Sitting at my desk in the middle of the night, as was my habit, I wrote the finance report. It would be critical in the presentation, and success had to be a certainty—but I was not particularly concerned. I had several weeks to get it finished, and for me, success was always a certainty.

I observed my large study—the one I had worked so hard for—and noticed how the glow of my lamp illuminated the bookcases and clashed with the shadows.

“In a way, shadows are light,” I mentioned to the bookcases.

I felt the need to elaborate.

“Now, I know, I know, that’s difficult to believe. But think about it. In mathematics, zero is a number. Zero is treated exactly like any other quantity, because it is a quantity. ‘I have zero apples;’ the amount of apples I have is zero. It is as much an amount as seven, or twenty-three, or five hundred. And yet, the amount I have is nonexistent, because I have nothing—I have zero. Therefore, if you really think about it, zero is absence, but it is an absence with substance.”

I smiled softly and leaned forward, positioning myself, both mentally and physically. I felt a small coal burn in my chest. With my words, I could make anything possible. I could create my own reality. The coal flickered into a flame. This was my entire life, my sole purpose, my sole enjoyment. 

And I did enjoy it.

“I don’t see why it can’t be the same with anything else. The absence of light is dark, and dark is light, as bright as the sun—a million suns! In fact, the dark is even brighter! Nothing is as blinding as utter darkness.”

“And people, too. Not a single soul lives in this house, and yet, it may as well house a family of ten!”

I thought for a bit, and cringed at my error. Well. That wasn’t quite true—the house wasn’t empty. 

I lived in the house.

“But I do live alone. Always have.” 

I cringed again; another inaccuracy. I remembered back to ten years ago, when I shared the expenses of an apartment with a business partner. Samson Williams was his name, a ridiculous artist with no understanding of the real world. He was born lucky, into a rich family and attractive physique. But he grew up to be insultingly quiet, too thoughtful and not at all purposeful. His one distinguishing feature was his ability to manipulate words, which I could appreciate, and yet he wasted that too, on writing cheap horror stories for the bloodthirsty populace.

“I do not try to rewrite the world. I try to show the world as it is, darling. I hope one day you understand this,” he told me one morning.

What a moron. Obviously, demons and devils and all the other grotesque creatures he wrote of, do not exist in this world. He did rewrite the world, exactly as I did, but he would not be convinced—and neither would his readers, who couldn’t get enough of his fiction. So he wrote the stories. And I wrote the contracts. 

We made our money together.

But he became famous.

While fortune may have favored him in his life, not so much with his early death. One May evening, as we drove back to our home, he would not shut up about his idea of a monster, a beast more atrocious than any he had ever created before, his masterwork. He had talent, I will give him that. I was so distracted with his description, I failed to notice the driver beside us was not in the right state of mind, and that drunken driver slammed into the side of our car. Samson died immediately; I lived to provide testimony. 

I realized I had become lost in my reflections, and I shook myself back to my study. I had a report to write. 

It was then I heard the sound. 

The noise was quiet, so quiet, at first I doubted I had heard it. But quickly, all of my doubts evaporated.

A patter of bare feet. Or was it a soft, wet slither? No, no—a sharp, hard, insect-like clicking. My mind struggled to identify where it came from. It came from the kitchen—behind me—outside the window—

My eyes bulged. Not only could I hear the sound; I could feel it crawling up my back, tickling my spine, grasping on and never letting go. In my imagination, it took form, a life of its own. I could see the unholy, blasphemous creature. It was short and squat, heavily wrinkled in all the wrong places. But its large, grinning mouth, its squinting eyes—the image burned into my brain.

For a few precious moments, my body and mind were paralyzed. But I could not contain myself for long; my mind, which I had believed to be so advanced, was really quite primitive. My fear of the sound was so immense, I lost all my reason. I became a madman, an animal; I leapt from my chair and whipped my head around, searching for the cause of my torment. I felt like screaming, but I was too wild to express my utter panic. 

I began to choke on an awful, startling stench that rose into the air, like candy-rotten flesh and withered funeral bouquets, so powerful I almost vomited. Its potency was oozing off the beast, who was just out of sight, just waiting, hiding in the dark, waiting for me… 

I realized in my insanity that that was the most horrifying part—the suspense of it all. Finding it to be awfully true would be better than the lingering possibility. It was destroying me.

In a desperate fury, I dived headfirst into the dark, slammed on the lights, prepared to be torn apart… 

There was nothing there.

I collapsed to the floor, panting. My mind went numb, and I was aware of only my basic life functions. I could feel my heart pumping like an engine, harder than it had ever before. My lungs, too; I consumed all the oxygen in the room. I sat there on the floor, back against the bookshelf, barely living.

Then, I began to calm down. My reason slowly trickled back. I contemplated my situation. 

I began to laugh, softly, softly. I walked on over to my desk, all the while chuckling. And I continued typing the report.

I did not find the situation humorous. I was laughing, because I felt a supreme, vicious satisfaction. I won. No ghost, no bogeyman, no monster or demon hid in the dark. The dark was exactly what I said it was—as bright as a million suns. I had absolute command over everything; light was dark, alone was together, alive was dead. I had vanquished fear and foolishness.

I laughed louder, and louder—I was enjoying myself. Until abruptly, happening almost nonchalantly, I heard it again. The same terrible, terrible sound, so quiet and yet so deafening. 

But this time, I was the commander. I refused to get up and turn on the lights; my face turned scarlet at the thought. How could I? I became furious, and typed harder. 

Yet my mind strayed from the task at hand. Try as I might, I could not concentrate. 

Nothing was happening; nothing had changed. Yet slowly, tension built in the air around me, as if suspense is a force of its own that requires nothing to cause it. 

I was gripped by silly, outlandish fears. I could not shake the feeling that a Thing beneath my desk would grab my leg, and begin gnawing. Or that from behind, a wispy demon would place a slender cord around my neck… and jerk it backwards… 

I could feel the hot breath against my nape, I could see the shadow dancing fiendishly in front of me… 

Wildly and against my own will, I stood up and flew to check behind my desk. I found nothing, but I was not convinced—not this time. I ran through the house, searching for what I knew was there, examining every cabinet, tearing apart my floorboards. No matter! Floors can be replaced, yes, but the demon had to be found! 

For hours I searched, leaving not a single shadowy corner, not a single dusty bin unexamined. When I was finally satisfied, I collapsed into my writing chair. 

I was afraid, even then, but I forced myself to calm down for the sake of my dignity. I closed my eyes; I took a few deep breaths; I checked my watch. It was 7:13 A.M. I would be late for work, but I would find a persuasive excuse, as I always did. 

It was around the hour the sun rose; however, my study had a westward facing window. The room was still dark. 

Calm and collected. I was calm, and collected. Lifting my head, I faced my computer screen, ready to finish the report. My screen was black, so I moved the mouse around.

It remained black. 

I moved it again, furiously this time. I pressed the “on-button,” hesitatingly at first, and when the computer did not respond, I slammed it, again and again and again.

I was faced with a completely black, completely dark screen. 

I fell backwards, shocked and disbelieving. Almost to tears, I looked down.

The power cable had been cut. I turned around. 

The sound of vicious howling… claws tearing at my face… and then…

darkness…

I now find myself in St. Joseph’s hospital, writing this as I prepare to leave. The doctor was an idiot, but she really did explain everything.

“I’m sorry, but when you didn’t arrive at work that morning, your coworkers sent someone to check on you. You don’t have any family, do you?” she asked, concernedly. My coworkers were not concerned for me; they were concerned for the report. I could tell she was avoiding what I needed to know, but I decided to play along. I nodded my head.

“Well. Your coworkers care for you like family, and when they couldn’t get you to answer the door, they called 911. Mrs. Williams—”

I interrupted her. “It’s no longer Williams. My husband passed, years ago, in a car accident.”

The doctor looked at me sympathetically. “I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’m sure that has given you stress. Have you ever consulted a psychiatrist?

“No. I never needed it.”

“It’s okay to need help, Mrs. Will—” she stopped. “Ma’am. Well. I’m sure you want to know what happened, and of course, you have… the right to know. When the medics broke into your home, they found you on the floor—they say you were ‘clawing your own face’ and—‘howling unceasingly’…” 

Again, she stopped. 

“This isn’t enough to keep you in the hospital, but, as a medical professional, I highly recommend you continue to find help. We at St. Joseph can connect you with many psychiatric experts.”

I said nothing, until I realized I needed to respond. 

“Thank you—thank you. This is all very difficult for me, you must understand. So unexpected.”

The doctor nodded emphatically. “Well, yes, yes of course.”

I took a shaky breath. “When may I leave?”

“After a few more tests, we should be able to release you this afternoon. Is that all right with you, ma’am?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

And she left the room. 

I continued to think of everything that happened the previous night. I am thinking of it as I write this now. And I am certain, dead certain, that if I go back home, and night falls, it will be there, waiting for me. That awful sound in the dark. I cannot stand the idea. I cannot go home to the monster, the nightmare that will destroy me again and again.

I will not go home. 

There will be a car accident, just like last time. I will make sure of it.

An innocent person imprisoned would be allowed—would be expected, even—to do everything in their power to escape. My fevered imagination is my torture chamber.

And I will die free from that awful, inhuman dark.