Rocks that lay jagged as shattered glass decorated the long, dark, narrow pathway. Small craters made it inaccessible by commercial vehicle. The thick branches overhead bleached out any light. The stars spears hung dead in the canopy above. Treading heavy on the half mile pathway was treacherous in the light. In the black of night, nobody passed these gates. Visitors, family or friend seldom walked this route.

            The farm house at the bottom of this decrepit road bled little light through the dense shrubbery. But a single upstairs window was visible, an orange stain on the black. Flickering in the distance the family home was silent to the outside world. The night grew weary and the clouds began to roar through the heavens. The stink of wet dirt filled the air. Cold rain penetrated the natural canopy. Falling heavy, filling the craters. Steady streams started to flow down the path, now completely inaccessible by man. The candle lit window shrouded in the haze of black rainfall. Only the blinding second of lightning that cracked the sky shed light. Every explosion thrusting the silhouette of an old farmhouse into view. The air was muggy, the warmth of the summer day collided like gods with the harsh wet of the summer storm.

            A door to the farmhouse hung swollen on its hinges, cracked and stained with imperfections. The warmth of the house oozed through the open doorway. The cool air cut through the warm atmosphere as the open door shed light on the silo tearing a shadow across the vast sea of crops. Sounds of the living finally contaminated the air. Rabbits darted between the falling rain, hiding in the dishevelled barn. Ravens dived across the star light, screaming their existence.

            Inside the house was rich with antiques and expensive décor. A fire crackled, illuminating the room. The stench of alcohol fuelled the image. A man in a tartan jacket sat in dark of the room smoking a hand carved ivory pipe. A loaded double barrel shotgun rested in his lap as his hand caressed the butt of the weapon. His eyes lay upon the flickering of the flames, wide and dancing with emotion.

            Opposite him sat a woman, wearing a stained apron whimpering quietly to herself. Her dishevelled features portrayed their dwindling relationship, the hurt, the pain a mirror of her being.

A crash and inane rantings blurted from upstairs. A girls screams pierced the silence. The man downstairs sat solemn and wide eyed.

            The young girl came down trotting downstairs, screeching hurling words and language unheard by man. The women squeaked and pointed as the girls pace quickened. The man stood and glared at the youth drenched in a cerise shade. The girl held a large blade in her hand, unwavering and staring into the eyes of the man overshadowing her. Another screech leapt from the throat of the child as the man grabbed the girl attempting to wrestle the knife with one hand and holding the double barrel in the other. The girl writhed and plunged the knife deep into his thigh the sound bone grating on steel fell on the woman’s ears. His deep growl of agony shot through the air, his wife now tumbling deep into her own hysterics. The man raised the gun to his daughter’s face who merely looked into his eyes. Her head cocked to the side as a smirk tugging at her lips. A cacophony of thunder and death filled the farm.