Luke yawned and opened his eyes, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. His hair, already messy enough from sleep, stuck up in all directions, as if he had put his fingers in a light socket. He threw the covers off his bed and stood, stretching slightly.
He scowled at the clock. It was late, on a Saturday morning, but there wasn't the usual sound of his mother preparing food, his father yelling something incomprehensible at his sister. It was strange. The house was still and silent as a tomb.
He walked down the stairs to the kitchen, but there was no one there. Nor in the living room. Trying to push back a sense of foreboding, Luke hurried back up to the bedrooms. They were probably still asleep. Sure enough, when he glanced in, they were. He frowned. There was something strange about the way they slept, though, something freaky.
