Loud House
It started with the remote.
“No, Vanessa, it’s my turn—” Dylan snapped, clutching the remote like it was a holy relic.
Vanessa flipped her hair and turned her head with a theatrical sigh. “Oh please. You’ve been watching zombie porn for the last hour.”
“It’s The Walking Dead!” Dylan shouted. "IT'S THE BEST TV SHOW EVER!"
“You’re twelve,” she snapped. “Go read a book.”
“I’m fifteen!”
“And yet you still smell like puberty,” Marcus cut in from the stairs, strutting into the living room like he was walking a runway, shirtless in grey sweatpants, flexing abs that no one asked to see. “Honestly, both of you are embarrassing. I feel like I lost brain cells just being in this room.”
“Oh, look, it’s Mr. ‘I Got Curved by Amanda Taylor in Public’,” Vanessa deadpanned, adjusting her silk bonnet. “Should I play the video of it again? I have it saved on my phone.”
Marcus froze mid-step. “That was taken out of context!”
“Yeah? So was your dignity.”
Dylan howled with laughter.
“Okay, that’s it!” Marcus lunged across the couch, trying to snatch Vanessa’s phone, but she screamed and flung a throw pillow at his face.
“Kids!” their mom shouted from the other end of the room. Senator Dianne Summers, unbothered in her wine-colored robe, was sipping a glass of pinot and scrolling on her iPad. “Can we have one night where I’m not tempted to send you all to military school?”
“Dianne,” came their father’s voice as he entered the room, eyebrows raised, “you said the same thing last night, remember?”
He was holding a Tupperware of nuts in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. Senator Eric Rivers was the calm in the storm—until someone touched his pistachios.
“I’d just like to finish my wine,” Dianne muttered, sipping. “Preferably without hearing about Marcus’s failure with women.”
“Dad, back me up here,” Marcus said, flopping onto the couch. “Would you rather your son be friend-zoned privately, or in front of half the student body during lunch?”
“I’d rather you pass algebra,” Eric deadpanned. “Didn’t your last report card say you got a D in Chemistry?”
“I got a D+,” Marcus corrected.
“Ah, yes, the plus makes it better,” Eric said with sarcasm. “What’s next? You gonna bring home an F minus and call it flavorful?”
Dylan wheezed with laughter, gripping his stomach. “Flavorful!”
“I’m not the only one failing, you know!” Marcus yelled, pointing. “Dylan’s teacher literally sent an email titled ‘We Need to Talk.’”
“That was about a group project!” Dylan protested. “My partner ghosted me! It’s not my fault Jason had ringworm or whatever—”
“You two are hopeless,” Vanessa muttered, filing her nails like she was the main character.
“You’re all hopeless,” Dianne said, swirling her wine, then she turned to Eric and said, “We should’ve gotten a dog.”
Angela stood in the kitchen, barely five feet tall, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, a fluffy pair of bunny socks on her feet. She had her hands around a giant mug of hot chocolate, her cheeks pink from the steam.
Thirteen years old. The baby of the house.
And she was beaming.
“I made hot chocolate!” she announced.
Everyone turned to look at her, the room softening instantly.
“Oh sweetie,” Dianne smiled. “You’re my favorite. Come sit with me.”
“I’ll only sit if you don’t talk about Algebra,” Angela said playfully, stepping out of the kitchen.
“Deal,” Eric said, waving her over. “Now give me that marshmallow masterpiece.”
And that’s when it happened.
The power cut out.
BOOM!
A violent thunderclap, a flash of red emergency light, and the ground shuddered with an impact like a bomb had gone off outside.
“What the hell?” Dylan shouted, nearly falling off the couch.
Then the glass shattered with a defeaning crash.
Windowpanes burst inward. The front door splintered open, blown off its hinges like it had been kicked by a battering ram.
And they stormed in.
Men.
A dozen of them, covered head to toe in black.
Two of them tackled Marcus before he could even stand.
“NO!” he screamed.
One of them shoved a serrated knife into his side and twisted it. The blade caught ribs and Marcus let out an ear shattering scream.
The second knife plunged into his stomach. They stabbed him in the chest and his stomach over again.
And again
And again.
Until blood squirted out across the floor like someone knocked over a bucket and his insides were already starting to spill out.
Vanessa’s scream tore through the house. “GET OFF HIM! MARCUS!!!”
One of the attackers grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back, and slit her throat like it was paper.
She collapsed next to Marcus, spasming, her blood pouring out of her neck like a fountain.
Angela’s mug dropped from her hands and shattered into a million pieces.
Her body froze. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
Dianne ran forward, screaming, “MY BABIES!” before they opened fire.
She was hit in the shoulder, then the chest.
She dropped to the floor, spasming violently. Blood soaked through her robe.
Eric, roaring like a lion, tackled one of the men—but a rifle butt smashed into his face, breaking his nose. He staggered backwards, before he could make another move.
BANG!
He hit the ground beside his wife, bone and brains spilling out across the marble floor.
Angela backed away, her socks slipping in blood.
Dylan tried to get up and run but a boot slammed into his ribs, knocking him down to the floor.
The man pulled out a machete.
“PLEASE! P–PLEASE DON'T DO THIS! NO! NO!!! NOOO—”
Dylan immediately went silent.
The machete came down again. And again. And again.
By the time Angela dared peek over the counter, Dylan wasn’t moving.
Blood had painted the white tile red.
The man closest to the kitchen adjusted his glove, wiping his blade with Marcus’s shirt.
She saw it.
Clear as day.
A golden serpent, coiled from wrist to elbow, head flared like a cobra, its fangs out.
She swallowed a scream and slid into the tiny cabinet below the sink, curling into herself, shaking uncontrollably.
They didn’t check the kitchen.
They didn’t have to.
To them, the job was done.
Within minutes, they were gone, like shadows swallowed by the dark.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Angela crawled out from her hiding spot. Every breath she took felt like acid in her lungs.
She stepped on something soft.
Vanessa’s hand.
Her family—her home—her life had been butchered like animals at a slaughterhouse.
Angela fell to her knees, her hands slick with blood.
And then she screamed.