Neighbors stared as four muscled men walked up the steps of the Rider house. It was only one in many strange occurrences that all centered around that house and the boy who lived there. Oh, they all knew the Rider boy, or at least of him. The newer residents of the area heard the stories constantly. A sweet boy, they all said. Very polite.
Then his uncle died. It wasn't long before the boy was gone, no one knew where. His housekeeper-turned-guardian, Jack Starbright, didn't go with him. When he returned, battered and bruised, the excuse was an illness of some sort. Oh, everyone believed them, after all, getting ill after that much stress was understandable.
Then he left again.
And again. Each time coming back more and more withdrawn. Less and less friendly. And then came an absence that brought his guardian with him. But she didn't come back. The Rider boy only returned for the funeral then packed his bags and left. Supposedly for America. He didn't speak a word. Those who knew Jack well enough to attend the funeral said that the boy was unnervingly cold. Empty was the word many of them used. As empty as the Rider house.
Until a year or so later. When he came back. And terrorists attacked his school. And his best friend was killed. After the funeral he shut himself up in the house and didn't come out for over a week. Someone called the police, asking why he was home alone. They came out to the house and were promptly sent away. How the boy had simply "sent them away" no one knew, and the police wouldn't tell. Soon the absences returned. The boy radiated danger and was avoided like the plague.
Of course everyone wondered. But no matter how curious they got, no one dared to get involved.
Death lived on that street.
Death preyed on that house.
Death followed that boy.