A/N: Happy Halloween! And what better way to celebrate than to post a horror fic? But because I'm a very uncreative person, the concept of this story is based off of the great Stephen King's Pet Semetary. And each chapter is titled after a song by the German musical project E Nomine (they're awesome!). This was originally an English homework assignment...

Warning: Swearing, human names used, AU, character death (duh...), violence, gore, cannibalism, animal abuse

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, Pet Semetary, Stephen King, and E Nomine and their songs in any way

Chapter 1: Das Omen (The Omen)

"Don't get the wrong idea, frog. I'm only having this picnic with you because my son seems to be fond of you," Arthur Kirkland growled at the blond smirking at him.

"Oui, of course mon cher. That, and the fact that I'm the only one who can prepare a decent meal for us all," Francis Bonnefoy replied ever so politely.

"Just what is it that you are implying about my cooking?"

"Why, nothing at all,"

"Twat!"

While the two were at it, Matthew Williams held two-year-old Alfred Kirkland in his arms. "Isn't this a peaceful day?"

"Mhm! Can we eat now?" the small boy stared at the food presented on the wooden picnic table.

At the sound of his son's voice, Arthur ceased his bickering and turned to face Alfred. When Matthew passed the boy over to him, any signs that he was even in an argument faded, all replaced by a tender smile as he caressed him. "Of course we can," he cooed while nuzzling the boy's soft, blond hair. He then placed young Alfred on his lap and started unraveling the plastic on some of the dishes and bowls Francis packed.

"My, my, isn't your father so loving towards his son?" Francis whispered into Matthew's ear.

"He has his reasons," the older brother answered vaguely.

"Oh?" Francis looked curiously at the Englishman and his youngest son. Arthur was feeding Alfred pieces of a croissant even though the boy could eat by himself. "And what reasons would those be?"

"It's best not to bring them up," Matthew insisted.

New to the neighborhood, the Kirkland family moved from London, England to a small, quiet town in Maine, America. There were only three of them, for Arthur's wife died shortly after giving birth to Alfred. The doctors have deemed her to be barren, but when the living miracle came to be, he treated Alfred like a porcelain doll, spoiling him…rotten. Before Alfred, in order to fulfill his wife's desire to have a family, Arthur adopted Matthew, who was already a teen. Still, the adopted son from Canada gladly and gratefully lived with the Kirklands; sharing their joy when Alfred was born and grief when his adoptive mother died. His wife's death was too much for the Englishman, and so to hopefully dull the pain in his heart, moved an ocean apart from the place after the funeral. Here, he hoped to start anew with his two sons. After settling in, Arthur found a job as an accountant. Old enough to get a job himself, Matthew became a consultant for a company to help the family. It was at work that the older brother befriended Francis, who was a coworker as well as neighbor. But poor Matthew soon found out that his adoptive father and friend did not get along.

"I know my father won't say it, so on behalf of this family, thank you for bringing over the food for the picnic,"

"No need to thank me, mon cher. What are friends for?" the Frenchman casually placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling fondly.

"Get your filthy hands off my son!" Arthur barked when he saw the display. Politely excusing himself from Alfred with a promise to be right back, he stalked over to the Frenchman.

"You are a truly caring father," Francis tried to flatter Arthur as he approached him.

"Don't give me that frog, what are you trying to do here?"

"Be social to the neighbors of course," he said it as if it was the most obvious answer. "I want Matthew here to feel welcomed to the neighborhood,"

"Is that French for wanting to use my boy for something?"

"Non, but if I am understanding your implication correctly, in French it's…"

Seeing as though the new fight wasn't going to die down for a while, Matthew went over to the other side of the picnic table. "Here Alfred, would you like some crepe?"

"Yes please!" the younger brother was delighted when Matthew sliced off a small piece of the pastry and fed him. Arthur wasn't the only one who liked to baby the youngest member of the family. "Mattie, did daddy really make all this de…delicious food?" Alfred tried pronouncing the long word with a mouthful of crepe.

"Now you know how papa doesn't like for you to talk with your mouth full, Al," Matthew tried to chide. "Oh, but I can't care less," he said while wiping the boy's lips that were split into a smile with a napkin. "And no, he didn't cook this – Francis did."

Alfred looked to where Matthew pointed a finger at the Frenchman who was calmly talking to his father. Lowering himself from his seat, the blond waddled over to the two. When the grown men saw him coming over, Arthur immediately lowered his voice. Alfred peered into Francis' cerulean eyes with his own bright, blue orbs.

"Mon petit, is something wrong?" Francis spoke up when the boy just gazed at him.

"T-thank you for the food!" Alfred shyly said, lowering his head.

"Ah, you are very welcome, mon cher! It was my pleasure," relief flooded his voice as he picked up the toddler. "And you can call me 'big brother' if you wish."

"Don't give him such a hard thing to say you twat," Arthur blurted out suddenly.

"Big…broder?" Alfred tried.

"Oui, that's it mon cher!" Francis patted his blond hair.

"'We'? Why are you saying that? I don't get it…" the small blond pulled a confused face.

"My dear, 'oui' means 'yes' in French: a language I use in my native country of France. So I'm saying that you said 'big brother' right," the Frenchman gave Alfred a reassuring smile.

"Oh, I get it now!" Alfred beamed.

"Would you like to learn more?"

"Alfred, wouldn't you rather fly a kite now?" Arthur offered before the boy got a chance to answer. It was clear that he was getting irritated that his son was interacting so nicely with his neighbor.

"Okay!" the young blond quickly turned his attention to his father. Francis let him down to join Arthur and the two went off a fair distance from the picnic table.

"Your father gets jealous easily," the blond observed once father and son were out of earshot.

"Like I said before, he has his reasons,"

"Still, there should be a limit, non?"

"Are you saying it's not a good thing that he's being a mother hen?"

Francis draped an arm around Matthew's shoulders. "You two have a future ahead. And I just think it'll be difficult for him later on to let you guys go,"

"Well…once you put it that way-"

"I turn my back on you for a second, and I see this!" Arthur must have had eyes of a hawk, for he was already barreling towards the two once more.

"Papa, it's okay, Francis is just being friendly," Matthew tried to calm his adoptive father.

"That's right mon cher, listen to your son," Francis rubbed it in, squeezing his coworker's shoulder lightly.

"Matthew…are you sure…?"

"You don't have to worry about me, papa. I can take care of myself,"

"Arthur! Alfred!" Francis suddenly shouted, pointing at the small figure disappearing from view.

Arthur whirled his head in the pointed direction, and saw that Alfred was slowly walking away from the grass area with his kite still flying. "Alfred, stop!"

But the boy didn't hear a word. He kept walking away, in the direction the wind was blowing towards the wide road ahead.

The Englishman flitted towards his baby boy, hoping that he'll make it just in time to beat the truck that was speeding along the empty road. Before he could see anything beyond the tall stalks of grass, he heard the screeching of tires. But after that, there were only the echoes of the sound, resonating and dying slowly into silence. By the time he reached the scene, crimson dyed the road, green grass, and chrome bumper of the heavy truck.

The kite ascended into the sky.

X.X.X.X

Because they were still new to the neighborhood, the people who came to Alfred's funeral were few. That didn't prevent Arthur from spending an extravagant amount of money on the procession and small coffin to lay the boy's remnants in. It was a closed-coffin ordeal, for what was left of the boy was just something Arthur did not want to see a second time. From home, they drove slowly to church, and once the mass was out of the way, they carried Alfred to the graveyard and buried him. Once this was done, most of the people who attended dispersed. Then it was time for the paparazzi.

"This is like, totally going to be on the front page!" Feliks enthusiastically declared to his friend.

Toris Lorinaitis, a journalist, nodded solemnly and scratched something into his notepad.

Arthur, far too broken to notice the flashes from the cameras around him, paid no heed to the commotion, hiding his face behind his hands.

"Alright, that's enough." Ludwig, the town's sheriff, said gruffly to the swarming paparazzi. He then stalked around to motion them to leave. When the Pole tried to get a few last shots, his camera lens was covered by a gloved hand.

"Hey! Like-"

"Show some respect, Mr. Lukasiewicz,"

"We're sorry for the inconvenience, sir. We'll take our leave now," Toris came up from behind Feliks to drag him away.

Only when the family and Francis were left, Ludwig went up to Arthur and laid a supportive hand on his shaking shoulders. "I'm very sorry for your loss." He then excused himself from the despairing scene.

"How…how did this happen? Alfred…my baby boy…I'm so sorry!" Arthur finally crumpled to the ground next to the gravestone etched with his son's name.

Sensing that there was nothing they can do for the Englishman, Francis and Matthew stayed back.

A raven perched on a dead tree branch next to the grave, silently sharing their tragedy.

Random Endnotes: Originally, Alfred was supposed to be a baby with the white dress and everything (I thought it would have been cooler like that). There was only one problem: babies can't talk or walk...so I had to make him a toddler instead. It's also around toddler years that children develop stranger anxiety, which explains why Alfred was hesitant to talk to Francis at first. Yeah...I'm being technical...