It was a clear night.
There were no clouds in the sky, and stars shown dimly through the thin, hazy layer of suburban smog. The full moon blazed brightly above the calm neighborhood.
The streets were silent, as it was nearing midnight, and all of the homeowners were fast asleep. But just as the large clock above city hall in the middle of town rang twelve times, a blast of light and sound crashed through the quiet neighborhood.
As the light faded, a man came into focus. He had not been standing where he stood a moment before. He was tall, but lean, and wore a long trench coat. But strangest of all, in his hand he firmly gripped a piece of wood, about a foot long. The tip glowed a very vivid green, but as the seconds passed, the light faded to nothing.
He did not speak, as there was no one around to listen, but instead drew out of a pocket inside the coat he had on a long, thin, rectangular object—an envelope. From it he pulled out a piece of paper, with numbers and words scribbled across it. It read:
3587 Bradson Ct.
Weedy Hill, AR 86301
The man gazed around the dark cull de sac, searching for the house that matched the address on the note. He found the house; it was made of a tan brown brick, with ivy plants crawling up the sides, almost to a point that it reached the eaves of the roof. It was nothing fancy, the front was just a door set in the middle of the house, with two sets of three windows, each set equal distances apart from the door. The second story of the house had three sets of windows, each above either the door or the windows on the first floor. Nothing special. Just a boring little house.
However, the house alone was not what the man in the trench coat was searching for.