Five-year-old Carrie Plum lay curled up in her bed. She wasn't under the covers because it wasn't story time with Mom or Dad and the Sun still shone through her windows. Her tummy was still full of tuna sandwich and milk, and her ears still rang with Daddy yelling at her for tipping Mommy's vase over and making it break all to pieces on the floor. She hadn't meant to break that stupid old vase, but Daddy yelled at her anyway and told her to go to her room. So she ran upstairs to her room and jumped onto the bed, crawling toward her pillows and her many plush toys. There was a big unicorn, and a brown teddy bear, and three little pink hippos and her Raggedy Anne, and she held them close to her body and buried herself under some pillows and cried and cried and cried.

"I wish Daddy would stop yelling at me and Mommy" she shouted, muffling her voice in the brown teddy bear.

All of a sudden, her brown teddy started feeling warm and she didn't feel like crying anymore. And she heard a cute little voice in her head say "Don't cry Carrie. I'll make sure Daddy won't yell at you. You're my favorite little girl, and you are going to fall asleep now."

Carrie fell asleep in an instant and dreamed that the Candy Road Game was real.

As she lay silently dreaming, the brown bear began to stir and speak. "Spirit of my form-sake," it said, "I know you hunger. Go downstairs and feast."

Carrie did not hear the soft thump as her brown teddy bear slid off her bed; she did not see the way its button eyes blinked as it stretched stubby arms that should not have been able to move at all. She only dreamed of gumdrop trees and peppermint fences, skipping along the Candy Road Game with sticky-sweet joy.

Downstairs, the house had gone very still.

The bear paused at the top of the staircase, its stitched smile widening just a little too far. “Spirit of my form-sake,” it whispered again, its voice like a warm breeze through a cracked door, “your feast awaits.”

The air shimmered faintly, as though the sunlight coming through the windows had suddenly grown shy. A shadow, thin as smoke, slipped free from the bear’s seams. It stretched itself tall, taller than Daddy, taller than the doorway, then folded neatly back down into the shape of something small enough to pad down the stairs without making a sound. In the kitchen, Daddy was still muttering to himself as he swept up the broken vase. He wasn’t angry anymore, just tired, the way grown-ups get when they forget how small five-year-olds are.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Shouldn’t’ve yelled,” he murmured. “She’s just a kid.”

The bear’s voice drifted from the stairs, soft as a lullaby. “He made her cry.”

Daddy straightened, frowning. “What the--Carrie? That you?”

The shadow move and the kitchen lights flickered. Daddy blinked, confused, then startled as the broom slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor.

“What is this…?” he whispered, backing up a step.

The shadow didn’t answer, leaning close, brushing against him like a cold draft, and Daddy’s eyes fluttered, and then he slumped gently into a kitchen chair, fast asleep, as peaceful as if he’d been tucked in by the world’s kindest hand. The shadow retreated, folding itself back into the teddy bear’s seams as the bear toddled into the room. It climbed onto Daddy’s lap with surprising ease and patted his cheek with a soft plush paw.

“No more yelling,” it said sweetly. “Not ever again.”

Upstairs, Carrie stirred in her dream, smiling as she won the Candy Crown and rode a marshmallow pony across a chocolate bridge. The bear looked up toward her room, its button eyes gleaming with something warm.

“My favorite little girl,” it murmured. "I know you hunger. Go downstairs and feast."

And Carrie rose with an unquenchable hunger in her belly.

“From the briefing that were got, this is shaping up to be a fun one, eh?” Remarks the Detective to his partner. The pair step out of the unmarked sedan onto North Willow Drive, right outside of a house numbered 284. They walk up the perfectly manicured lawn, ducking under yellow police tape, toward the front door. A uniformed officer leans against the doorframe, watching them. The detectives walk up the porch steps toward the officer. One of them—a white, average height, wiry man—shows the officer his ID. “I’m Henry. This guy’s Jamal,” he says, gesturing to the muscular Black man beside him.
Jamal nods, “I’m excited for this one.”
The officer studies them. “FBI huh? What took you guys?”
“We’re here now.” Henry says.
The officer shrugs. “I’m Floyd. This way.” He leads Henry and Jamal into the house. The sickly stench of death clings to the air. The detectives are accustomed to it, but it still gets to Henry from time-to-time. The officer leads them into the living room, where a few other cops stand. The corpse lay on the carpet, so stained with blood and viscera that it was hard to tell what color it had been.
The Sheriff walks up to them, introducing himself as Tom. “I very much appreciate you coming out here on such short notice. I’m much obliged. If there’s anything I can do to aid your investigation, just say the word.”
“What do we need to know?” Henry asks.
“No sign of forced entry. The wife—Patty plum—and kid were home at the time, we have patty in custody. She claims to have not heard anything; she was listening to music while taking a bath after a nonviolent fight with her husband. five-year-old Carrie was upstairs, now she’s missing. We’ve sent search teams out, and issued an amber alert for her; no word so far.
“We’re gonna need some space to get cozy, if you boys wouldn’t mind…” Jamal says. the cops shuffle out of the room, looking relived. The barely recognizable corpse of a man lay on the center of the floor. The two detectives dawn disposable gloves. It’s time to get down to business.
“Jamal?”
“No sign of a struggle as if the victim just let it happen. We’ll have to wait on the labs for toxicology. These lacerations across the abdomen appear to have been made with a tool, probably a knife.
Henry points to the number three evidence marker on the other side of the room—a bloody kitchen knife lay next to it.
“It’s like they threw the knife away after they punctured the external… it appears the tissue was ripped and torn at by someone’s bare hands. There’s bite marks present too,” Jamal concludes.
“Appears as if organs might be missing. Either the unsub took them or ate them,” Henry states. “What do we know so far?”
“Our unsub was voluntarily let in, or already inside the house. Killing only one person out of three present at the time seems intentional—maybe a premeditated target.”
“I agree. The damage is suggestive of strength. Probably male, capable of ripping apart the body. Those finger marks seem unnatural.
“What about Carrie? She may have witnessed something. Maybe she ran away,” Henry presumes.
“Or she was kidnapped by the unsub after he was done with the dad.”
“Seems unlikely. The mother should have heard. Children scream very loudly.”
“This ones shaping up to be very interesting indeed.”
“Foot prints.” Henry points to the number five evidence marker. A set of footprints lead away from the crime scene toward the back door.
“Those prints are small, approximately seventeen centimeters.” The two detectives follow the bloody footprints toward the back door, where they exit the house.
“Well… that’s that I suppose. Are you ready to visit Patty, Henry?”
Henry sighs. “Suppose so.” The two men exit the house, heading for their sedan.

From outside, the house harbors its secrets with a pleasant demeanor—unreflective of the grisly scene within. Somebody passing by would only be alerted by the squad cars out front, and the yellow police tape surrounding the house.

The woods stretch out for miles behind the perfect rows of suburban houses. Far away from the scene of the crime, Carrie sits in the dim light of a cave. She’s covered in blood, she doesn’t know who’s. Carrie woke up in this cave. The last thing she remembers was crying herself to sleep after Daddy yelled at her. She’s too scared to move. How did she get here? Her socks are dirty and torn as if she’s walked miles in them. Her feet hurt, and there’s a gnawing, ravenous ache in her belly. Carrie’s fingernails feel weird—they seem to be getting harder and sharper. There’s something wrong with her teeth too, they feel–different.