Darkness descends heavily, suddenly, smothering. Concealed more effectively than he could hope, Tom sees shadows dancing. Still he stays, waiting.
The room is cold, but Tom feels it not, protected.
Patches of blacker still swirl at the limits of his vision, creeping closer to his hide. Slow but definite they converge, from above, below, around all sides.
Still Tom lies, waiting.
He moves a little, itching nose. The wraiths freeze, retreat slightly. Wary. Ever watchful.
They will win, always. Waiting until defences are down, vigilance withdrawn. Their patience is infinite.
Tom sleeps ultimately.
Dreams follow sleep as life follows death.
So, as they often are, my thoughts and imaginings are dark and unusual creatures. But I welcome them, though you may not...
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