Drew Simpson died at the age of three days. No, it wasn’t Drew Simpson, but rather Daniel Jefferson who passed all those years ago. Drew Simpson didn’t come into being until after Daniel had been pronounced and buried, until after the mourners had drifted from the cemetery. Drew was born when an old, insane gipsy woman, who’d been observing the funeral from a safe distance, wandered just a bit closer. The odd lady dropped to her knees, and began shoveling away the dirt that enclosed Daniel’s grave. Actually, the official moment of Drew’s birth was when this woman violently pried off the cover to his coffin, and placed her withered, wrinkled hands on the still body inside…whispering a few, seemingly meaningless words and shaking violently…eyes igniting suddenly, the crimson light glowing incredibly in the dead of night…holding the child, who twitched with odd, seizure like movements after laying still for so long…
And then, anti-climactically, all grew still. The almost possessed mutter of the incarnation ceased, the glow in the insane lady’s eyes faded in an instant, and the baby was stock-still once more.

The lady rose from the grave, cradling the corpse in her powerful, trembling hands. Her eyes jumped neurotically in every direction, scanning the surroundings for an unwanted guest or pesty eavesdropper. But it was, as mentioned before, the dead of night. All life had temporarily retired, every ounce of light had retreated, and no one desired to spend their evening in the morbid confides of a graveyard. Assured of her safety, the woman clutched the baby close to the torn, bloodstained collar of her shirt, and ran.