Cora blew the bits of plaster from the paper folds of the journal. They misted into the air like a first snowfall and wafted down to her feet and the floor.

The words on the page were hard to make out; clearly the works of a sub-eight-year-old girl doing her best at good penmanship, under duress at that, if Cora had to guess.

Some words stood out though. Mommy. Hungry. Hidenseek.

Monster. Cellar.

The last one was nearly drowned out by what could have been the half gallon of red-brownish… something that had been splashed all over the book.

She told herself it was dirt. Old mud. That was all.

She kept flipping through and through, picking up more and more of the scant story before her.

Lights off. No snacks. Hurt. Bad things.

She shuddered again. Her sister was a child psychologist who played fast and loose (occasionally) with her confidentiality so she’d heard a few stories of abuse victims. This could have been just that. But how old was it?

She went to set the book down when she felt it. None of her five conventional senses took it in, it was another. Or all of them. That same bottom-of-the-stairs feeling that tells everyone that they’re not alone.

Whatever had happened to this girl- whatever Bad Thing had taken Mommy and made the Lights Out… was standing right behind her.