i. the overture

There’s a suburban neighborhood somewhere in North America. Of course, there are many, but there’s one in particular, its name of no importance. It’s small, enough so that everyone knows their neighbors’ names and the dirty laundry they can’t manage to hide. It’s almost entirely white and English-speaking, split between the Jewish and Christian religions. All the houses are two-storey and have four bedrooms; all the garages are double; all the cars have four-wheel drive and power steering. There are married couples and single parents; newlyweds expecting and lonely older pairs; sweet, innocent kids and supposedly good teens.

There’s a suburban neighborhood somewhere in North America, the same as any other except that deep within its core, in the most normal household, there is something pulsing away with abnormality, just waiting to explode and infect the rest of the sleepy town.

And they have no idea.