Angry purple clouds roil across the sky. The incessant sound of thunder, not the kind that rumbles but the kind that crashes and cracks like a giant whip and booms!, is punctuated by flashes of lightning that invert the colors of the world for a split second before vanishing, leaving nothing but their afterimages branded into the eyes of anyone foolish enough to walk the streets. The wind howls and rattles, and it is almost as though the wind is a living thing with a voice. And it is screaming.

There is no rain.

This is no innocent thunderstorm, no summer squall. Amity Park has been in the thrall of this devastating tempest for nearly a year. The sickly purple-green darkness that permeates the air is more like fog than shadow. It weighs down heavily on the streets, the buildings, pushes its omnipresent bulk against boarded-up windowpanes, making them creak in protest. It batters at mailboxes, plays tug-of-war with power lines, wears away at brick and stone. The whole city groans and moans under the weight of the darkness, but the sounds of the city are drowned out by the constant crash of the thunder.

The streets are devoid of life; but they are not empty. The dead, the wandering spirits of those long passed on, populate the streets. They make the streets their own, leaving the living to cower in the homes, knowing that at any time the ghosts may, on no more than a whim, come a-haunting or a-hunting. There is nothing they can do about that. Nothing but wait.

Once, this city had a savior. Once it was protected. And once upon a time, they killed him.

That was all it had taken. Without their protector, they gave up.

He was half ghost. But he was half human, too. He kept the balance. And when he died the balance tipped. Not in our favor.

A hooded figure creeps along walls and tiptoes through shadowed alleyways. She knows she must not be seen; anyone caught outside the protection of a human dwelling gets ripped to shreds. She knows it is foolish to risk going outside, but there is someone she needs to see. She has a plan, a plan to end the storm.

The night is almost over. It is time for the sun to rise again.