A well-built teenaged boy in a soiled black leather studded vest and black jeans was crouched, waiting for us in the far corner of the cellar. He had a crowbar. He leaped up and began swinging it over his head. He was growling. It had to be Irwin Snyder, the boy who had killed his parents. He was so damn young, just seventeen.  What had gotten into his head?
Gold fangs protruded from his mouth. Contacts made his eyes appear blood-red. His nose and eyebrows were pierced with at least a dozen gold and silver tiny hoops. He was tightly muscled and over six feet tall. He’d been a star football player before he suddenly dropped out of school.
Snyder continued to growl at us. He stood in an oozing groundwater puddle and didn’t seem aware of it. His eyes were glazed and seemed to be set way back in his skull.
‘Back off!’he shouted.’Y’all have no idea how much shit you’re in.  Y’all have no goddamn idea! Get the fuck out of here! Get out of our house!’He was serious; he believed every word he said.  He was still swinging the heavy, rusted crowbar. We stopped moving. I wanted to hear whatever he had to say.  ‘What kind of shit are we in?’ I asked Snyder.  ‘I know who you are!’ he shouted, spraying spit all the way .across the room. He was in a murderous rage. He looked stoned beyond comprehension.
‘Who am I?’ I asked him. How could he know?
‘You’re fucking Cross, that’s who,’ he said, and bared long canine teeth, the smile of a madman. His answer shook me up. ‘The rest of /all are FBI dogs! Y’all deserve to die! You will! The Cross don’t work here, assholes.’
‘Why did you kill your mother and father?’ Kyle asked from his place on the stairs.
‘To free’m,’Snyder sneered.’Now, they’re free as little birdies in the air.’
‘I don’............