Prologue

1

Sleeping in a shoddy motel run by an even more unscrupulous man named Reginald Oakenhall, the man in black slept fitfully, vehement memories of his haunted past invading his dreams. Beaded sweat adorned his brow, his pearly pale skin even more sickly and sallow than was usual. His body twisted and contorted as he slept, frequently crying out in the night to loved ones long gone.

The man in black slept.

He dreamt.

2

3

The man in black woke screaming, the bitter taste of ash in his mouth and the acrid smell of smoke filling his sinuses. It quickly faded; however, the memory of the dream did not. In his mind women screamed. He heard his father crying out for help. They burned.

He pushed himself out of bed and quickly dressed. Within moments he was out of his room, moving with a determined gate. He soon fell in with the shadows, easily staying out of site, hiding from the light with an almost paranoid-driven skill. The night was his home; he knew it well.

The dream, though mercifullycut-off, had awakened a deep anger within. It grew almost exponentially until his entire being was consumed with hatred and wrath. He wanted desperately to vent his frustration. It was almost a physical craving. It soon became more, manifesting itself into a cruel thirst for violence and revenge against those he perceived as the enemy.

He thirsted for blood.

The evening sun sank slowly towards the horizon. The boy, who would eventually become the man in black, sat upon a gentle crest behind his family's manor, staring at the setting sun. It was to be one of his last, as even at his young age his true nature was beginning to take hold. Much like the man he was to become, the boy was of a medium stature with short scruffy hair that was so dark it was often mistaken to be black. His small eyes were squinted almost shut as even the waning rays of the crimson sun made them sting as it prepared itself for it's nightly slumber. A woman's voice rang out from behind him, momentarily jerking his attention away from the brilliant giant. He got up quickly, stealing a last glance at the sun before running down the rise to his waiting mother.

She stood at the base of the rise, at the east side of their large home. It was expansive at it's base with a smaller second story on the east side and an even smaller attic. A small porch was located in the north-east corner, where the boy's mother stood, calling his name. The home, while elegant, had been crafted by the boy's father with trees felled from that very area. The home itself sat upon an emerald-colored outcropping, covered in thick lucious grass, overlooking the water as the vast Atlantic lapped at the shore with it's frothing tongue.

The boy found himself inside with seemingly no time passing from hearing his mother's call to suddenly sitting at one end of a long eight-person table. The table was situated in the corner of a large dining room parlor. A large windowed cabinet stood against the wall behind the boy's father while windows spread across the wall behind the boy and their guests.

The boy's father sat at the head of the table, his right hand grasping his mother's left as he spoke to a man sitting to his left and the boy's right. His father, was tall and, while small in build, strong of both mind and body. His hair, identical to the boy's, was, for the moment, forced into a neat part down one side. His smile was kind and his affection quickly given to those around him. His mother's red hair was her most prominant feature. It flowed down around her head, in thick natural curls, to just below her shoulder. Her boisterous, yet friendly, attitude was hidden behind a large smile full of teeth and love. She, too, spoke to the man sitting to her husband's left. They all laughed at a joke, his mother loudest of them all.

To his mother's right sat a young girl in a linen dress of white. His younger sister. She was also laughing as she talked to a second sister, the eldest of the three siblings. She smiled slightly at her sister, then again at the boy. He smiled back. The youngest of the sisters was short with red hair like her mother's. Despite the prominence of curls and scruffy hair in their family tree, her hair somehow managed to remain straight, falling to the middle of her back. Her sister's hair was a deep shade of brown like the boy's and their father's and was nearly as curly as their mother's.

To the boy's right sat a couple. Though not family, the boy's parents considered them so close as to be considered such. They sat--the woman between the boy and her husband--and talked and laughed.

His father rose, a glass in his hand. He watched and listened as he toasted to those around him, his glass held high, the light reflecting off the red liquid inside, casting an eerie glow around the table. The boy grasped his own glass at the end, raising it high. His, like his younger sister and his parents' friends, was filled with water. He then joined the others in taking a long sip from his goblet. Sweet spring water wetted his lips just as the sharp sound of exploding glass filled his ears. Suddenly frighted, he looked around. His eyes widened and he dropped his glass. He saw his mother, wide-eyed in sudden terror, red liquid staining her lips. The sound of his crystaline cup breaking on the wooden floor below him was lost under his scream.