May closed the huge tome - population records of Slakshaven, 1532 - 1534 - stood, and kicked the table as hard as she could. It was five in the morning, the fourth night she’d spend here, and she’d found nothing. The archives had never let her down before. They’d been her favourite place, buried deep beneath the university in repurposed, ancient tunnels. They didn’t just keep history, they were history.

Now, however, she sat blinking in the harsh, white LED light and tried not to scream in frustration. She’d found nothing, no odd deaths, no family graves missing one older teenager, no trials or reports. Not even a myth or saga to back up that monsters truly roamed these islands.

It was as if she didn’t exist.

What had she been hoping for? A cure, a way to turn it all back? Others of her kind, a way to at least stop her from killing? Anything, but she wouldn’t find it. That’d become clear. She picked up the massive book she’d been reading and put it away, back in its slot in the metal filing cabinet. She should leave, anyway. In an hour, the university would open, and with exam season approaching there would be students finishing up final assignments down here the moment the doors opened. She took one last regretful look at the useless filing cabinet before May walked into the hallway.

Here, one could tell these tunnels hadn’t always been used as a place of study. Though the walls were coated in white plaster, the ceiling was glass, and through it roughly hewn rock was visible. To her right was the stairwell that led back up to Slakshaven, but to her left the tunnel extended, winding, and on an impulse May went left. She walked past seemingly endless rows of filing cabinets and studying nooks, her footsteps the only thing to be heard.

There, in front of her, stood the back wall that separated the archives from the rest of the tunnel system. She’d been through it once, two years ago, a first year student on a campus tour. They’d spend mere moments on the other side of the white metal wall, before the guide had shepherded them back inside. Water had dripped from the ceiling, and an uncanny cold wafted through the tunnel system. She’d found it odd they’d chosen such a wet, mold-prone environment for the entire city’s records.

Now she stood before the door again. She tried the handle. Locked, of course; but May wasn’t that first year student any more, wasn’t even human any more, and with ease she slipped into the dark. She passed underneath the door, and the shadows spat her out onto cold, hard stone. There was no light. It did not matter. She closed her eyes and reached into the darkness. It was such pure black, here, different from the twilight above ground. Further and further she stretched her mind, encountering nothing but twisting, deserted tunnels. How far they went on, she could not tell; her mind was stretched too thin to keep going. She pulled back, into herself, and took a deep breath. The air was cold here, the dark silky and nearly thick enough to touch. It didn’t frighten her, even though there was movement in it, kaleidoscopic movements that threatened to seep into her lungs. The near-solid shadow seemed almost curious; a kitten encountering a mouse for the first time.

Then, forming thick tendrils of its own, the shadows reached out to her instead, destroying every notion of control May had just moments earlier. Panicking, she tried to open the archive door, but before she could the dark engulfed her wrist and slipped into her arteries. The horrid cold of it had her crashing to her knees. The girl wailed. Her pain echoed through the tunnels, although they held no living thing to witness it. The dark was inside of her, in every vein, no matter how small. She didn’t know how long it stayed, but when finally it leaked out of her nose and her mouth and her eyes, May was awfully sure it’d left something behind. With burning veins, she stood up on trembling legs. She thanked every god that’d listen that the archive door could be opened from this side, and stumbled away.

She’d planned to go back to Thorn’s apartment, but the thought of explaining what had happened to the older skugabor wasn’t very appealing. She imagined he’d just gaze at her, raise his eyebrows, and tell her it’d get better.

It was steadily snowing, that early October morning, flecks of white against a black sky that later joined the thick layer of snow already on the ground. The moon hung heavy above the horizon, and even the city was silent, every hint of sound softened by the snow. May could barely hear her own footsteps. Her body was so cold her breath didn’t form clouds. It was nice, to be outside. Too afraid someone would recognize her, she’d switched her days and nights around, and holed up over research or on Thorn’s couch. Her footsteps were the only ones in the snow, this time of the morning. She trusted the cold and the darkness would keep her hidden.

She imagined Asrun out somewhere in that same icy dark. Had it formed thick strands of shadow around her, blackened her skin as if burned? Probably not. She’d been human, at the very least, when she died. The younger girl had reminded her of herself so much, a happier, safer version of herself at fourteen.

May turned towards the forest, in the vain hope she’d stumble across a body, frozen in the snow. Could lay her sister to rest, apologize to her face. Soon, she found herself between evergreens and small scrubs. The pines towered over her, their black silhouettes sharp against the sky, and if she noticed what direction the path was going, she didn’t allow herself to think about it. She wanted to cry. To mourn what had been hers, so briefly, but it seemed too hypocritical to do so. Hadn’t it been her hands, her nails, her teeth that ended all of that? Shouldn’t she have chained herself up when the itch made itself known, or taken herself far away from anyone she cared for?

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Had nothing happened, she’d be seeing lights between the trees, now; light carried far over the snow. She’d be able to follow the lights home. For a second, she imagined Erika busy in the kitchen, Asrun working at maths at the table, her father grumbling behind the newspaper. Then she made it to the edge of the clearing.

The house still stood there. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Police tape still clung to the entrances, the driveway. She walked over to the old swing set and sat down, not bothering to wipe the snow away. She’d keep vigil here, she decided, at least a few hours was what she owed them. Wet cold seeped into the back of her jeans. May wondered if they’d already been buried, or were kept in a morgue somewhere, how much of Asrun had rotted away before she’d frozen. She’d be buried beneath the snow, now; May hoped that wherever she was she was at least warm. She really, really wanted to cry.

There were voices coming up the road. Young voices. May cursed under her breath and buried herself in the shadows, zipping back towards the treeline. They spat her back out - without seeping into her, thank the gods - and she leaned against one of the trees, watching.

‘I bet it’s haunted!’ one of the kids exclaimed. There were four – three boys and a girl, maybe twelve, thirteen years old. The one who’d spoken looked excited, the other three terrified. May observed as they got closer to the house, anger building up inside of her. It’d hadn’t even been two months and they were already treating death as a fun way to pass the time?

One of the boys shrieked. May froze – had he seen her? No – he’d noticed the swing still moving, her footsteps leading up to them. And then none leaving. Oh. The others laughed at him in their nerves, as though nothing was wrong. They whispered between themselves, agitated. May couldn’t hear. She wondered if she should slip into the shadows, glide up to them, listen in. She didn’t dare. She heard Thorn’s warnings resonate in her brain - you’ll kill again – and maybe the shadows leaking into her veins had triggered it. It was only now that she realised just how dark it was out here – how many dark corners, drawn out shadows there were. Fear build up in her stomach. What would those kids do if they saw her? What if the recognized her? What would she do? Could she do it again, so soon, without warning? Would she?

Panicking, May stepped backwards. One of the kids must’ve seen the movement, because he turned his head and they locked eyes. Her heart stopped. She stood frozen, terrified. But the kid turned around again, speaking to his friends in a rapid, excited voice, and May didn’t wait to find out what they’d do. She backed away, heart thumping in her chest. Wandering home through the woods she imagined bloody entrails in the snow, thick red blood spilling out of pale throats. She tried to feel disgusted at the images, but some small part of her exclaimed the kids would have deserved it, desecrating her family’s house like that. That thought frightened her. Was this what the dark had left inside of her, in the tunnels? Was it rotting there, lying in wait for exactly the right moment?

When May came home, Thorn was already in bed. He heard her stomp in, felt her distressed yanking on the shadows. He didn’t think she knew that she was doing it. Where’d she been, that she returned so shaken? He stared blankly at his ceiling. Maybe she’d woken up too soon, and that’s why he hadn’t died yet, either? He couldn’t recall feeling this amount of distress around his own change.

The notion that perhaps his numbness wasn’t entirely caused by the shadows didn’t cross his mind.

He heard the shower start. Had she already picked up his habits, turning the water up too hot despite not feeling the heat? Breathing in the steam, willing it to burn her lungs, even if it never registered? Whatever she was doing, it must have soothed her some, for the yanking and pushing became a little more contained. Still shaky, though - was she crying?

Then, it wasn’t just May’s presence any more, in his too-small attic apartment. Had she taken someone, something home with her? There was a movement in the darkness, an undercurrent in the shadows on the walls and between his sheets, between his hair. He pulled his mind together, unwilling to let anything of him slip past his borders. It was coming for him, creeping onto his bed; silken strands of black waved around him. Was this it? Would they murder him here, in his bed, an utterly boring death for an unwilling servant?

No, he thought, and was surprised by the strength of it; he wouldn’t lay back and die, not like this, not with that near broken girl in his shower. He pushed, but they would not leave him. These were not the shadows he controlled, not those mundane shadows cast by objects or people. They were something more, some other being’s mental tendrils, twisting and controlling him and he knew he could scream all he wanted, thrash around as if possessed; but he would always lose.

They did not kill him, no. They crawled into him instead, into his veins and nerves and spine. His skin blackened, the small veins in his eyes turned a sickening gray, and the twilight of his bedroom took on a deeper, somehow blacker darkness. He felt no pain, just a deepening of that terrible, horrible cold that never truly left him any more. And then they were gone, as easily as they had come; but the dark had deposited something inside of him, something that tugged and itched and yanked. Thorn knew then he would not die.

Someone else, however, would.

He lay gasping, staring at his ceiling, before the dark led him into a fitful, restless sleep.