The Legacy Begins.

There was passage scribed in the history of mankind that many would say has long been forgotten. A history that became legend. Legend that has fallen into the archives of myth. Myth that has been written unto pages of a book to become the stories that now ignite fear into the hearts of homosapien offspring.
Stories of men with teeth like knives inside a head covered with skin so pale veins of black slither beneath; and yet, no blood pumps. That he is in fact dead. A demon walking the earth to feed on flesh and blood of the living in a fight to keep his youthful glamour for centuries- If he is skilled enough to live for a span.
Balance keeps him in check; as balance in life keeps everybody in so. Wrapped so tightly.
A city drawn to a close by a translucent slumber is awoken by a sound. A sound so hollow it strikes a fear deep enough to cut bone and fill with a cold so bitter that the flesh erupts in a worry of bumps. It is long and filled with torment. It is named by the humans as a howl; but is known as a siren of the night; a reminder why you were made to fear the dark.
A woman wakes, sweat heavy on her brow; but she is cold. It is hot outside her sheets; and yet, icy fingers reach into her being and draw the warmth from her very soul. Her body shakes despite the blanket that dons her and the man beside. A man that stirs with her. Smooth and tender hands embrace her body and draw her nearer. A movement subtle enough to depict a life lack of hard labour and a voice heavy with sleep whispers comfort into her ear; but she finds no solace.
Emerald eyes scan a room filled with darkness. Though there are kind memories here, an ominous discomfort fills the heart beneath her bosom and fear grips her with a knife at her throat. The blade, sharp and bitter. Saliva feels thick on her tongue but trepidation makes it impossible to swallow. Red is the only colour she finds, marked with a time of 3:12 am.
A sombre, summer wind blows a curtain so thin and white, it moves like a ghost from the window to catch the eye. There is something unquestionable about this moment and she is filled with a dubiousness that heightens the senses.  
Long seconds pass in the movement of a curtain and the unimpeachable silence of a man’s breathing; a sound that has turned fear into comfort so many times before, now only recuperates the fact that he is asleep; and she is alone.
Lids close over those eyes in a soundless wish for the sun to spill over the horizon and push the darkness unto a place so far that no man will find it within grasp; but she knows sleep will not find her this night and the sun is many hours away. Dread makes it hard to keep those eyes closed, she must make sure her heart is lying and the room is still filled with that empty darkness.  
They part to see a ghost at the window.
Its rhythmic movements calm a racing heart for a moment long enough to slip eyes behind those lids once again; but in the blackness of a mind wrought in fear and the unknowingness of a room hidden behind the lids of an eye, she mustn’t keep them closed. Doubt in passing of a prior moment filled with relief makes it easier to set eyes to a gaze; the knife so sharply adjusted to her throat cuts deeper than any terror she has ever felt. A breath ceases in the eyes of darkness made gold with the glare of a street light below.
Suddenly an awareness that the room is not in fact dark, but it is covered in shadows bright in contrast to the giant whom stands beneath a ghost. A mist catches the air and she knows it is a breath hotter than any mans. The woman knows she must wake her sleeping husband but the icy hands give torment and restrict movement. She can only stare in horror at the beast that advances towards her in slow lumbering steps.
It is taller than a spear, wider than a warrior and blacker than even a night void of stars. There are horns on a head larger than a politicians.
It draws nearer. Half a second passes in a blur before a salty tear runs down unto a soft pillow beneath her head. In the red light features are prominent; she realises that horns are not horns, but ears. A face tapers outwards; the face of a dog massacred and beaten sit on the shoulders of a man. He is covered in fur. Lips of black, blacker than the name of dark slip away to reveal teeth sharpened like daggers and stained yellow with years.
An arms extends and a hand made longer by slick black claws reaches past the shell of a woman to push a man against the sheets. His screams are muffled by the palm and though he flails, the beast remains; an emptiness in those eye sockets locked unto a woman’s emerald gaze.
The body beside her falls still and she feels a tension on her arm where the clawed hand takes hold of her; but fear makes her numb.
What happens next could be described as both a dream and a nightmare lashed in pleasure, deprivation and submission; and horror. So much horror. There are tears until she finds a voice, but she does not scream in pain. She fights but not for a sense of victory; and then she sleeps.

---

An arm is stretched around her and her fingers entwine a hand she knows. Eyes open to see a curtain moving lithelessly in a breathless wind. Memories fill the room framed in colours.  A smiling man looking unto a woman whom could have written the pages of happiness herself. She has hair of brown, highlights of gold cast by a sun above. Eyes of emerald made dull by the shutter of a camera and yet still burn brightly. It is picture of her wedding day, she knows.
Lips part and a soft breath is exhaled as she turns in her sheets to look upon the face of a man made as angelic as a child’s in the moments of sleep. A kiss is planted unto his lips, a ritual for Sunday mornings and eyes of hazel are revealed under the closed lids of sleepy eyes. He smiles and pulls her close; the nightmare of the darkness is all but forgotten in the gentle hands of a man and the haze of dreamless sleep.