I wore gloves to bed last night. I wanted to be sure my nails were not responsible.
Last night, he spoke.
It was the same, at first. The corridor, drowned in darkness, except the distant, flickering light. The glacial air whipping all around me, the tell tale crunch of the floor I couldn’t bare to face, and the echoed laughter that seemed to follow me.
I walked, resigned that there was nothing else to do, just hopeful that soon, the light would be within my grasp, and I would be free by the mercy of waking up.
I could hear him breath now, as if he was stood behind me, but his laughter still danced around in the darkness.
I could do nothing but walk. The light was getting close again, beginning to flash, and I didn’t want to walk any further but I couldn’t stop. The light was so bright.
Yellow. Red. Yellow. Red. Yellow. Red.
“Don’t be afraid of the dark.” His voice was scratchy and strained, and suddenly I felt hands on mine, scalding my skin, but I couldn’t scream. He pushed my hands towards the lantern. Towards that one, familiar frightening hand, leering from the darkness.
The darkness came, and I was afraid.
My eyes snapped open. My gloves were still on my hands, just as I had left them, but there were holes on the top, with charred outlines, as if they had been burned.
Fresh scratches covered my legs, and my stomach too.
He was there. I could almost feel his fingertips, thin and rough against my thighs.