Nastasya stared at the slightly ajar door at the other end of the room, holding in her hand a candle that just barely lit enough space that she could travel the melancholy gloom of books; books; they reached into the unknown chamber of answers to all the unknown questions like hands- they were in all different languages. This, she supposed, was her haven to think. Think of answers; to a poor insomniac flailing for sleep, this place was heaven. It did not judge your drooping eyelids and yet awake mind- a mind alive with a quest to find all the reasons why; it did not judge her silent footsteps through a library so empty of sound it felt as if it were simply a cavern with chipped rock and layered, intricate stalactites as its only company. There the lack of people and voices murmuring was laid out towards her. It was like a path into madness disguised as a walking trail; only some could see its jagged rocks forming into a staircase that sprawled over the side of the mountain; there a keen hiker began to trudge past a forest full of blackened twigs. They did not suspect one thing, or at least a specific one; their mind could only focus on the path ahead and cast out the anxious thoughts that they might fall, with no one ever finding their bruised and battered corpse sprawled over the ground coated in a claret-stained ocean of mistakes. Everyone fears heights, the hiker reasoned. But everything felt too off for their concerns to be just that: a survival tactic. The sign that had greeted them was uncannily familiar; as if it had been a huge part of their childhood, however they were too old to remember all that had happened. Its rotten wood seemed a strange thing to have at a walking trail. Their foot slipping, they rested it precariously on a ledge, heart racing; they would have to discard their anxious thoughts, passing it off as survival instincts; they gazed upon the remaining path from a towering ledge. So many things waiting to be seen by wonder-filled eyes; fear, however, is never forgotten- and soon they recalled the door to the cabin. It had creaked a little too much as they prised it out of a rusted lock. But it was... Fine; they had a fireplace ready to greet them, a roaring fire gifting their lassitude with open arms and embracing them in the warm throes of gracious rest. How could they complain when their cabin was warm, and their food would fill them with the utmost comfort? They were right with that thought, the hiker decided gladly, everything was going to be perfect. Nastasya began to stare at that door once again, as if she expected someone to come inside and offer her a door to the outside- but even if that were to happen, she knew not to take it; it was dangerous for a woman of her age to go out at night and feel the moonlight lighting her complexion in gold. Too much of a risk. All she had was her books and her library. That was all. Books and her thoughts that were sometimes enough to drown her joy in dreary, dull contemplation.

Stretching, yawning and wishing her fatigue would swallow her in a deep, cradling sleep so that she could be rid of her anxious, tired jitters, she began to rise from the desk; many books lay within these endless shelves- fiction books speaking of troubled villages and fearless heroes; there were damsels in distress waiting to be saved. There were also more non-fictional, informational books about the sciences being discovered every day; strange animals in far of countries, their habitats, and the possibility of coal being used to create whimsical forms of transport with smoke choking out of them, and metal wheels driving them forward; but among all the wonders of a library, one stood out. Like a lantern calling out from the darkness to a weary, thoroughly lost traveller; it glowed and lit the ocean of trees in orange flame. Before they could even gasp, they were cut off by the light making the world around them seem alive with colour- it was so bright compared to the shadows they were swathed in previously, so they followed it, at first curious to meet whoever held in their hand a mysterious light. Perhaps it was the park warden, and they could stay the night in their cabin as planned, watching the stars until their windows no longer glinted blue; hope remained, they thought, even in a world coated in a veil of impenetrable shadows; hope- a lantern piercing the ceaseless dark. Melancholy charcoal always fights back, however, and just as they were able to reach out and hold in their hands the lantern, it shattered; it was not just the lantern that was gone. Whoever had held the light, leaving it to shimmer in the dusk until someone required its light to pierce the shadows, was gone; as if they had never been there. Perhaps they had simply imagined the last strand of hope, and they were in fact just alone, with no one to help them as a wolf devoured their confidence with growls, waiting patiently in the rain for them to give in. But there it appeared again, the hooded figure holding in their hand a light. There, before it vanished, they took it in their hand; before Nastasya could help herself, she was engrossed in every word and letter of the book, finding its words compelling and begging desperately for more and more of its tales. She didn't want to look away, or to sleep, because this was something she needed to keep- a sense of control even when times came around as dire as this. It had escaped her the first time, and her books had left her unsatisfied and only yearning for control; but here she found it. In all the scrawled letters and lengthening tales, she needed more and more of this feeling of control- like thick, oozing treacle. It brought her glee despite the terrors happening to characters; she did not feel the least bit of emotion, only glee and malice.

This book was different; she could tell from the start by the way it shone to her, and the way she felt that she must take it or face some terrible consequence- but even now it was a fern unfurling its rotten leaves to the sun, showing her all its malicious, satanic glory. How had it waited for a moment in the night when she knew she was about to break? But the sun beat down still on a rapidly unfurling, grotesque horror, revealing every leaf. The way that one finger-like leaf snapped unnaturally open, as if it were simply the undead crawling out from a wicked grave and clawing out of mounds of dirt; nothing was right- a leaf opening always took too long to dry and wither in the beating sun, and the holes opening and widening, letting light trickle through onto the floor like blood from a dead body, leaving the ground scorched. But in the shade, all remained hauntingly rotten, wilted and dreary. Nothing felt normal here. Even the ants could sense their skin crawling with unease at the looming, withering stalk; they scattered away from its shade, however one remained, basking in the shadows as if it were begging them for mercy; and yet the others found this a horror, and distanced themselves in fear of the unfamiliar grin dancing on their comrade's face. Teeth weren't normally crooked despite being the straightest, most perfect line- malice didn't laugh at trust and bathe in disdain unless something were wrong. A smile can hold so much comfort, but so much uncanny terror. A smile. A grin so innocent its face could morph into a young child, with nothing but glee and a teddy bear; as the others scampered back in fear, suddenly feeling afraid of the creak of leaves and dust beneath their feet. They moved in a sea of black ink across the ground, escaping their fear with excuses; so many excuses. It was a nightmare. A freakish dream; and that was all it was, until Nastasya looked upon the maimed and contorted faces in horror; stumbling toward her with all too human a manner, and yet a strange and unfamiliar one. Their faces dripped like candlewax, melting into one form, then another as the flame lived, died, and arose again in melancholy anguish; then as the candle burnt out, the figures were seen no more. As if a flame was flickering, they came back and forth, back and forth, back and forth into and out of view; until once again she could lay back, still feeling their glares upon her skin, burning her eyes with agony. Eyes close, but a swing can never halt its constant, irregular movement in a storm, just as if this is so the creaking of it won't stop until it's driven you mad. Left you cursed by screeches of owls in a mournful graveyard. As her body fell limp under their watchful stares, she still felt them; their button eyes and flames and melting wax- always watching over her with unblinking eyes. The world swirled in shades of red behind her closed eyes, casting any relief that came with sleep into the dust; they were always watching, she murmured, dreary gloom engulfing her lassitude in shadow- she could feel them glowering.

Vile agony. It struck her so hard that she jerked up, feeling her neck removed forcefully from its slumped position; she struggled against an unknown force, pulling against it and fighting the urge to look down. Heartbeats racing; a dull thud against a door she could not see. A dull thud. Growing. Growing. Getting louder and louder and louder until it was unbearable, and she had to cover her ears to escape the dreadful noise of knocking that haunted her every thought; she guarded against it desperately. But her hands, after so long trying to hold on to the loose sense of sanity she had once had, seemed to let go like a young child so overcome with fatigue that they stumbled and fell. Lassitude dragged at their hollow bones and thumping hearts, trying to pull it down, down, down into the deep underworld; they fought against its vile, leeching hold as they began to fall once more, and stopped themselves, before heaving against a string of slimy chains- writhing, squirming crows with moonlight illuminating their skin and water turning their soaked feathers waxy and glimmering; there lay a door ahead, with metal climbing it like vines, and its wood let through nothing but darkness through its cracks. A creak echoed into the empty cavern as it opened slightly, almost as if it were tentative, and then slammed shut with a mortifying snap- darkness. The child flailed and cried on the inside, desperation coming of in waves from their grotesque screams. But those screams were silenced, leaving only an unrecognisable figure standing in the darkness with quivering eyes, before falling once more, and not getting up again; there the hand fell from her ears and the sound around her moulded into a constant humming. No longer the thrumming of heartbeat in Nastasya's chest. A quiet, high-pitched sound as a constant, dissonant melody. She could not move, she found; she thrashed against her invisible boundaries and tore at the icy chains that held her hoarse, scraping voice and exhausted body. Powerless, she watched as her eyes glanced down, and there she saw it: a churning river of crimson drying into the damp carpets like a muted cry for help, and its banks had long burst, leaving a claret sea to roam the halls; she fell back in horror, but her body did nothing- those bodies could've been skinned and beheaded instead of being stabbed mercilessly by a childish, unwilling hand, but she could do nothing but stare, for she had done this. Guilt was a dull melody. It pulsed through her. For there it lay. A murdered body sprawled upon the ground; there was still a knocking. She could not hear it; she was so unaware of it that she only felt herself turn around once the door was barged open. Figures stood in the darkness, illuminated by candlelight. What had she done? A weapon materialised in her grasp, a powerful blade, and the figures were struck down, and red candle wax dripped down their faces from carelessly inflicted wounds. A jolt of horror seeped through her bones: what had she done? What was she? With twitching eyes, she stared into the melancholy abyss behind the door. Within the gloom stood the slim, monstrous figure of a cat with two heads, and next to it stood a skeletal, death-black crow; they were watching her- she could feel them.