Are You Afraid of the Light?

A horror story in which the monster(s) are only able to act during the day and go away at night making the protagonist only feel safe in the dark.

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Thirty minutes until dawn.

You scramble through the pitch-black forest, still trying to smother your own fear of the darkness. No flashlight. No candle. No cell phone, even – something about the light draws them, even in the darkest night. You make the darkness your home for now, because you know they fear it. No matter what remnants of childhood fears of the dark exist in the animal part of your brain, you can no longer exist in the light.

To be in the light is to die.

The ground changes underfoot, shifting from the snapping and rustling of twigs and leaves to the low crunch of gravel. Your heartbeat slows for a moment in relief. Clutching your backpack straps in your sweaty hands, you close your eyes. You have to make it to the house, where you can lock the doors and bar the windows against the things that scream and slam themselves against the walls outside while daylight taunts you through the curtains. Focus. You came from the north, and home is west, so…left.

You turn down the path and your pulse leaps again as your watch beeps. Twenty minutes. Sure enough, the sunrise is starting to warm the horizon. Not much time, but enough – the monsters won’t come out until the sun peeks over the trees in the distance. They need it, somehow, and their need has become your fear.

The bag slung over your shoulders seems to grow heavier as the sky lightens. It should have been a simple trip through the woods to buy blackout curtains from that girl you knew in the Before, but it wasn’t. A twisted ankle cost you thirty minutes. Hiding from those adrenaline junkies who shine blinding flashlights into the woods, hoping for a chance to try to outrun the monsters, wasted over an hour. And now, just after the summer solstice, you don’t have nighttime to spare.

Your watch beeps again – ten minutes – and you stop cold. Nighttime. Sunrise. The horizon. It’s in front of you, not behind you.

You whip around, your heart plummeting into your stomach. You’ve been going the wrong way. Damn it, you should’ve turned right, not left. As you begin to jog, wincing each time you land on your weak ankle, you berate yourself in your mind. You should have marked the trail better. You shouldn’t have gone alone. You should have studied the map more like you said you would. Now look where it’s gotten you: only ten minutes before sunrise, and you’re half a mile further away than you should be.

As the sky continues to brighten, the edges of a shadow taking form on the ground in front of you, you hear the first roar.

A terrified thrill rushes up your spine and you double your pace. The light – they’re waking. The pain in your ankle grows with every step but you can’t stop now, you can’t, not as the forest echoes with deep-throated howls and snarls. They sound so much closer out here than when they’re on the other side of the wall.

Something brushes against the side of your head and you let out a shriek, leaping forward even as a mere leaf tumbles down your chest. But you can’t stop. You can’t slow down. You have to regain the ground you lost going the wrong way.

Five minutes. You must be close to the house, you must, but the persistent sounds of the waking monsters are clouding your judgment. The tree on the side of the path with the red flag, does that mark a half-mile to the house or a quarter-mile?

Four minutes. The roaring is constant now, crashing against your mind like sledgehammers. You don’t dare glance into the trees on either side, lest you see something you don’t want to see.

Three minutes to go. There’s the house, there it is, you can see it, you’re so close –

You land on a rock and your ankle gives out. With a yelp of pain, you tumble to the ground, grabbing at your leg. No no no. Panic threatens to overwhelm you, but you push it away, looking around desperately for something, anything to help you. A long branch lies a few feet away, studded with lichen and dead leaves. You crawl toward it, your heart beating so loud in your ears that it drowns out the monsters that fill the forest.

Two minutes. You plant the branch in the dirt and force yourself to your feet despite the screaming in your ankle. As your shadow comes into focus on the ground, you shout out to everybody in the house, hoping that someone might come to your aid as you hobble toward its dark silhouette. A curtain moves, eyes peering at you from inside, and you shout again, please, please.

One minute. The branch cracks beneath your weight and you fall again, smashing your head against a rock. Stars dance in front of your eyes, but you hear the door open. Someone grips you under your arms and drags you toward the house even as forms emerge from the trees, rushing for the two of you. You scream at whoever’s got you to go faster. As one of the monsters lunges toward you, you’re pulled over the threshold and the door slams shut.

You slump back and close your eyes. Safe. You’re safe at last. You made it. You gasp for air, trying to slow your pounding heart.

But something isn’t right.

Light shines against your eyelids from inside the house. It shouldn’t be this bright. They should know not to turn the lights on, that it draws the monsters.

You frown and open your eyes.

That’s when you see the blood on the ceiling.

That’s when you see the blood on the walls.

That’s when you see the blood you’re laying in on the floor, and the body parts strewn around the room.

You turn, drawing in a deep breath to scream, but the monsters are already on you.