The crushing darkness beckons. Into the shadows, eyes slowly adjusting. There are piles of cardboard boxes, each one displaying a faded label. Books. Toys. Christmas decorations. None of the boxes had been opened for years; they had been left for dead. One box lays open on the floor, labelled “Photographs”. A single frame has been thrown on the floor, the glass shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Thick droplets of deep red blood rest on the top of each razor-sharp shard, and the photo within is missing. It lies across the room, creased and faded. It depicts a family scene, last Christmas. They had gathered around the tree, and their faces would display equal vast smiles, if you could see them, but the faces were viciously scratched out in a rage of fury, blackened by a deadly ballpoint pen. It looked fresh – terrifying. Someone was there, hiding between those boxes.