Beaver Springs was vernacular in every sense. Every detail focused on making the homes of this community intuitively functional, yet unmemorable. An architectural achievement rarely seen in cookie-cutter neighbourhoods.
Despite its utilitarian appeal, there was something deeper, sinister at play. The residents congregated at nightfall, like lions, tense as they waited. Their prey, almost always a woman, plucked from the dirty forgotten streets across town.
When she was too weak to fight back, the sun fixing to rise in the east, they would share in a communion of blood sacrifice.