PROLOGUE
Mark rested in a petrified old oak chair passed down through his family for many generations. It creaked and moaned as he gazed out into the hazy, pitch black night, impatiently awaiting his father’s arrival. During this eternity Mark faintly remembered his dad saying that he’d be back within an hour, but after virtually thrice that time, he still wasn’t here. Mark decided that if his dad didn’t show soon, he would go look for him.
At nearly twelve, Mark snatched his old leather jacket jacket off of its perch, and slipped into it. The locks clicked resonantly through the silent darkness utterly constricting his courage. He threw the moaning door wide open. The bone chilling winter air enveloped him, forcing him to rethink his decision.
Mark figured the weather was the only thing keeping his dad from being on time, so he slammed the door shut, and locked it. He groped in the shadows for his dad’s ancient matchbox, which he found resting on the worn-out window sill. Mark drew a solitary match, and struck it. He cupped his hands around the meager flame, and lit the nearest candle.
Mark stared out the dusty window quite confused. Where was his dad? A dark thought entered Marked mind, even as shadow began to cross the yard. Not sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, Mark neared the door, and slowly opened the erie creaking piece of wood. The frigid icy air enclosed around him, making him shiver vigorously. He took a step forward, and began to descend the stairs. His eyes tried to pierce the web of night. Before he knew it Mark was falling. He had slipped on the third step, which was glossed over with ice, and hit his head on the wooden rail. Mark was then engulfed in the shadow. He squinted trying to see what was standing over him, but he lost the fight for consciousness, and blacked out.
CHAPTER 1 - THE LEGEND
Mark was told the legend the same day he turned seven. His dad woke him in the middle of the night, looking scared to death. This made Mark’s mind race with such speed he couldn’t process his own thoughts. His dad wasn’t scared of anything. Was he? Mark was taken through the chilling night air to an old and surprisingly loud bar.
His dad was pacing back and forth across the room full of uneasy and loud men, who were for some reason sober. His dad would stop and stare at Mark every few times he crossed the room, then go back to pacing. Mark sat there not knowing what was happening, and soon went to the back of the cold damp bar, and it seemed that with every one of his footfalls, another pair of eyes locked on this oblivious child, who’s mother had been torn from him by the devil himself.
Mark stared back at each and every one of them, and all he saw was fear. People he had known his whole life, and people he had never met, all peering at his soul with the same look on their pale faces. It had seemed like forever, but Mark finally made it to the back of the bar and sat next to old-man Johnson.
