V

Face it, Pitch, no one believes in you anymore.

He hid in the shadows, watching children play games on the sidewalk, people walk alongside the street to whatever destination pleased their minds. He listened talking about their hearts' desires, and men talking about wooing such ladies. Pathetic. No fear. No nightmares. No horror. No death. What had this world come to? Not even the children cast a quick glance at the darkness to make sure nothing would jump out to grab them.

He moved along to the next alley and looked on; no children, bikes humming along, businessman negotiating. He moved again; dogs fighting and yelping, a cat running across the road, school girls playing hopscotch and jumping rope. He moved then to the next alley; protesters. Then to the next, and the next, and the next, and then…

He stopped.

Who is she?

He had caught sight of a lone girl. She was gorgeous. Her with long, wavy black hair that shone like ebony silk; with pale skin, white as the snow on the ground; with lips red as fresh-shed blood. She sat not too far from him, on a wrought-iron bench, clad in a long, black, Victorian dress, writing in a metal journal with a pitch black quill.

Pitch Black…how touching…

He had to hang on to the wall, he was so infatuated.

My God, she is beautiful! What I would give to have her here with me in the shadows! What I would give to sit next to her, to kiss her hand and caress her cheek! What I would give…for her to be able to see me…

Her brow furrowed, and just as if he had spoken his heart aloud, she looked up, into the shadows, into his eyes. He stopped, unmoving, frozen. He was scared. Scared! He, the Boogey Man, Pitch Black, was scared, genuinely afraid of her cold gaze! But this was a different kind of fear, a new fear, a fear that boiled within his stomach and tightened his throat. And just as he was about to turn and run…

She smiled.

She can see me.

It hit him hard in the gut and even harder when he realized that he couldn't turn back. He had to go up to her; he had no choice. As he walked up to the bench, his mind went off on a tangent. What should he say? What should he do? Should he sit? Stay standing? Should he try to befriend her, or go straight to romancing her?

Yards had become centimeter, and, putting his arms behind his back, he looked down into her blue eyes and smiled.

"Why is such a beautiful creature sitting alone?" he asked her.

"Because no one wishes to sit with me," was her answer.

"But I wish to sit with you," he said, swiftly taking the spot next to her. She kept her head down, but a smile still decorated her face.

"You can see me?" he inquired.

"Of course."

But all the others seem to see right through me."

"Of course."

"But why?"

"Because I believe."

His heart-he had a heart?-skipped a beat. She believed in him. She believed in the Boogey Man. But…

"Do you fear me?"

"No."

No?

"I fear what you do."

"Oh? And what is it you think I do?"

"You scare people. You take their greatest fears and place them before their eyes."

"So you're afraid of me?"

She laughed. "No."

"But you just said—"

"Anyone can scare."

This was true. He had seen how people scared each other; how they scared their friends, their enemies, their children. She was right; anyone could do it.

He sighed heavily. "Then I have no purpose."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "How often do you try to scare people?"

"Every day and night I try, but to no avail."

"Even children?"

"How can I scare them if they don't believe in me?"

She put a free hand on top of his, for he had earlier grabbed a hold of her other. "I'll tell you what. Come to my house tonight, and I'll help you to scare my sister."

His face lit up. "You would do that for me?"

"I would do anything for you," she answered, standing up and gathering her belongings.

"I have to go. My mother will have a fit if I'm not home before dark."

Pitch looked up into the sky; it was beginning to darken. And as she turned to walk home, he realized he had forgotten something.

"You haven't told me your name!"

She stopped and faced him. "My name? It's Lethia."

It was a beautiful name, a wondrous sound. Lethia.

"It means sweet oblivion."

Sweet, sweet oblivion indeed.

"How seductive. And I'm—"

"Please," she interrupted, "I know who you are."

"Lethia, you had better be making my dinner!"

"I am, Mother. Can't you smell it?"

"I smell a bunch of burnt popcorn! I swear, child, if I go in there and there's something wrong with that meal, I'll brand your cheek with the back of my hand!"

"Yes, Mother." There was no way she had messed up this time; she had followed the recipe carefully and precisely.

Her mother came in shortly thereafter, took one look into the saucepan, and screamed.

"What is this mess? How dare you disrespect me by ruining my dinner!" She smacked Lethia's face as hard as she could, and said, after grabbing her forearm and holding it tightly, "go to your room for the rest of the night, and don't come out until morning!"

She threw her daughter onto the ground, where her head hit a corner. Blood gushed forth from her head and raced down her cheeks and chin. She scrambled to get to her feet, darted up the stairs and to her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

As crimson water dripped onto the floor, Lethia clenched her fists and screamed. She kicked the bed and thrashed her limbs. She was so angry, that she picked up the little glass faeries and centaurs that were on her dresser and threw them against the wall. Shattered glass cut into her feet as she stamped on them, and her blood pooled around the shining crystals.

She was preparing for another blow when she suddenly heard a tap at her window. She angrily whirled around and came face to face with none other than the dark man she had encountered not three hours earlier.

Oh, how relieved she was to see him! That handsome, pale face with yellow eyes and black hair that stuck up so famously. He smiled at her through the panes, and she smiled back. She put her hands to the glass, and he followed suit. She was so close to him, so close to touching his cold hands.

Lethia opened the window to allow him to step in and onto the floor.

"You're awfully late. I was beginning to worry about you," she said, closing the window.

"I didn't mean to leave you so alone." He paused. "What happened to your head?" he asked after seeing the blood on her face.

"Oh, it's just a scratch." She touched the open wound and grimaced at the pain.

"Nonsense; you're hurt." He stepped up to her and wiped the blood away from her cheeks and uncut skin. The gash brought forth no more, but it needed to be cleaned and dressed.

"Let's hope it doesn't get infected," he told her.

"What do you know about first aide?"

He stopped what he was doing. "Nothing. I was actually going to leave that to you."

She laughed at him. "I wouldn't dream of having it any other way." She turned to her door and stared into it, as if another world lie just beyond its frame. Pitch took her hand and kissed it softly, drawing ever so close to her, so that he could feel her body pressing against his. He softly whispered to her.

"And what of your sister?"

"She's nine and scares easily; I do it all the time. And she doesn't believe in you; in fact, she's never even heard of you."

"Well, that's about to change." He kissed her neck and released her to take care of herself. In her absence to the bathroom, he looked around the room and saw the horrible mess that stared back. He didn't judge Lethia by her anger and fury and how she expressed it. But he did worry, even more so when he saw the bloodied shards and red footprints on the carpet. And when Lethia returned, he looked not only at her cleaned forehead, but also down at her bandaged feet.

"Stop worrying so much," she assured him, following his gaze.

"Take me to your sister, then. It'll distract me from you."

"Yes, of course," she replied, leading him downstairs. She ushered him in a dark sitting room around the corner and told him to wait; she was eating dinner. With that, Lethia sat on the bottom steps and waited for her sister.

It wasn't long before the patter of small feet came quickly towards the stairs, and Lethia looked up to her small figure, smiling softly.

"Kaia, what are you afraid of?" Lethia pondered.

"Nothing," she replied confidently.

"Really? Not even the dark?" Lethia could feel Pitch's sneer.

"Nope."

"Well, I am," she rose, "I'm afraid of the dark."

The thought of her evil older sister being scared of anything frightened tiny Kaia, and she was silent for a moment.

"W-Why?" she stammered.

"Evil things live in the dark. Things like the Boogey Man!" Lethia jumped at her sibling, who yelped like a hurt puppy. "He hides under your bed, and in the closet, and in the shadows," then, continuing in a whisper, "he even hides in the darkness of the sitting room."

Kaia slowly peered around Lethia into the sitting room. She saw the sofas and chairs, and the tables with lamps.

And a face.

A face that smiled menacingly at her. As soon as she saw it, she screamed and ran away.

"Mommy! It's the Boogey Man!"

"The what?"

"The Boogey Man!"

"Boogey Ma—LETHIA!"

"Oh God."

Lethia turned and sprinted towards the shadows, towards Pitch. He opened his arms and caught her, silently disappearing with her before her mother could catch her.