The last thing I ever wanted to be was a killer. Always fancied myself a scholar; a poet or a teacher maybe; something to do with words. Something honorable that could help support a family. I guess life is always popping up when you find yourself making plans; always reminding you that it has plans of its own, never caring about your own. This time around, my plans had to do with a house, a family, a few generations. Funny how those things intersected.

I first met Greta in the town library, down the road from the local college. I was studying English and she was working on a history degree of some sort. I never did ask her to explain it any better. I just remember her saying something about her family; something I should have paid more attention to, I guess. But I'll be honest with ya, she gave me all those silly things you get from time to time. Butterflies in the stomach and goosebumps on your arms, maybe stupid grins and hopeless dreams of the future. Yessir, we fell in love. Biggest mistake in the world.

Me and Greta had a place together right by the campus, in one of those rundown old houses with no insulation to speak of and a crumbling foundation that still cost a lot to rent. We made it a home together, just the two of us, a little piece of Heaven like everybody dreams of, whether they'll admit it or not. I always figured we'd end up buying it from the fella that owned it, then fix it up and use it to grow some kids. It was all typical "American Dream” stuff. I ended up burning that house down when it was all said and done.

When it all started, we were happy in our household, a fire that had died down a small bit but that would never go out. I was working in the backyard, making a garden for the girl who shoulda been my wife. I heard her scream like fire inside her, but the thing that crawled out of her wasn't Greta. I - I don't know what it was, but I know it took every ounce of strength I had inside and out to kill it. I wanted to have a last word with her before she died, but life didn't let it happen. No storybooks in the real world; just pain and death and horror. I burned the body of the thing I killed in the backyard.

The house gave me one last secret before I set it ablaze; the secret of her blood. The secret that led me here to you, old man. And all the rest of your kin. So, I guess I'm trying to say I'm sorry. But your time is up.