Perfect silence.

Not a sound was made from anything in the street. The owl that flew in the sky above was utterly silent. The dormouse that scampered away into the hedges that lined the concrete sidewalk did nothing to break the noise.

Perfect darkness.

There was not a star in the sky. Even the moon was so deeply doused in clouds that not an inch of light got through the thick veil. The power line running deep below the earth that gave the street lamps electricity had been sliced open, and the block went without light at this deep, dark hour.

Perfect horror.

The street was in total slumber. Of the twenty seven houses that lined both sides of Elizabeth Lane, not a single figured moved more then the slow, rhythmic movements of their rising and falling chest.
That is, except for the eleventh house.
67 Elizabeth Lane.