The man turned to face me. His face was covered in shadows. It was hard to make him out in the darkness of the forest that surrounded us, but the axe he lifted was plain to see. It glistened with the blood of his victim.
He grinned madly. The shadows were alive, distorting his features.
It was a scene from a nightmare, but I was awake.
The taken as I called it, stood before me. It was impossible to focus on it, as if it stood in a blind spot caused by a brain tumor or an eye disease. It was bleeding shadows like ink underwater, like a cloud of blood from a shark bite.
I was terrified. I squeezed the flashlight like my life depended on it, willing it to stop it coming any closer. Suddenly, something gave, and the light seemed to shine brighter.
For a long time, the Dark Presence had been weak, sleeping, nothing but a half-forgotten nightmare or a shadowy flicker in the corner of an eye in the forest at night; not real enough to properly exist, and yet too evocative to fade away completely.
Now it was waking up, the writer like a fly caught in a spider's web, each jerk and kick vibrating the strands that led deep into its lair. It was aware of him now, and it could use him.
All he'd need was a little incentive. As it got back on it's feet, the taken disappeared without a trace as it runs off into the forest.
