There's a light evening wind rustling through the evergreen trees at the edge of the vast property. It makes for an unnerving visual from the yard, accompanied by the faint rainfall pattering against the wet grass and dirt.

It's not the quiet of the remote estate that causes an unease to settle over the three-story house and it's many windows cast in shadow. The fact that a family has been massacred inside its grey-stone walls only a few days prior is what gives this entire ordeal a horror-movie vibe.

Reid crosses the expansive yard, feeling exposed and making for a shadow patio not far away. The squelches of his shoes against the wet grass are loud to his ears. The occasional gust of wind creaks the lone swing of a rusty playset at the edge of evergreen trees.

He wonders if he's taking the same route the killer did that night. The trees would provide concealment, and it's not hard to skirt through the shadows of the yard; he's doing it now. Although the house is devoid of life now, if he had to choose a way inside to not tip off occupants, this would be it.

The thought is really twisted.

Reid ducks under some police tape tied to one of the supporting beams of a balcony overhead and steps onto the patio. Droplets of rain patter against the plastic as a loose end dances and slaps in the wind.

His careful footfalls leave the sound of faint cracking in their wake, crunching glass that litters the stone as he approaches the backdoor. It's been smashed. A plastic sheet hangs from the frame and blows inward, revealing a shadowed carpet covered in beads of glass, illuminated by the moonlight that streams from above.

It's a full moon tonight. It might be a bad omen or a good one; he can't remember.

He's sweating, even in the cool night air. The wool hat he's wearing and the black fabric makeshift mask that covers his nose and chin to conceal his features have quickly become stifling, but he can't risk having any of his features seen on camera. The Tellers had to have been pretty loaded to afford such a beautiful estate, so it's not a far cry to believe they had some kind of security that could still be working.

The hood of his sweatshirt he's pulled over his head is soaked as he pushes the plastic aside with a rustle and moves inside the dark interior. The police would have finished up their investigation days ago, and it's only a matter of time before someone comes to clean up the mess and evidence.

Reid stands still in the darkness for a few minutes and simply listens for any signs of life.

Nothing. It's dead quiet.

He fights back a chuckle at his own dark joke. Reid takes the flashlight from the back pocket of his jeans, flicks it on, and shines it across the living room in a quick sweep over a lengthy couch with a matching armchair and loveseat not far away. He moves the beam over a darkened television mounted to the wall, and down an oak cabinet with glass doors that glint against the light.

Earlier, he'd been forced to park his car along a quiet road and trek through some of the woods surrounding the property, and it hadn't bothered him much to be in the forest alone in the dark, but when his flashlight sweeps over a circular, oak coffee table, he shivers. Atop, a highball glass sits half-full with water, and beside it is a wineglass, empty with smudges of what might be lipstick.

And that's the sight that finally sends a shudder up Reid's spine. They'd probably been having a normal evening. Relaxing. Never fathoming what horror was coming for them in mere hours. He looks away quickly before the eeriness can settle and poison his resolve.

Reid keeps his footsteps quiet as he makes for a shadowed hallway on the far end of the expansive room. His flashlight illuminates the many pictures hanging on the cream-coloured walls of the narrow corridor. All family photos.

Looking at one closely, Francine is easy to discern, having seen her picture all over the news. It's set up: nice clothing, hair done up, and fake smiles. Francine sits in the middle; beside her is a younger boy with similar brown hair. With an arm around Francine, sits a woman with curly black hair, they look very similar. On the other side, a tall man, whom Reid assumes is the father, has brown hair and a hand on the boy's shoulder. The man's eyes are cold.

He continues down the hallway. Peeking around a wide doorframe, the beam of his flashlight skims over the stainless steel appliances and white countertops of an extravagantly designed kitchen.

He moves inside the room slowly, his shoes softly thudding faintly against the tile, no longer muffled by carpet. Reid's hyperaware of his own presence.

As he walks, the light of the flashlight sweeps over a lengthy oak table. One of the chairs has been knocked over, lying on its side, and atop the surface of the furniture, plates, glasses, and spoiled food sit untouched.

The unnerving feeling of eeriness returns, and it intensifies when the flashlight catches droplets of red staining the white tiled floor.

He follows the dark trail with the light beam, and it leads to a dried pool of blood seeping against the moulded baseboards of the far wall, as if the floor is slightly unlevel, and during the many hours of quiet that had followed the murders, it had slid down to settle against the wood. It has a yellow triangle with the number three placed beside it.

It's enough blood for a body. The father, most likely. He'd have put up the biggest fight. The attacker would have killed him outright and made it easier to deal with the others.

Reid grips the flashlight tighter and shoves the twisted thoughts from his head.

Gawking at these poor people's belongings isn't what he came for. He came for confirmation. And if he wants it, there's only one room that will provide it, even if he's having to fight a churning in his stomach at the thought.

Leaving the kitchen, he notices the wet footprints he's left on the carpet.

Reid quickly finds the stairs to the next level. Darkness sits heavy at the top of the landing above. He has an uneasy feeling turning his back on the shadows, but he pushes through, ascending into the dark.

If the symbol of death has been left in this house, it'll be in the bedroom.

The upstairs isn't easy to traverse. The house itself is huge from the outside, so it's not a surprise. Flanking closed doors that look similar and hallways that lead to the left and right.

Reid is careful to skirt around the blood that covers the upstairs corridor. It's wall to ceiling, with splashes and droplets; a few handprints stain the cream paint. He has a hard time not imaging that this was probably from the son, running for his life, never making it to whatever safety he believed was waiting at the end of the hall.

His flashlight shines on a door that stands out from the rest at the end of the junction before the hallway splits. It's pink with painted flowers of differing colours.

The clicking of the knob is loud in the quiet. A sense of intrusion lingers as he slips inside.

It's a bedroom, with lilac-purple walls and furniture of the same white wood aesthetic. The bed sits untouched, with floral sheets tucked under the edges of the mattress. The room has some lived-in clutter: drinking glasses, a few pieces of rumpled clothing on the floor, papers scattered atop a white desk beneath the blind-drawn window, and an orange jacket draped over an armchair in the corner.

It's most likely Francine's bedroom.

The sweeping beam of the flashlight glints off the glass of the many picture frames atop a lengthy white dresser. Reid notices immediately upon looking over the pictures that they're all of the same pair. Francine and another girl, of varying ages. As they grow older, Francine, with her brown hair and bright colours, becomes a complete contrast to the other girl, who had a similar look until her late teens. In the newer photos, the mystery girl has black hair, facial piercings, and dark clothing.

Reid picks up a silver frame. The picture is of a graduating class. At the top, Tarleton's Private School. The students are all wearing blue uniforms. It's not hard to find Francine; the name has been placed at the bottom of the photo in white lettering. She sits on a bench with the mystery girl by her side. The name at the bottom of the picture reads, Colby Smaltran.

The sight of the uniforms brings back a flurry of memories. When he was sixteen and his mother had just separated from Gabriel and left the coven, taking him with her, she thought it a grand idea to send him to a private school. After being tutored for the entirety of his life up to that point, he'd been sickened by the idea. But, no matter how much he begged, she hadn't budged, and now he has a suspicion it was an attempt to force him to socialise with other teens that weren't Kenneth.

It worked out horribly. For his mother, not for him. Reid found out quickly that it was easy to sneak out of the school through an outcropping on the farthest edge of the parking lot. He was ecstatic with his first real taste of freedom, cutting class and meeting up with Kenneth in a wooded area behind an abandoned shopping mall. Kenneth attended a public school in the city, and his attendance record was already abysmal, so he didn't mind wasting the days away, razing Reid about his uniform, throwing stones into a stream, or concocting intricate plans to run away together. It was wonderful for a while; some of his best memories

And then, the illusion of happiness was shattered.

Within the year, he'd been kicked out of school, and his mother had been murdered.

With a heavy sigh, Reid turns the photo frame, unhinges the tiny metal clasps, and takes the picture. He folds it and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans.

Stealing evidence from a crime scene might be an unnecessary risk, but there's a chance Hannah's dream will prove to be real. Then, the question of why a killer who's never left a victim alive has changed their tactics and decided to kidnap Francine Teller will need to be answered. Maybe Francine told her friend something that could give some insight.

Not finding anything else of import with a quick sweep of the flashlight around the bedroom, Reid moves back into the bloodstained hallway. He makes for a set of double doors that sit slightly ajar at the end of a long corridor to the right.

Moonlight streams through the cracks of the white wood, casting a glow against the shadows.

One of the doors creaks as he gently pushes it open with his palm.

The bedroom revealed is bathed in moonlight from a blind-drawn window and a glass door that must lead out to the balcony above the patio. Natural light outlines the heavy oak furniture and four-poster bed with thick pillars that reach the high ceiling. The blankets of the bed are in a crumpled mess against the footboard, and the white sheet covering the mattress is bathed in blood. There's so much, it's hard to believe it wasn't red to begin with, but a few spots of clean white remain to contrast the stain of carnage.

So, this is where the mother met her end; she would have had the worst torture, enduring unspeakable evil while knowing her family was already dead.

Reid shines his flashlight at the familiar symbol drawn onto the wall in blood. The circle with a smaller circle, cut vertically with a line. Drips of blood have dried from where the artist was too eager.

Reid can handle it, and he repeats the lie in his mind like a mantra.

He's fallen to his knees before he can even register that his legs have given out, staring at the blood-covered bed, unsure if the world is tilting or if it's all his head, dizzy, and willing his out-of-control breathing to calm.

He needs to get over it and push through it.

It's the reason he came tonight. Kenneth is angry and rightfully hurt. Reid wanted to, but he couldn't find the words to explain to Kenneth that he hadn't gone to that bar last weekend to indulge; he'd gone to do the very opposite, to show himself that he can and that he's strong enough.

And tonight, he came to prove he wasn't broken.

The flashlight shakes, and its beam casts wildly around the bedroom. No, it's his entire body that's shaking.

This symbol of death drawn in blood is confirmation that a vampire killed his mother all those years ago. His mother's body had been covered in too much blood to give a particular reason for her death when Reid found her. Gabriel had kept all details of her murder private, under threat if he pried. But this means the very same vampire was in this house mere days ago.

The soft pattering of rain against the glass of the window is the only ambience beyond the heavy silence.

Reid drops the flashlight. The light casts eerily over the blood-soaked blankets hanging over the edge of the mattress, staining the carpet beneath crimson.

He clutches at his pants, and his erratic breathing is loud in the quiet. His dry sob is to no one but the shadows, who act as his only companion.

Reid's not seventeen anymore. It's been seven years, but still, those memories of finding his mother bloody and ripped apart are haunting, making it difficult to remember that he's not that younger version of himself, breaking so profoundly.

There's a sudden vibration against his thigh, and Reid jerks so hard in surprise that it puts him flat on his ass. He has to calm his breathing with a few deep inhales before sticking his hand in the pocket of his jeans and taking out his phone with a shaking hand.

It's a text from Kenneth. No words. An eyeroll emoticon.

Past his racing heart and sweaty palms, Reid's in awe. Kenneth broke first. He never does, ever. It's always been Reid who drags his feet and apologises one way or another. He warily presses the offered auto-answer button and sends back a kiss emoticon.

After a moment, Reid inhales and grabs his flashlight, standing up just as another text has the phone vibrating in his hand.

He would smile if he wasn't surrounded by blood and the lingering scent of death, but it comes damn close when Kenneth texts: Have to wait with Hannah. I might drown myself.

Reid stands in the middle of the bedroom, fingers tapping the screen. Wish I was there?

Instead of leaving the house of horrors, Reid's foolishly staring down at his phone, waiting for a reply like some infatuated teenager. The text is slower to come than the others. Kenneth must be thinking about his answer.

Reid calms the uncomfortably tense wait by scrolling up to look at the long text history that's been saved between the two of them. His texts are always lengthy, emoticon-filled conversations, and Kenneth's are short, one-word answers.

The phone finally vibrates in his hand. You always talk.

Reid smiles at the screen. He tries to be vague, so he's not directly asking if Kenneth's still angry and opening that pile of emotions that he'd rather not deal with, but it still ends up being painfully obvious what he's seeking. Yup. I do. Aren't you happy to get a break from me?

A few seconds later, his phone vibrates with a simple: No.

It's strange, but something clicks in his mind as he stares at the screen. He's seen monsters and creatures vanquished before his eyes. Assisted in the demise of a few himself when needed.

This killer is only a vampire. Nothing Kenneth hasn't handled before. Reid is not embarrassed to find strength in that certainty. Reid might even be able to kill a vampire himself if he had time to prepare.

Reid raises his gaze and looks at the bloody wall. His breathing is steadier. The shadows are no longer alive with memories of his mother's blonde hair covered in blood. It's been years, and it's time to lay that traumatised seventeen-year-old to rest and stop the sadist that's continuing this cycle of death.

If it was Gabriel, even if it sort of hurts in a deep part of his soul to plan the bastard's demise, despite everything, well, Gabriel's just a vampire, and he'll die like any other.

The rain outside begins to batter the bedroom window. Reid lifts his phone and uses the flash to take a picture of the blood-drawn symbol for evidence. A slight tremor remains in his hands, and he has to retake the photo a few times before he gets a shot he deems adequate enough.

He'll show it to Kenneth tonight. It confirms three important things: Hannah's dreams are real, the killer is a vampire, and Francine Teller is alive.

As Reid lowers the phone, he winces as detailed imagines of the future fight he's going to be enduring flit through his mind. Kenneth will lose his marbles when he finds out Reid went alone.

Even Reid knows the first rule of horror movies, and that's to not split up, but in truth, he actually didn't put a lot of stock in Hannah's dream being real. No offence meant to her, but she comes off a little, tiny bit nutty. Not that he's the paragon of sound mind, but he can sense something's amiss with her. He doesn't trust her all that much.

And, also, Kenneth would never have brought Reid with him, not if Kenneth thought the sight might cause a relapse into old ways.

Reid needed to come; he didn't realise the pressure that has been pushing on his chest for all these long years, but now it's slowly lifting.

He's turning to leave when he hears a loud thudding from outside the slightly ajar door. It's footsteps, not quiet ones, ascending from downstairs.