The grey walls are unadorned. The windows look out on nothing but more of the same, grey concrete, occasionally marked by suspiciously dark stains. The floor is grey too, with a drain in the middle. On the left side of the room is a lamp. It has a post-it by the switch: “Are you sure you want to turn this off?” I’m not sure. This is the only source of light—the only thing pushing back against the inky black I _know _is lurking just outside my vision.

I’ve always been afraid of the dark. People told me it was fine, there was nothing lurking in the shadows, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid of monsters, ghosts or ghouls; I was afraid of the _dark. _I just knew that the dark wanted to hurt me, wanted to swallow me up. But what am I supposed to do? This room is endless and inescapable. And the light hurts my eyes. Maybe just for a moment—just to see what happens.

I flick the switch, and the room disappears beneath impenetrable shadows. I am still alone, still in the room, I just can’t see. Worth a try. I flick the light switch up. _Click_. Nothing happens. I try again, up and down and up and down _updownupdownupdownclickclickclickclickclickclick_. Nothing—but a noise? I pause. A noise; like footsteps on mulch, not quite a crunch but more of a shifting. They get louder—like they’re getting closer. I try again, flick the light switch frantically, but nothing happens. I guess they were wrong in the end—there is definitely something in the dark.