by Stacy Green
She pushed herself off the couch and began the slow process of moving forward once more. The junk drawer had matches, and she’d left a candle on the kitchen counter.
The flashback came without warning.
“Are you afraid of the dark, beautiful Emilie?” The Taker whispered as he leaned close to her, sniffing her hair once again. Night had fallen. The only light in the bank came from the streetlights.
“Miss Emilie?”
“No.”
“Did you know the technical name for fear of the dark is Nyctophobia? I don’t mean the normal, fleeting fear we all experience when the lights go out. I’m talking about the irrational anxiety we experience when it’s dark. Some people have panic attacks from it.”
Emilie didn’t respond. He continued in his creepy, breathy whisper. “Studies show the phobia is more common in childhood. Adults who suffer from it haven’t faced the problem and probably had a bad experience with the dark in the past.”
He shifted closer. The overly sweet scent of his cologne invaded her nostrils. “I don’t understand the fear myself. Darkness is our friend. It hides our imperfections and protects us from the realities of daylight. We can be anything we want in the dark. And sometimes we have no choice but to stay in the dark, grateful for the shelter.”
“Oh, God.” Moisture streamed down her face. The Taker had stayed so close, his breath against her skin and his fingers brushing against her arms more times than she could count.
“Darkness is our friend.”
The tunnels were dark. He wanted to drag her down there, stash her away in some filthy corner with no light and stale air. Locked away from everyone, forever. Her lungs constricted as panic overwhelmed her. Her comfortable living room suddenly appeared sinister. The blowing wind outside sent a strange sort of murmur throughout the condo—a breathless, restrained whisper.
Emilie whirled in the darkness, squinting at the black lumps spread throughout the room.
Her furniture, or was the Taker here? Had he somehow cut the lights to the building?
Claustrophobia attacked. The Taker closed in. His warm breath swept over her neck, and his saccharine scent crept into her nose. He had surrounded her again. She was trapped.
No. She whipped her head around searching in vain for some sign of his presence. He couldn’t be there, could he? Her tired, tormented brain was just playing a cruel trick on her.
Please, just leave me alone.
She tried again to make it to the kitchen. She needed a weapon, something to strike with. If the Taker was there, he wasn’t going to take her out of her own home.
Her shaking hands smacked against the granite bar extending from the kitchen. She slid forward, nearly losing her balance again. Cold metal touched her fingertips.
Her phone.
Light.
Emilie barely registered it was only 10:30 p.m. as she held the phone high over her head and panned it around. There was no one in sight, but the Taker could be hiding in the corner, watching and laughing.
She slammed her thumb down on the ‘call’ icon and scrolled through her contacts.
The perky voice of a happy five-year-old little girl answered the call.
“Get. Your. Daddy.” Each word felt like Emilie’s last.
“Hello?”
“Jeremy. Need help.”
“Emilie.” Jeremy’s frantic voice came through the speaker. “Where are you?”
“Home. No lights.” A heavy thud sounded in the living room. Terror stalled her heart.
She twisted around, her phone high in the air. Jeremy shouted her name. Panic seized her.
Her breath came in short, painful rasps. Numbness consumed her entire body. Darkness stretched in front of her, a long tunnel with no end in sight.
Emilie flailed blindly. Her foot came down on something squishy. Otis’s screech filled the house, and the angry cat shot between her legs. Emilie stumbled and lost her footing.
She plummeted backwards, dropping the phone. White-hot pain rushed over Emilie as her head connected with a hard, pointed surface.
Her body slammed against the tile floor. Then the pain was gone. Emilie floated in a black abyss, surrounded by silence. A face appeared: a man with olive-colored skin and several days’ beard growth. He had a strong brow, prominent cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips. He smiled down at her.
His eyes. His eyes. Dark. Beautiful. Terrifying.
“Remember, Miss Emilie,” the Taker whispered. “Remember me.”
And then her mind slipped away.
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