The Taken. Just quiet shadows, following behind like always. The old remains of lost humanity hold their shape beneath the malevolent twisting darkness. The heavy strides and confident lift of the head were a clear reflection of the life once lived by this camper, for instance.
It was noticing the details that really made a writer. A wry sort of tone of the thought, as reflexes brought Alan's hands up. The beam of light held steady against the creature, waiting for the flash. Were they still Taken without the Darkness? The pistol trembled.
One...two. Run. The cabin, the lake. Alice.
It was a quiet distinction, but a noticeable one. The sort of shudder and realization only described in horror novels when the Nameless Terror made its move. Alan froze, running his flashlight across the long row of logging trucks. What was with these people and logging, anyway?
Alan spun, caught sight of the axe with just enough of an opening to delay the shadow-wrapped wielder with the light and stumble from the blade's path. He moved left, doing his best to keep the feeble stream of light on his attacker. The batteries were low. He hoped there was only one lumberjack.
The colors were clearly too bright to be tolerated by any normal person. This was an easy conclusion to follow through to closed curtains and an unplugged clock radio. The plug whined and that wasn't his fault. Probably should have checked the time first. Meh. His cellphone was in the room somewhere.
If Alice came home, he'd keep in his office. It was all it had been good for for the last six months.
Was she in town? He briefly regretted being unsure on that fact.