(644 words; inspired by my childhood terrors :)) Who’s Afraid of the Dark? The distant rumble of thunder and the steady rain were almost comforting, from the perspective of a warm, well lit living room, and the depths of a chintz covered sofa in front of a widescreen television, broadcasting a thunderstorm warning in the soothing radio tones of the weatherman. He settled further into the soft, peach toned fabric and cast the occasional satisfied glance in the direction of the window, tattooed with the bright white flicker of lightning. The television spit a brief burst of static, and he counted the seconds until the satellite rediscovered its signal along with the meter on the screen, as it crawled steadily back toward a clear, hi-def image. Unease turned over in his belly when the smooth blankness of the lost signal screen spiraled slowly into five minutes, but it did not become fear until the power flickered, and then went off. The living room was cast into pitch darkness, broken only by the intermittent flash of lightning; he held his breath and waited for the lights to come back on, for the return of the safety of light and warmth held in reverence by humankind since the first of them had struck flint against stone and created a spark in a long-ago cave. The minutes ticked past, and he began to make out vague shapes in the darkness; though his mind catalogued them as familiar – there, the armchair, and there the china cabinet, punctuated with silvery arcs in the white glow of lightning. It was no good. The power was not coming back … faced with the choice of sitting in the darkness, gripping the arm of the sofa like a life preserver, or doing something about it, he set his jaw and stood up carefully. There was nothing for it – he’d have to fetch the candles up from the basement. Nevermind those half remembered dreams of the dank darkness, some hideous, unseen thing down there in the depths of the turnip-smelling damp and the cobwebby dark. It was nonsense. He knew it was nonsense, and he would prove it. Feeling his way delicately past the end table and the kitchen doorway, he was resolute; it would be over quickly, he’d simply proceed directly down the stairs, pick up the candles from the shelf and march swiftly and surely back up to the top, and then there would be light again. The first step was the hardest, leaving the scent of potpourri and Carpet Fresh to descend into the damp odor of earth and sodden concrete. But the second was easier, and nothing happened to slow his pace; no webbed, clawed appendage settled upon his shoulder, no sharp stabbing pain of claws or teeth. It was dark, but no darker than it had been upstairs, except for the occasional flash of lightning. He nearly overbalanced on the bottom step, and then his fingers were scrabbling quickly, hurriedly – but not panicked, no! – across the dusty grime on the shelf. The brush of faintly sticky cobweb made him cringe, but then his tremulous digits struck the solid, waxy smoothness that could only be the candles. Grabbing a fistful, he turned with them pressed against the front of his shirt protectively; he took the steps two at a time, blindly, salvation blissfully close. The receding stench of the basement gave way to clean, fresh air, the scent of Glade’s Summer Floral air freshener … oh, sweet sanctuary! He stood in the doorway, his feet planted firmly over the threshold of the basement door in victory, and paused to catch his breath; a warm feeling of safety suffused his very being, there was nothing to fear … he began to feel that it had all been a little silly, and uttered a shaky little laugh. He was safe. At least, until a cold, scaly hand closed inexorably around his ankle.