Silence. Then the smallest sound: a creak on the stairs that did not belong to the house.
I unbolted the door in one slow motion, stepped into the rain, and pulled it shut behind me. The cold was a sharp blessing. The dark outside was vast, but it was honest dark — sky and storm, not the small, waiting dark of a closed room.
By the time the figure inside thought to look out the window, I was already three houses down, moving steady as a tide. Silence
The old clock read 11:57. Rain sheeted against the window, each drop a tiny fist demanding entry. The power had flickered twice already. Soon, the dark would come fully — not the gentle dark of bedtime, but the heavy, knowing dark that fills a house when every circuit fails.
The creak paused, as if confused.
My heart told me to freeze. But a deeper voice, older than fear, whispered four letters: WDDM.
I sat on the floor, back against the wall, listening. The wind played a low, unkind note through the chimney. And then — click. The last light died. The cold was a sharp blessing
When Darkness Dares, Move. Not because you aren't afraid. But because fear, when it freezes you, hands you over. And you belong to yourself.
