The Night the Shadows Walked
In the town of Hollowmere, the night arrived on unspoken terms. Streetlamps flickered to life and died in the same breath, and the shadows left behind by the failing bulbs refused to retire to corners. They stretched across plaster and wallpaper as if each room had learned a new geography of darkness.
I watched from my window as the familiar room began to rearrange itself, not by noise or wind, but by intention. A shapeless pulse moved along the hallway, counting steps in silence, until a pair of black hands pressed themselves against the doorframe, then withdrew, leaving a damp chill in their wake.
“When the world forgets to shine, the things we fear become tangible, and they come looking for us.”
My lamp sputtered, died, and the room learned to breathe without light. The shadows pressed closer, not as a uniform mass but as individual memories—one slender, one broad, one monstrous in their patience. They did not push or pull; they invited, and I could not tell whether invitation or threat was the kinder term.
Evidence in the Dark
What began as a superstition—shadows that moved—became a ledger of small signs. The couch cushions inched toward the center of the room; a door leaned open by itself, releasing a sigh that sounded like the history of the house. The fire for warmth refused to come back, yet the room warmed from the inside, a cold warmth that prickled the skin and made every hair stand on end.
- Shadows rearranged into a human shape, then back again when stared at directly.
- Footsteps that had no feet, crossing the floor in a pattern I could not ignore.
- A whisper that repeated my name, not once, but as if a chorus of past selves called back from the walls.
In the stillness between heartbeats, I realized the shadows were not intruders but custodians of a secret I had long denied—the fear that nights without light are not voids but doors.
Take the Light, or Leave the Dark
The moment came when the shadows offered a choice: a hand of warmth extended toward me, or a corridor that swallowed the room whole. I reached for the hand that did not promise safety, and the night offered what no lamp could: a way to walk through, not around, the fear.
“Some nights, the darkness does not hide us; it invites us to become a part of it.”
But is it a gift or a sentence? The last line remains unwritten, tacked to the varnish of the floorboards, waiting for someone brave enough to read it in the dark.