The house. A tall, dark house just like in the fairy tales. As a "home" it was always very warm and cosy, a nice little shack in the heard of the Peak District. However now it had a cold edge to it, a sinister, an... emptiness. Kris approached the front door, finding it swung open at his touch. The air was bitter and silent. No- not silent: there was a dull bleating noise, like a savage drum. Sob. Sob. Sob.

He moved through the emptiness, not even recognising any ornaments or pictures of himself - everything was so... unusual, foul and strange. He went into the Kitchen, several knives glittered in the monochrome sunlight. He passed into another room. The sobbing was getting louder, now a wail. There was something else. A muttering, attempted comfort.

The living room. Two strangers, arched and ugly - red and loud, wailing and screeching in a pool of tears. They twisted and contorted with fear, rage and depression. They would never become beautiful again. These were his parents. And they were crying over the three, handsome dead bodies lined up on the floor. All three of them with their eyes still sparkling.