The Atkinsons were a swell family. Average and modest, they lived in a house with a red door and a white picket fence on Plainfield Avenue in Sherrington Village. The village was small, made of evenly spaced houses all with the same structure. The only differences between them were the colors of their doors and the amount of people living inside. The Atkinson's, one of the more medium sized families in the village, was comprised of four members: Paul Atkinson (dad), Demi Atkinson (mom), Kayley Atkinson (the oldest), and Baker Atkinson (the youngest).
Today, April eleventh, was the day on which the Atkinsons held their annual barbecue. It was a block party, of sorts, and everyone down the street was invited to spend the afternoon in the Atkinson's backyard to enjoy games, music and Mr. Atkinson's famous barbecued ribs. Kayley had come home from college to attend, relatives were flying in, and neighbors had been calling all day to ask what they could bring. It was also Baker's sixteenth birthday.
Now at about ten in the morning, Baker was just waking up to a rather dark room. He hadn't remembered closing the curtains, but alas, they were shut and not a spark of light was shining through. After rising and pulling on a pair of sweatpants, Baker left the curtains as they were and proceeded down two flights of stairs to the kitchen where he found Demi and Kayley preparing vegetable trays. Just outside the pair of open sliding doors, Paul was on the deck brushing a layer of sauce over his already cooking ribs. They smelled delicious.
"Morning, birthday boy!" Demi greeted Baker, setting her knife down and rounding the island to give Baker a hug.
"Kinda dark outside, huh?" Baker said, still looking out the back doors to where his dad was standing. There were thick, black clouds rolling across the sky and he could’ve sworn he heard a faint rumble of thunder.

"Oh shh, don't say that! You'll bring bad luck!" Demi hushed, swatting her hand through the air as she went back to cutting her carrots. Kayley winked at Baker, adding a "happy birthday, bro" and returned to cutting as well. As Baker watched the two of them, Paul had suddenly burst through the back door, dripping with water.
"Its raining," he said in a very disappointed tone before heading back out and closing the grill. "Get the umbrella!" he shouted through the still open door and Demi was quick to move out the door and to the shed where their umbrellas were. Kayley only shook her head, headed outside, and began bringing in the bowls of soggy chips and salsa. "I'm sorry, Baker," Paul said, coming back inside to grab a pair of tongs. "I guess we'll just have it inside?"
But Baker shook his head. "We don't have to, dad," he said, getting himself a glass of water from the fridge. "I'll just call Jack and Ryan. For a sleepover or something. That way I guess everyone could stay at a hotel tonight til the storm passes? Barbecue tomorrow?"
Paul nodded. "That makes sense, son. You've got a smart head on your shoulders, you know?" And with that, tongs in hand, Paul headed back out the door to where Demi was now standing with a large umbrella over herself and the grill. Kayley was hurriedly grabbing bowls upon bowls as the rain started to come down harder.
"I'm gonna take a shower, guys," Baker announced, sticking his head out the door momentarily to announce before turning and heading back up the stairs. Just as he reached the landing, there was a loud crash of thunder that made Baker jump. "Man, is it coming down!" he whispered to himself, looking out the window before heading up the last flight of stairs to his room. It was still dark, if not even darker now, and there was another crash of thunder.
About five minutes passed and Baker had prepared himself for his shower. He'd gathered a pair of fresh shorts, a plain black tee shirt and clean boxers before heading into the bathroom. A flick of the switch and the overheads plus the fan turned on, buzzing in its little ceiling box. But not only five seconds had they been on, and they were suddenly out. "What the hell?" Baker said, turning to flick the light switch on and off. Nothing happened. They'd lost power. And there was another crash of thunder, this one accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning.
Unsure of what to do, Baker exited the bathroom and went to the banister which overlooked the main entrance of the house. To his left were the stairs, the two stories of stairs, and directly below him was just about where the kitchen was. "Hey mom?" he yelled, leaning over the banister a bit. There was no answer. "Hey MOM!" he tried louder, leaning his head a bit further over the edge. Still no answer. Must be outside, Baker thought to himself as he pushed up off the banister and started down the stairs again.
The house was incredibly dark. What had been a few black clouds in the sky turned to a solid darkness. Now not only were the clouds black, but the entire sky was. Actually, it was an odd shade of green. But still dark, nonetheless. And the house was nearly pitch black.
"Mom," Baker tried once more, moving into the kitchen and looking around. No one was there. She wasn't on the deck holding the umbrella over Paul. Even Kayley was missing. The back door was wide open, though, and there was a chilled breeze. After closing it and turning to head back upstairs, Baker stopped in the hallway after noticing something odd:

…the cellar door was open.

Confused, Baker approached it cautiously and stuck his head down into the basement a bit. The cellar door was never open. Never. It housed all of Paul's hunting equipment: guns, bullets, sprays, vests, and camo on camo on camo. It was a dull and dingy room, and home to many dangerous weapons. So no one ever went down there. Thus, it was incredibly odd for the door to just be hanging open like this.

Quite cautiously, Baker stepped down the first few steps and paused to crouch, trying to look under the low ceiling a bit. "Mom? Dad?" he whispered a bit forcefully, now kind of scared ofwhat was going on.
He was answered with a forceful 'shhh'. That was it. Nothing else. Incredibly confused, Baker inched down another step to where he could fully see beneath the ceiling. There, in the corner and holding an aimed gun, was Paul. "Dad, Jesus Christ. You scared the crap out of me. Where's mom and Kayley?" But again, he was shushed as Paul began waving his hand towards his chest signally for Baker to come. Looking back up the stairs then at his father again, Baker sighed and proceeded down the remaining stairs.
"Grab one of those," Paul hissed in a forceful whisper, pointing and waving his finger at the rack of shotguns. He had about six. Baker turned to look at them, but was reluctant to do as he was told. He'd always hated the idea of hunting or even just holding a gun.
"Dad, I-"
"Baker, dammit, just do what you're told!" It was the same whisper: quiet, but angry. And Baker felt the anger fill the room as he quickly grabbed one of the shotguns and rushed to his father's side. He had absolutely no clue as to what was going on, but the feeling of something being wrong was only growing.
"Dad, please.. what's happening?" he asked, squatting beside his dad who looked rather scary up close. He'd never seemed so scared, so confused. His eyes were bloodshot and wide as he kept his stare on the ceiling, his head only turning every few seconds as if following some very quiet sound that Baker couldn't hear. "Dad.." Baker reached a hand out and pressed two finger's against Paul's shoulder who, in turn, twitched and closed his eyes. It had startled him.
"Don't be so naive," he said softly, the anger in his voice turned to something that sounded a bit more like disappointment.
"Dad I'm serious I don't know what's going on. I was going to get into the shower then call Jack and the lights went out and I called for mom and-"

"They're dead, Baker,"
Silence.
"Wha.. what?"
"You heard me. Now shut up,"
Baker was so confused. And hurt, really. Why would his father tell him this? Why would he just say 'they're dead' and leave it at that? Were they dead? What was happening? And then Baker got this really incredibly horrible image in his head. An image he'd never wanted to see; an image he'd never imagined he'd have to see. And it involved his mother and sister.. and his father, holding that gun. Quite suddenly more scared than he'd ever been in his entire life, Baker began to back away from his father but fell from his squatted position onto his back, the gun in his hands falling against his chest.
"Shhh," Paul said, putting a hand out to Baker to quiet any sound he might make. "Did'ja' hear that? He's here. He's still here."
And as much as that was a scary thing to hear, it was reassuring to Baker. At least he knew now that his dad hadn't gone crazy and killed the rest of his family. But the bad thing was that there was supposedly some man in their house. Some man that Baker was now figuring to be the man that killed them. If they were even dead. It was hard to think his father a liar, but it was even harder to think that somehow, somehow his mother and sister were laying somewhere dead. He didn't want to believe it. So for some reason, thinking that his dad had gone off his rocker was a bit easier.
"Who?" Baker whispered, sitting back up and getting to his knees so he could stand quickly if need be.
"The psychopath that killed them," Paul said, the anger returning to his forceful whispers. It was a different anger though. Last time, it had been just a regular, upset, 'fatherly' anger that kids see when they get bad grades. But now... now it was full of hate. It was this anger that made Baker believe that his mother and sister were really dead. It was this anger that made him start to cry. Paul noticed. "Get a hold of yourself," he said, turning his gaze quickly back to the ceiling when there was a loud rumble of thunder. It shook the house and the single industrial light that hung at the center of the cellar shook, sending strange shadows across the floor as it bounced off of all the equipment. "Can you hear him?" Paul said in his quietest voice yet, pointing a finger at the ceiling and looking at Baker, who nodded. He could hear the footsteps. Lazy, hard footsteps. The footsteps of someone who seemed rather drunk. "I'm going for it," Paul said as he stood. Baker stood too.
"Dad wait no," the words barely made it out of Baker’s mouth as he took hold of Paul’s sleeve. "No, no. Don't leave me too. And what am I supposed to do with this?" He gestured at his gun which was leaning quite awkwardly over his shoulder. It was clear he'd never held one before. Paul sighed and took it. Cocking it, he handed it back carefully and placed his hand on Baker's shoulder.
"When you're close enough, when you've got a good aim, pull that," he pointed to the trigger, "And keep one hand under the barrel. You've got two shots." Dropping his hand, Paul headed for the stairs in a crouched fashion, just like if he were hunting.
"Dad! Dad please don't go up there!" Baker whispered to him, still frozen in the corner. "Dad please don't!" But Paul was already heading up the stairs. He moved slowly, still crouched like a small animal as he neared the top. Baker watched his head disappear as he inched further and further up the stairs. Eventually, Baker could only see his feet. Then they were gone too and he heard the door close. Scared, Baker sunk down to the floor, running his back down the wall and holding the gun close to his chest. Another rumble of thunder shook the house. Then there was a bang. And another.
It wasn't thunder.
Baker winced with each shot and closed his eyes hard, pulling the gun harder against his chest. After the shots, there was silence again. Pure silence as Baker sat against the musty wall, breathing hard and trying not to make a sound. But as curiosity got the best of him, Baker found himself rising and moving to the stairs. It was like he had no control over his body as he started going up and up until he reached the closed door where he squatted to peer beneath the wood. There was about a half an inch worth of open space, just enough to see if someone was standing there. And shifting to the left, he could look a bit into the kitchen. To the right, he could see the front door. Well, barely. It was blocked by a small table on top of which usually sat a telephone. But that was on the floor.
Reaching up, Baker grabbed the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door clicked open and Baker slithered from the stairs out onto the main floor. He kept his eyes on the kitchen, where the back doors were still open. There were carrot sticks on the ground, and he could see that the grill was giving off great clouds of black smoke. The ribs were burning.
Dropping his eyes to follow the line of the wooden floors, Baker followed along a crack that lead from the kitchen, to the hall where he was sitting, and out to the front door. Only, he stopped before his eyes met the front door. They stopped on something else. Something he'd probably never be able to sleep without seeing in his dreams.
It was Paul. He was laying flat on his back, arms and legs spread out as his face stared up at nothing. His gun was at least a foot from his right hand, and he wasn't moving. Baker knew better than to speak, but began to stand.
Stepping forward, Baker let out a pained whine as he saw the hole in his father's forehead. He dropped his gun as his hands flew to his mouth which had fallen open. "Oh my god," he barely managed, tears streaming down his face as he fell to his knees and crawled to his father's side. Shaking hands ran over Paul's chest as Baker fought to understand. His eyes were open, but he wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving, at all. There was a puddle of blood beneath his head. "Oh my god," Baker said again, this one a bit louder and a bit more stressed as he stood and backed up from his father's body, looking around frantically.
Instinct struck and Baker darted for the front door. It wasn't far, only about four feet from where his father lay. After swinging it open, he left it standing and ran out into the rain. It was poring outside, and still dark as night as he sprinted down the front pathway, hurtled the white picket fence and across the street towards the Fontaeno's house. Once he reached their front door, Baker laid into it, pounding as hard as he could until a small woman answered. Baker fell into her arms, bawling and sweating and heaving and scared.
"Baker, Baker what's wrong?" the woman asked as her husband entered the room.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Baker found enough strength to straighten up from the forced hug, then leaned against the door frame. "He got them," he sighed heavily in a hurt voice. "He got all of them. They're gone. All of them."

And thunder struck again.