The room was dingy, dull, dilapidated. The small girl’s hazel eyes had just enough time to widen as she realized what was happening. Then the cellar door closed and she was trapped in the small dark room.

“Daddy?” She called.

Screaming could be heard from outside. The terrible sound of scraping metal and breaking glass. The girl began to beat against the door, frantically attempting to get out.

I sat in the corner and watched, the only viewer of this grim spectacle. The awful sounds outside mingled with the girl’s own crying in a depressing melody.

It was only when the noise from outside subsided and the girl tearfully sunk to her knees that I remembered that she was afraid of the dark. I wanted to stand up and put my arms around her, to comfort her, but it felt as though I was glued to my spot. I tried to call out to her, to tell her that it would be okay, but my mouth seemed to be sewn shut. I attempted to pray for her, but it felt as though someone had beaten me about the head with a club.

I watched the sad scene as a helpless observer as the girl wiped her eyes on her smock, standing up determined. Her eyes must have adjusted because now she seemed to be looking for something. Eventually, she found it, a long crowbar that I knew she had seen her mother use when their cabin door had been jammed.

She took the crowbar and mustering all her strength she wedged it into the door, prying the cellar door open.

Suddenly, it was as though I was dragged from my perch, as though all of the sound was torn from my throat, as though each prayer was pulled from my head.

I sat bolt up in bed screaming and praying that she wouldn’t look outside. That she wouldn’t smell the smoke. That she wouldn’t feel the sticky blood on her bare feet or taste the bitterness of vomit in her mouth.

I quickly collected myself, realizing that it was simply a dream. I looked around my humble room, my eyes roaming over my guard uniform, my journal, and finally settling on the candle at my bedside.

I was still afraid of the dark.