The stairs leading to the attic bedroom were made out of black wood. If John were older, he might have noticed how nicely the dark wood complimented the interior of the house, but no, at six, he thought nothing of the sort. All he could tell was that in the dim light of the falling sun he could barely tell where the steps met wall and continued toward the eternal void beyond. Somewhere at the top of these stairs was a door that would lead to his room. The only room at this end of the house. And he didn't know if it would be just as dark there as it was here.

A part of John, not so small, wondered if the darkness here would ever end; if here would ever be light.

But that was silly, and even though it didn't feel silly, he knew it was. There was no reason to be afraid of the dark. And though that couldn't stop him from feeling that way, it wouldn't stop him from going up there, either. He wouldn't let it. He paced his hand against the cool wood of the wall for guidance ad took the first step. The second step. The third. The stairwell and darkness enveloped him and he had to close his eyes to keep away the panic. He had to do this. Harry and Mum had already begun setting up their rooms on the other end of the house, and he didn't want to have to run to them. He could do this on his own.

Nothing to be afraid of. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Further up. Was he almost there? He ran his hand over the space before his face—wait; his fingers brushed over—yes, the door. The knob was cold and intimidating against his clammy palm. His fist slipped on the handle as it turned, and he braced himself for whatever lay beyond.

Nothing. That was all he could see: nothing; the same empty darkness that swallowed the stairs. It was just as he feared.

So now what? If he went in or if he turned around, he'd still have to face the dark. He held his breath and puffed out his chest like he'd seen his Da do to look braver that he really was. Then he let it out, because that was wrong. It wasn't about looking brave. You had to be brave.

Holding his breath just made his head feel funny, anyways.

John inched his hand along the wall near his head. There had to be a light switch, right? Every room had one. He really hoped it wasn't one of the really tall ones. Then what would he do? Not call Mum. He'd figure it out himself. He just hoped he didn't have to. The more his fingers grazed the smooth wood; however, he feared that might be the case.

No, there it was! His heart beat in heavy relief as he felt the small switch. It sunk to his stomach when he flipped it and nothing happened.

"No. No, no, come on," he pleaded to the switch he couldn't see. A sudden scampering noise behind him brought him to a panicked full circle. "What's there? Don't scare me!"

He clutched his bedding closer to his chest. If he had to, he'd throw it over whatever made the sound and run. It would at least give him time to run away if it came to that.

His eyes were slowly becoming more accustomed to the dark around him. Finally he could see an outline that must have been the bed. Over on the other wall: a wardrobe. And beside that wardrobe was a barely-there hint of light. A blanket covering a window. Thank God.

As if sensing John's direction of interest, the thing made noise again. And this time it sounded much clearer. The sounds were intentional and direct. I am here; I will not be ignored.

"You're in my room," it whispered. "You can't be. You can't be in my room."

John tried not to jump, though he could not stop his heart from doing so. It felt lodged thickly in the hollow of his throat. "Why not?" he asked, trying to see where the voice came from. It was still too dark to see anything but the faintest of outlines. There still didn't seem to be anything there.

"It's mine," it replied, words brittle.

"No, it's mine. All the others are taken, so this one's mine." He turned around, pretending to try to find the thing in the dark. He knew he couldn't, but it gave him a chance to take a slow step closer to the window.

The thing made a scratching, irritated noise that made John's hair stand on end and his knees shake. "You can't take it away from me," it hissed.

"I'm not trying to," he pleaded. Another step back. There was still only darkness, but also the unmistakable feeling of another. Not close enough to reach out and feel, but in the same way that you can feel the weight of eyes watching. It was so much worse not being able to see it. Whatever it could be. "I don't like being here either, but I've got no choice."

"Leave." The scampering noise spread across the floor-like little rodent feet-and it seemed to stretch; up the walls, across the furniture.

"I can't," John insisted. He reached his hand behind his back, just barely grazing the hanging fabric. He balled it up into his trembling fist.

"Then I'll make you," said the voice. And just there, in the darkest corner of the room, he saw it rising. It stepped soundlessly forward, and before John's body could lock up tight in fear, he tugged the blanket from the window with all his might. His eyes never left the approaching shadow.

A split second before the light engulfed the room, John saw it. Saw what he thought must be a boy with ashen skin. The amber light struck that very flesh and the boy's startled face split into sheer agony. His scream cut into John's ears like shards of glass, but he couldn't move or look away as the boy's skin was swallowed in the very darkness he'd been concealed in. It stained his skin like bleeding ink, up his fingertips and toes and from his chest as if chasing veins-his dark hair snaked across his neck and enveloped his throat and face.

In the instant before the darkness ate everything that the boy was, forcing itself down the boy's gaping mouth like it was wanted to consume him from the inside, his dim grey eyes snapped to John's and, just as they too were overtaken, flashed hauntingly bright. Burning silver. Then disappeared.

The blanket pooled around John's ankles and he was left staring at the sunlit floor where there was nothing. No hint of the thing that hid in the darkness. Just stale air and dust that danced in the fading light steaming in through the window.

The light would be gone soon. He forced his petrified limbs to move, achingly slow, then faster, until he could sprint out the door and down the stairs.

There was something very much worth fearing in the dark.