When I was only 10, I lived in an old house on the countryside. It was quiet, the only sounds I would tend to hear was the tree leaves swaying or the occasional twig snapping from animals in  the woods. It was one night that I was sleeping, that sounds I was raised on, born on, lived with, they ended up killing the only person I had left that night. I was 14 at the time, four years of living in that old house with creaky wood that would silently yell when you stepped on it.

My mother was the only person who lived with me, my father had died 2 years ago. His body was never found, but I heard his screams at night. His bloody screaming at 3 in the morning. I heard his screams outside of the house.

They wouldn't stop, they were echoing through the woods. Then they just cut off, as if he had no more energy to yell for his life. My mother didn't hear a thing, I did though. I still hear it, at night, at three in the morning. Every night, they are the same screams I heard when I was 12. I tried to ignore them, curling up in a ball, covering my ears until my hands were sore, but they never stopped. My mother was growing sick of me, I would tell her. For 2 years straight, trying to convince her that Dad, maybe, somehow was still alive. Screaming, trying to find a way to tell her to save him. But she never did, Mom never heard his screams like I did. She tried to get me help, thinking I had gone mad.

Thinking that her only person left was going to end up like my Dad. It never helped though, I still heard it. His screams. And on the second year of my father's death, I didn't hear them. I didn't hear his screams, but I heard something else. The sounds of leaves crunching, they echoed against my walls. They were getting closer, crunch, crunch, crunch. And by the time the fifth crunch was sounded, I heard a knock. Silent, almost non-audible. A minute past, then a loud pound on the front door gave me shivers down my back. I heard shifting in my mother's room, a deep groan of annoyance.

I could hear her bare feet moving to the door, the creaking of the old wood beneath her feet. The pounding begin again, deep thuds chilling me to my bones.

I could hear my mother talking. "Quiet down won't you!" The pounding stopped, then I could hear her stop.

I uncurled myself slightly from under my covers. She opened the door, creaking against the rusty door hinges. Then something happened. I couldn't tell, but I knew that something wrong happened.

I heard my mother screaming, yelling and then it stopped. A deep thud sounded, then I heard the creaking of the old wooden floor. I uncovered myself from my covers, walking slowly and silently to my door. Thump, thump, thump. I heard footsteps walking slowly to my mother's bedroom.

Opening a crack of my door, I looked out into the enveloping darkness. And I saw something, something that caused me to freeze in my tracks. There in the darkness, stood the tall figure of my father. But he didn't look anything like himself. His dark brown was now only a few strands. His mouth, his mouth. His lips were ripped off, the skin on his nose was now gone and his eyes. Bloody sockets were only left where his blue eyes were. And in his hand, held the bloody corpse of my mom.

She had no bottom jaw, her left eye was non-existent, and her delicate head was now caved it. I took a deep shivery breath, and then my father's head turned. I tried to scream, but I couldn't. However, he did not try to kill me. He turned away with my mother in his hands, and walked slowly out the door. And for five minutes I heard the crunching of leaves.

That was the last time I ever heard of my Dad or my mother. And the last night I ever lived in that house. Have you lived in the old creaky house on the countryside, with the sign that said SunDales? Have you heard of him, have you?