The fire alarm went off, snapping Kirk Whitman out of the rage induced fugue state he’d been in. He unleashed his hands from his son's throat and stared at his motionless body. He felt no remorse. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, and wiped away the blood that was smeared all over his hand. He looked around at the burning library filled with smoke and decided it would be easier to let the fire crew recover the body, at least then the damage to his neck wouldn’t show as easily. He took a step away from his son’s body when something tugged at his leg, making him unable to move. A long, scarlet looking appendage had slithered out from under Howard’s shirt and had wrapped itself around his ankle with a vice like grip. It was slimy, and otherworldly, an overgrown tentacle.

“Howard?” Kirk shouted over quickly spreading fire. But his son did not respond. Kirk tried to pull away again, and this time was yanked down roughly to the floor by the tentacle with incredible force, knocking the wind from his lungs. He landed face to face with his son, who’d finally opened his eyes. To Kirk’s horror he realized they were no longer the quiet brown he was used to seeing lurking behind the pages of a book, the same eyes he’d inherited from him had always been so vain about.

The whites of his eyes had changed, filling with hundreds of freckled red spots. His pupil had stretched to be a long, cylindrical shape, and his iris had vanished with it. These new eyes, these alien eyes, were fixated squarely on him.

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“Let go of me!” He barked at his son, but the boy simply twitched unnaturally. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but his jaw widened more than it should have been capable of, lengthening at least three times its size. The tentacle wrapped around Kirk’s arm tightened and pulled him closer to his son. With a wet sickening crack, his son’s jaw grew larger, and larger.

Kirk tried to kick the tentacle off his arm, screaming in terror, but his cries could no longer be heard over the fire of his own making. Another tentacle slithered out from his son’s back, and restricted his legs, pulling them into the gaping maw. Kirk dug his fingers into the floorboards, hanging on for dear life, trying to wriggle his way out of this nightmare. His legs felt impossible cold, like he’d been thrust feet first into icy water.

“I’m sorry!” He pleaded with his unconscious son. “Just let me go!” His torso passed through next, becoming so cold that it shocked the breath out of him. He gasped to make a final plea, but next came his head. The last thing Kirk Whitman saw were the large doors to the library being opened, catching only a glimpse of who would bear witness to his death before he was swallowed whole, plunged into endless darkness for all eternity.