Transport your imagination to 1706. A tiny English village on the hillside filled with equally tiny aspiritions. The smell of smoke permeating through the air as it infiltrats approximately a hundred and twenty unsuspecting respiratory systems. These walking drones are walking back and forth day in and day out from their meaningless jobs to their meaningless families. Spirit and enjoyment are obviously myths in this small town. Legends for the young but ignorant.

Then, in the corner of your eye, you catch something. No, someone. A man. This...this one man is different. You focus in on him; a little peasant man carrying a box at least two feet wide and a foot long. His name is Mr. Scott. It is his first day on the job, and he has no idea what to expect from his new employer. He doesn't care.

You see, even at a small age, this Mr. Scott was infatuated with a peculiar object. A wooden box small enough to fit into a baby's hand. No one knew where it had come from, but legends circling around the village report a demon. This demon wore the darkest cloak one could imagine. Some say if you looked at it long enough, you would lose yourself. Your essence, your very being would be slowly sucked out from the pores of your skin into this deep and dark cloak. But this piece of cloth wasn't the only defining characteristic of the demon. In fact, many of Mr. Scott's previous neighbors still to that day dream of this other terrifying and incredibly unsettling feature.

His mouth.

A long shell-like mouth that could pierce your skin off easily if you were close enough to it. At least, that was how the story was told. Why the demon came to his doorstep was never explained, and no one dared to try to at the risk of remembering the dark figure.

Mr. Scott was used to this silly rumor, and knew only of his pure love of boxes. That was the only reason he had taken up the job of carrying boxes for his new employer. He didn't need to know what was inside them, why he was transporting them, or any other question that would usually come to man's mind when being employed to carry around mysterious boxes. No, he did not question the directions given to him on the letter that came with the job, for his love of boxes blinded him from that. At this point, it hadn't yet occured to him he hadn't met his employer at all.

"Mrs. Lee?" the man cried as he pummeled on the odd green door, "Are you in there? I have your boxes!" No answer.

"Mrs. Lee!"

He knocked a few more times. No answer.

"Mrs. Lee!!!" he screamed with one final punch to the door.

Crash! The door fell back into the house after the last bash to the wood. The poor man jumped back in surprise.

"What in the name of..." the man asked exasperatedly as he wiped the splinters off his fists and tentatively peeked inside.

This place looks like it hasn't been used in years, he thought as the rays of morning light beaming from the outside bursted through the mysterious room, showcasing the dusty paintings left on the walls. That was it. Nothing else in the house except...paintings.

Just paintings? this the wrong addr--! What was that sound? Is it my imagination or is there someone at the far end of the room. There is definitely someone there. That...that silhouette, it's a man. So familiar, what or who could it, it looks can't be. It was just an urban legend...

"What is your name son?" the silhouette boomed in a powerful and all knowing tone.

"S-scott, sir."

"Your full name."

The man paused for a moment, too terrified to stir.

"I asked for your full name," the shadow boomed again.

"Mm-m...Mario Lee Scott, sir."

"Come with me, I have great plans for you."

The room fills with blinding light. The paintings are gone.

Whoever writes these things is a genius.