Twelve years ago
The half-moon hung in the evening sky, like a watchful eye gazing down at the orange glowing sun setting over the towering pine forest. A young boy, no older than six years sat at the edge of pristinely still pool. Crickets chirped in the distance as the boy's feathery blond hair fluttered in the chill breeze. Gazing down happily into the pond, he watched as the red and gold coloured coy fish circled his feet which were dangling in the water. A small wooden cottage, welcoming golden light creeping through the shutters and a warm smell of home cooking emanating from its single, slightly ajar door, sat some way behind the boy. The evening was as still as any other in the peaceful and remote location, with only the sounds of the gentle wind and the familiar noises of the woodland creatures creating a comforting background melody. In the distance, the boy heard a wolf howl and his heart beat faster. Not because he was afraid, but for another reason that he neither understood nor questioned. The howls of the forest wolves had always stirred something deep inside him and, if he could do more than utter a pathetic mewl, would gladly howl with them.
As he sat in a dream like trance, the sun slipped beneath the tree line. Instantly, the forest went silent as a grave, the coy fish that had previously been swimming happily on the surface suddenly darting down into the black depths of the water as if fleeing from something. Despite himself, the child shuddered. The silence scared him, as did the sudden feeling of being absolutely alone. He scrambled to his feet, deciding it was time to head home. Snatching up a pair of discarded sandals by his side, he scampered quickly back towards the safety of the cottage, where he knew his mother and father would be there to comfort him. Running up onto the front porch, he froze, his tiny hand poised against the open door. Staring into the strange darkness within, he felt a disturbing coldness and emptiness. Innocent blue eyes open wide with fear, he shuffled slowly into the murky room.
A low table sat in the middle of the chamber, laden with untouched bowls of rice. As the boy walked apprehensively by, he wondered why his mother hadn't called him in for supper. An aura of malice hung over the entire house and the boy felt none of the familiar safety and comfort he usually found in this place. He padded quietly through a sliding door into a small kitchen, the simple worktop bare and all the cupboards closed and untouched. The only thing out of place was the kitchen knife holder, which had one slot unoccupied. The boy sniffed as he passed through into the hallway, an unfamiliar salty tang suddenly catching his nose. He stepped onto the rough brown rug laid along the length of the passageway, jumping slightly as his foot touched something cold and metallic. The boy looked down sharply, raising his foot off the object. It was the kitchen knife missing from the kitchen, for some reason abandoned on the rug at his feet. The child nervously skirted round the knife, never really comfortable around sharp objects. The door to his parent's bedroom caught his eye. The wooden door hung at an odd angle, as if it wasn't attached properly at the hinges, with four deep scratches across the wood. Unbearably slowly, the boy crept over to the door, easing it open with as little force as possible. There was a snap and then a crash as the door, attached only at one hinge, came free and hit the wooden floorboards, making the boy jump back in fright. Too much for him, the child darted into the room, tears in his eyes, searching for his mother. He found her.
The air seemed to glow a vivid red, reflected from the crimson walls, which the boy last remembered as being a deep blue colour. The furniture was torn to shreds, pieces of wardrobe and bed scattered across the room like debris from an explosion. But the boy saw none of this. An ominous, methodical dripping sound caused his trembling shoulders to flinch as if each one was a dagger in his back. For what seemed like forever, the child stared into his mother's dead eyes as she hung limply from the gore-stained wall, suspended by two long, silver blades thrust through both shoulders. Her long blond hair dangled raggedly over her face, as if trying to spare the child from the horrible sight of that pain-wracked face. The boy twitched uncontrollably, as he stumbled awkwardly backwards, neither crying nor taking his eyes of the corpse pinned to the wall. It seemed the magnitude of it hadn't quite sunk in. All of a sudden, there was a cry from out the side door. Recognising the voice as his father's, the child ran as fast as he could out of the horrific room into the hallway, not daring to breathe until he had reached the passageway. The double doors leading out of the side of the house had been torn off violently, as if a storm had hit. The boy saw the familiar moonlight glint of his father's old katana, which law in the doorway, its blade shattered like glass into a pile of useless shards. Rain now beat down from the blackened sky, the spray pouring through the huge opening into the hallway.
Stepping carefully over the sharp pieces of sword, the child peered around a cracked wooden doorframe into the small garden sitting alongside the house. The circular stone well was crumbling, a huge chunk of the rock seemingly blasted across the lawn, one such fragment having crushed the modest wooden swing the boy had spent many hours playing on with his father. Suddenly, his eyes widened as the boy saw his father, a slim man dressed in a humble grey shirt and trousers, dangling by the throat from the hand of another man whose back was turned to the boy. He was able to see the black, neatly tidied leather armour covering the stranger's body, an equally jet black ponytail hanging low down his armoured back. A curved, serrated blade was held in his left hand. The boy's father gagged as the black gauntlet at his throat clenched tighter. The man's greying hair and beard were flecked with red and his wizened blue eyes glared at his attacker with a defiant hatred. The stranger remained eerily still, letting his victim dangle helplessly from his fingers. A single, mocking chuckle was let out, but was soon carried away on the wind. With a motion like a striking cobra, the black clad man brought the sword up into the father's stomach.
Stifling a shriek, the boy turned away, sliding helplessly down the scarred wooden wall, tears now running freely over the hands clutched over his sobbing face. From outside, there was a sound of slow, calculating slicing, followed by the sound of something heavy falling onto grass. Shaking with terror and disbelief, the boy peered back around the corner. The stranger was standing exactly where he was, his blade again at his side, only now it dripped blood onto the grass with every calm rise and fall of the man's shoulders. Without warning, the boy felt an icy stab in his chest. The killer's head tilted slightly. The child knew he had been detected, but could do nothing but crouch there and watch. The world around blurred, so that only the black clothed man remained in focus, as if he was the only real thing in the world. Each second choked the boy like a noose as slowly and with a palpable sadism, the man turned around. As the boy stared into the emotionless, pitch black eyeholes of that white mask, the red essence of his father running from them like bloody tears, the boy knew he was looking into the depths of Hell itself.
In the distance, the wolves started howling again.