The air was warm and pleasant as night settled across the quiet town of Blueberry Hills. The sound of cicadas screaming their songs across the skyline drifted across the skies as Tom Holden made his way home from the fields. He knew he shouldn't be out this late, not around Evermoore at least not lately. Something lurked within the dark, he could hear them chittering right outside of his house at times. Once he had looked out of his windows and saw so many eyes looking back at him that he never tried to do so again.
The rustling started out soft and then got louder, louder. Tom picked up his pace, his brown boots pounding the dirt. The flicker of candlelight coming from his home window cast a soft glow. Only a few feet away.
Something tore into his leg sending searing pain shooting up his leg and his body tumbled to the ground. Tom twisted his body to gaze at his attacker and saw something wholly unlike anything he had seen before. It almost looked like an elf, he could see the remnants of black tattoos around the eyes, but pincers peeked out between his mouth. The pincers tore into his leg, spewing noxious green liquid into the wound. With his free leg Tom kicked the thing as hard he could.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. The thing went sprawling with a hideous shriek. Without waiting to see if it recovered Tom dragged himself forward into his house. Gasping, he leaned against the door expecting an attack. He could hear the screaming outside of the door.
"Get to the cellar!" He yelled to his wife and brother, hoisting himself to his feet and grabbing a rolling pin off the table. Vaguely he wished he had another weapon but there wasn't enough time to rue that decision too much. The thing that was chasing him slammed into the door, making the wood crack around the hinges. The farmer turned and looked at his wounded leg, blackness spread up the wound and the tendons gave way. There was no way he would survive this. He turned and made eye contact with his brother. "Take care of Clara and the kids."
"Tom, I can't let you!"
"Just go!" Tom yelled, "I'm wounded. I won't survive either way. They'll need someone to help out with the farm."
Without another word his brother nodded solemnly as his wife scooted his son and daughter into the cellar hold. The door closed behind them and to the unknowing eye it looked like an extension of the floor.
Hard hits rained down upon the outer door and the wood finally collapsed under the combined assault. In poured tens of these things, each one different but horrific. Some had too many arms, some thoraxes extending behind them, some web spiralling out from who know where; they were all monsters.
Tom braced himself for the attack, readying his rolling pin. The death was almost painless with how quickly they fell upon him. Almost.
