Let's write a horror story. You and me.

You need all the ingredients first. Something to shatter. Something that bleeds. A house to haunt when the deed is done. It's lovely, by the way. I like what you did with the place. It's a perfect place to raise a family. Breathe it in, the peaceful prologue. Check the stove for a leak. Something's making the air smell foul.

Let's create a monster, the kind that happens to other people. Let's call it a home invasion. An assault. A violation.

We're picking petals now, one, He loves me, two, He loves me not.

Every good horror story needs victims.

Here, you can have the starring role. The final girl. The one who walks out when the curtain starts to fall. Cut to credits.

Too short? Far too short. You can play it over in your head again and again during the funeral, but time doesn't seem to pass. Rewind. What did you do wrong? Besides existing in the first fifteen minutes of the movie. That was unavoidable. Rewind. Did you tell your wife you loved her? Your son? Those are the kind of beautiful, grieving thoughts people are going to expect to hear, one last regret. They're not going to want to hear that you promised to get her something sweet at the store before you got home, and that you forgot.

I'm not really supposed to say this, but I am sorry. It had to happen.

You had to be free for your next great role, after all. Not starring anymore, I'm afraid. Understudies are important, too, especially when the main performer doesn't appreciate his part. We need you for the play to go on. The orchestra is waiting. The violin sting echoes through the empty halls. We are starting again.

Let's write a horror story. Just you this time. It's out of my hands.

You have the ingredients. Someone shattered. A crib that bleeds. A house, haunted.

The monster is created for you. She lives in a preacher's condemnation and the bible that ends up on the shelf in every home. She watches you move from room to room to room. She tastes your grief. She scares you. She puts you on your knees. She is intrigued. She is enamored. She has a question to ask.

Three, She loves me.

Wake up, Nick. There is someone inside your home.

She is an angel.

And this is a horror story.

And every good horror story needs victims.