The house was dead quiet when it happened. Upstairs in your room, you were fast asleep, completely oblivious to the world outside your blanket

Downstairs, the latch on the kitchen window gave way with a faint click. Something crept through—a silhouette that didn't move like a person, its long limbs bending at impossible angles as it dragged itself across the hardwood, slithering into the shadows of your home.

Hours later, the front door lock picked open with a quiet rustle.

Two tall figures slipped inside, flashlight beams slicing through the dark. Sam and Dean Winchester moved silently, handguns drawn and iron blades at the ready, tracking the fresh claw marks gouged into the floorboards. They were hunting the thing that had crawled into your house, completely unaware that you were still sleeping just one floor above.