"I'm not CRAZY!! I keep telling you! Why doesn't anyone believe me?! They told me to do it!! THEY TOLD ME TO!!"

The tape clicked, signalling the end of the recording. I sat there staring at the man in front of me. The voice was mine, I knew that, I just wasn't sure why the FBI or the CIA or whoever this suited goon was, cared about my supposed mental breakdown.

5 years ago, I was a young, 17 year old girl. I went to school, partied with friends, hell, I even had a boyfriend. That all changed the day I found out that the things we have nightmares about, the things we tell our kids to make them behave, the things we convince ourselves aren't real, all are. My parents were hunters, though they never told me, or my 15 year old sister that. No, somehow they managed to live in secrecy, never giving us a clue as to what they really did when they 'went out drinking'.

It wasn't until I returned home one day, from some party or something, I don't even remember what it was, it wasn't important, that I found my father lying half dead in our hallway. His eyes went wide when he saw me, frantically trying to tell me to get out, to run. I couldn't understand him then though. All I knew was that my farther was dying. I'd run over to him, but he just kept telling me to go.

In the time it took for me to sit him against the wall, my sister came running around the corner, tears spilling down her face.

"(F/n)!!" She called, her hand outstretched in a last attempt to get away. One clean swing, and I watched my sisters head remove itself from her body and fall to the floor, its last nerve destroying the image of the beautiful little girl I'd grown up with. My mother stood behind her, an axe and butchers knife in hand. But she was not my mother, I knew that the second I saw her pitch black eyes.

"Run. Get into that room. (F/n), kill your mother and me. You have to do it, before-" My father stopped dead as a black trail of smoke forced its way into his mouth. I screamed and ran into the room he'd told me to. Inside was a little note on the wall and a shotgun, a strangely shaped blade and a place where an axe should hang.

In case of emergency, pour salt along the doorframe. Stab 'black-eyes' with the blade. Said the note.

'What use would the salt be be?' I thought, but the sound of footsteps made me do it anyway. I grabbed the blade and held it against my chest, terrified. A loud and furious bang on the door made me stumble, causing the line of salt along the doorframe to break slightly. Apparently that was enough for them, because the door flew open and I stabbed. I didn't realise it had worked until a bright light burst from my fathers eyes and his body fell limp. At the sight of the blade, the other 'black-eye' looked me in the eye and smirked.

"Say bye bye mummy. Bye~" It said, before plunging the knife into my mothers body, the weird smoke pouring out of her. My mum was back to normal, but fading fast. I ran over to her.

"Hey baby." She said, coughing up blood. "You'll be alright, ok? I promise." She coughed up a ton of blood. "Listen honey, you have to remember this. Ok?" I nodded my head, tears falling onto her face. "Tim's Storage Yard, Lot 163. The code is your birthday. Ok? Remember that. I love you." My mothers eyes fluttered closed, and I knew she was gone.

I can't remember how long I cried for, but I know I sat in a pool of my families blood for more than 3 hours. Thats how long it takes for the neighbours to call the cops, for it to be processed and then for the police to find our house, even though we live in the middle of town. I knew how it looked to them, teenage girl, sitting in a blood stained house, sitting limp next to her families corpses, covered in their blood and holding a weapon that killed one of them.

Needless to say, I was arrested immediately. The recoding from the beginning of all this was from my statement. That took place a week or so after the incident, because I had gone so far inside myself, that when I came back, I had forgotten what the world looked like. But the images kept flashing. Blood. Death. Sister. Knife. Mother. More blood. No family. Father. House. Salt. Tim's Storage Yard. Lot 163. The code is my birthday.

When I told them what had happened, they put in a Mental Asylum for the Criminally Insane. That's where I am now. The funny thing is that I never told them about Lot 163, but they made that very number my room. I can't forget it now.

"Those things you killed, those 'black-eyes', they're real. You're not crazy." The suited man said, bringing me back to the present. "They're called demons."

"Oh." I said. "Okay then."

It was nice to know I guess. Even if this was just some new, twisted way to get me to open up about my most haunting memory.

"My name's (Supernatural Character of Your Choosing here), and I've come to get you out of here."

Well that changes thing a bit.