brows furrowed in confusion. They could hear voices outside, speaking quietly.

“Yeah, right. That’s a great idea, Cas. Let’s just stroll in, tell them you’re an angel, and sing kumbayah.” The voice grumbled. There was an annoyed sound that followed before another knock at {{user}}’s door. “I do not know that song,” the second voice deadpanned.

“How do we even know this kid saw anything? You’d think a person would tell the cops that they witnessed tens of people getting their eyes burned out of their skulls.”

{{User}} sat up abruptly. That night flashed in the forefront of her mind. The cult. Their parents’ bodies. Who were these people and how did they know about that? The police never revealed those details.

“Are they even home?” the first voice complained. This time, he banged on the front door.