It comes from the space between worlds to destroy. Elegant, tentacled, sublime in power, slithering up the stairs. Quiet house, quiet night. It smells their humanness, their fragile blood-pumping hearts. Where have they gone?

Another smell distracts from the hunt. Tantalizing, teasing, utterly alluring. A plate on the counter and on it—another tentacled creature? Pale, thin, knotted, smothered in red and pulverized meat as though it has torn apart the humans, then soaked in the glorious mess.

It can't read the note that says: Spaghetti Night!

Excitement thrills through the destroyer. Or is it bloodlust? Rage? No... it's love.