„Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams!", his mother called and Matthew closed his eyes. His bed was the softest and comfiest in the whole village. He hoped he would dream of Polly again, the girl who lived just across from his house. He lay there and thought of her auburn hair and her dark blue eyes and soft complexion and smiled to himself.
It was in the middle of the night, when he woke up to a clatter and a crash. Slowly, he lifted his blanket up and slipped out of bed. He took one step, but then there was deafening scream and he froze in the spot.
The twelve year old boy with the black hair and dark eyes stood still next to his bed, terrified to make any noise at all. There was more screaming and a cry for help. Matthew started crying and his stomach turned. It was his mother.
Then he heard it. The cry that made him shiver. The terrified voice filled with panic and despair. The scream that he thought echoed through the entire village. "Matthew, run!" He knew his mother knew he was listening, that he was scared and she wanted to save him, though for some reason, she would not be able to come to his aid.
Matthew heard muffled shouting and then footsteps. He unfroze and did the first thing he could think of. He hid under his bed.
Soon after, his door burst open. He was glad his mother had left open the window, for now it looked as if he had escaped through it.
Whoever this person was that had broken into their house, he was cold and there was a strange aura around him. A kind of helplessness, like he didn't even know where he was. His small breaths sounded distant, lost…Matthew kept very, very silent, held his breath and hoped and prayed for the man to leave. But he just stood right there, next to the window, his legs not moving an inch. Matthew's heart kept skipping beats and he was afraid to cry, in case a tear dropped to the floor and gave him away. Where was his mother? And his father? Why was this man doing all this, he did not understand.
After a while, the man moved, then walked out and closed the door. Matthew breathed out as quietly as possible, his heart still pounding. Haven't the villagers heard the noise? Why were they not coming to help?
He lay there for more than an hour and the undying, stifling fear ached in his stomach. He threw up once and then cried silently. He sensed it. The man was still in the house. But why?
The bedroom was dark, but he could just about see his hand in front of his face. Once, he thought he heard a noise and shot up, banging his head on the bed. But the noise was not loud. Still, he kept still for five whole minutes, not daring to move, dreading the door being flung open and the man returning to get him. But the house was silent, one could not hear a mouse's footsteps.
To Matthew it felt as though he was right there next to him, on the cold floor, breathing onto his neck, whispering. He told himself a thousand times it was just the wind.
After two hours time, he slowly started moving, still sick with fear. Maybe it was just the paranoia that told him the man was still here. Maybe he had left hours ago. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. A nightmare.
Very cautiously, Matthew crept forwards. He dared not leave his hiding place completely, so he just popped his head out a tiny inch. There, he stopped and goosebumps travelled through his body. His stomach turned, his hands turned sweaty and he threw up yet again.
On the open window, there was blood. But not just some drops or anything, no. It was worse. Much, much worse. The man had left him a message. A message that froze his bones and made him choke on his own tongue. A message that was so horrifying and clear that it made tears once again trickle down his cheeks.
I know you are under the bed.
Matthew knew who's blood it was on the window. And he knew the murderer was still in his house. And before the door had even budged, he knew he was doomed.
First, Matthew only saw the feet, then he closed his eyes in terror. When he felt the man right next to him, he dared to slowly open them again. There was nothing but freezing fear running through his veins, when he first looked into the cold, dead eyes of the murderer of his parents. His face was shaped like a wolf's, aggressive and bloodthirsty and he was tall and wore a long, black coat. His eyes were shining golden light and his hands looked more like claws than hands.
His hair was just as black as Matthew's, but stood up gracefully. Then the tall man kneeled down and looked deeply into the boy's eyes. His chin was sharp and moved up and down when he started whispering to him.
"Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams!" And Matthew closed his eyes. For just a moment, he was alone in the world and there was nothing but a fearful, freezing boy hiding under a bed. Then, everything went…
Pitch Black.