Carson whimpers, tightening his small fists around his navy comforter. His fear of the dark, and what might be hiding in it, saddens me. Don't be afraid, little one, I want to whisper to him. I cannot speak, so instead I will him to be calm. Not all of us that live in the dark are so bad. There are some that I tend to avoid, especially if I was a young human. The dark ones, the creatures that don't hide in the closet, the ones that are standing in the darkness and are a part of it. They are the reason I have watched so many humans fear the dark even though they are certain there is nothing there. Those creatures are the reason you humans walk into a room and then forget why you’ve come. But there are those of us who simply are.
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Extinguished. Burnt out. Whatever term you want to call it, they are gone. Carson stumbles back and rushes back into the house. If I wasn’t quite panicking earlier, I definitely am now. Carson is gasping, whimpering. Petunia licks his face and cries softly. Watching them, I realize what is going on. The dark ones. They aren’t like the shadows. They don’t hide, but they aren’t noisy either. They simply are; until something provokes them. They thrive in the darkness, and they have no form, because they are more a part of the blackness than I am. They are the only creatures that would block out the stars. This has happened before, years before I existed. But the shadows tell stories, when we’re all shapeless in the dark. I thought it was a legend. They say the dark ones were there during the Second World War. Kristallnacht. The stars went out, and glass was broken. Now it is happening again, and I don’t know why. There is someone at the door. Scraping, scratching. Carson’s breathing hitches and he freezes. The door is pushed open softly, and a woman’s voice shouts, “Carson?” Carson leaps to his feet and sprints to the entryway, where his mother is standing. All I can make out is her silhouette, and then her arms as they wrap tightly around Carson’s body, which is wracking with
Extinguished. Burnt out. Whatever term you want to call it, they are gone. Carson stumbles back and rushes back into the house. If I wasn’t quite panicking earlier, I definitely am now. Carson is gasping, whimpering. Petunia licks his face and cries softly. Watching them, I realize what is going on. The dark ones. They aren’t like the shadows. They don’t hide, but they aren’t noisy either. They simply are; until something provokes them. They thrive in the darkness, and they have no form, because they are more a part of the blackness than I am. They are the only creatures that would block out the stars. This has happened before, years before I existed. But the shadows tell stories, when we’re all shapeless in the dark. I thought it was a legend. They say the dark ones were there during the Second World War. Kristallnacht. The stars went out, and glass was broken. Now it is happening again, and I don’t know why. There is someone at the door. Scraping, scratching. Carson’s breathing hitches and he freezes. The door is pushed open softly, and a woman’s voice shouts, “Carson?” Carson leaps to his feet and sprints to the entryway, where his mother is standing. All I can make out is her silhouette, and then her arms as they wrap tightly around Carson’s body, which is wracking with