A detective arrives to investigate a recent police call.
Splinters and chunks of wood painted the concrete slab ground. Flecks and strips of white old dry paint accented the wood, some shining against the moonlight. The remains of a door held onto their golden hinges in a feeble attempt at stability. Detective Hart took a long stride over the wood filled threshold, and made her way inside. As usual she was one of the first on the scene. Unusually she was the only one on the scene at current. Well aware that waiting for backup was her best move, she stood just inside the doorframe, moonlight to her back, and the darkness before her. Beams of light lay heavy on the shapes of the house leaking out from her torch.
Sirens blared in the distance, and neighbours stood across the street in watch. Hart took more steps down the corridor. Fellow police force members would be here soon, and the shapes of the darkness called her further within.
Silent steps pressed firm against the hardwood floor. Her body leaned left, avoiding the coats and scarves hanging from several steel hooks. As she pushed forward, she recalled the words of one neighbour.
“We saw nothing. Just screaming. When we looked out the door was like that. So then we called you.”
If the neighbour heard screams, and has been watching since. Whoever destroyed the door could still be inside.
The corridor was short, and led to a second door. Much like the first, this door was in pieces across the ground. Nothing remained on this door’s silver hinges, and the paint didn’t shimmer in the torch light.
Hart raised her torch from the defiled door into the wider room behind. The light didn’t reach the back wall. As the torch swung left, and then right Hart couldn’t see any walls beyond the walls on either side of the doorframe.
Thick dark filled the space ahead. It’s silence called to her from somewhere beyond her sight. The moonlight that had backlit her now didn’t breach even the front door. Sirens that blared not moments ago had silenced, but no new people entered the house.
Bright white light still shone from the torch gripped in her hand, but did little to penetrate the ever-growing dark. Like a heavy smoke, it laid in the air. Hart felt it in every breath.
Deep inhales made no difference to her rising heartbeat, nor to the quiver in her legs. Her body covered in prickles, as the light faded from the torch. Fingers frantic they flicked the switch back and forth.
Click. Click. Click.
Hart wondered, was this the torch or her eyes. Sweat beaded onto her skin, as it crawled around her, as if trying to avoid the ever growing prickling sensation.
Just ahead a faint scuttle began. For a moment Hart froze. The air around her heavy and hard to draw inside her lungs. The scuttle stopped.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH,” Hart screamed.
Torch, and arms flailed in violent unpredictable manners. What was it? Where was it?
It was on her left. On her right. Ahead. Above.
Her throat pained, as her scream continued. Her aching body still in a furious flurry of movements. She sweat. She ached. She could barely breathe, but could not stop the screaming. It was here in the darkness. For her.
It was the darkness. It owned this blackness in her eyes and lungs. Every inch of her burned like fire, but cold as ice. Stiff from fear, and limp from agony. Until she fell.
Detective Hart no more.