Chapter 8 " Darkness "

“Darkness is older than us all, dear reader. It waits, patient, eternal. Aio thinks her light will last forever. Let’s see how long she shines. Keep your eyes open, or the dark will find you too…”

Aio ym, a 30-year-old high school English teacher, sat at her desk in an empty classroom, the clock ticking past 8:00 p.m. 

The school, a squat brick building in a quiet suburb, was silent, its hallways dimmed for the night. 

Aio stayed late most evenings, grading papers or losing herself in novels, her sanctuary after a day of teaching restless teens. 

Her life was a tapestry of joy she loved her job, her cozy apartment, her weekend hikes with friends. 

She was the optimist who saw every challenge as a story to conquer, her laughter a beacon to those around her. 

But alone in the classroom, under the hum of fluorescent lights, she sometimes felt a fleeting unease a shadow of doubt she brushed away.

Tonight, as she packed her bag, Aio noticed something on her desk: a book, old and leather-bound, its cover cracked and etched with twisting branches that seemed to pulse in the light. 

No title, no author. She frowned, her fingers tracing its warm, heavy surface. 

She didn’t recall buying it, but a vague memory flickered someone handing it to her, perhaps a colleague or parent? The details slipped like sand. 

Aio, a lifelong bookworm, felt a thrill. A mystery book was too tempting to ignore. She settled back in her chair, the classroom’s silence wrapping around her, and opened it.

The pages crackled, releasing a faint smell of ash and something damp, like rain-soaked earth. 

The first seven pages were missing, torn out with jagged edges, leaving a reddish stain that looked too much like blood. Aio shivered but turned to the first intact page: 

Chapter 8: Absolute Darkness. The text was handwritten, the ink uneven, as if wept onto the paper with a trembling quill. Her pulse quickened, and she began to read.

In the beginning, there was only darkness formless, eternal, alive. Light came later, a fleeting guest, but it could never banish the dark forever. I lived in light, my days bright with laughter, my nights warm with dreams. 

I had everything love, purpose, hope. But one night, the power failed, and I saw it: absolute darkness, not just the absence of light but a presence, heavy, watching. 

It moved, slithering across my room, pooling in corners, whispering my name in a voice like crumbling stone. Its rule was simple: don’t close your eyes. 

To shut them is to invite the dark, to let it creep closer, to feel its weight on your soul.I laughed it off, blaming fatigue. But the next night, I closed my eyes, just for a moment. 

The darkness pressed in, cold and suffocating, its whispers louder: “You cannot escape me.” Each night, it grew bolder, its touch like ice, its gaze a promise. 

I know now it waits for me, patient, inevitable. One day, it will consume me, and all I’ll know is darkness death itself. Don’t close your eyes. It’s watching, Waiting .

Aio slammed the book shut, her breath shallow. The story struck a nerve her happy life, the sudden dread of an inevitable end. 

It wasn’t just a tale; it felt like a mirror, reflecting a truth she’d ignored: nothing lasts forever. 

The classroom felt colder, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, casting shadows that seemed too sharp. 

The book’s pages rustled, though no air stirred. Aio’s hands trembled as she shoved it into her bag, her optimism faltering. 

“Just a story,” she whispered, but the words rang hollow. She glanced at the window, the night beyond a solid wall of black, and hurried to finish her work.

The next evening, Aio stayed late again, grading essays under the classroom’s harsh lights. 

The book, now on her desk despite leaving it in her bag, glowed faintly, its branches seeming to writhe. 

She ignored it, focusing on her papers, but the story’s words echoed: Don’t close your eyes. Her eyelids felt heavy, the day’s exhaustion pulling at her. 

She rubbed her eyes, catching a flicker in the corner a shadow, darker than the rest, pooling like ink. It shifted, not with the light but against it, curling along the wall.

Aio’s heart raced, her pen clattering to the desk. She grabbed her phone, its flashlight beam cutting through the room. 

The shadow retreated, but the air grew thick, heavy with ash and wet earth. A whisper brushed her ear, soft as gravel: 

“Aio…” She froze, the rule burning in her mind. She kept her eyes wide, staring at the light, but the shadow lingered in her periphery, watching, waiting. 

The classroom’s walls seemed to close in, the windows reflecting only darkness, no stars, no streetlights. 

At 9:00 p.m., a power surge hit, plunging the school into blackness.

 Aio’s phone flashlight flickered, then died. The darkness surged, a living weight, cold and suffocating, pressing against her chest. 

It whispered her name, its voice a chorus of crumbling stone. Shadows slithered across the floor, climbing her legs like icy vines. 

Aio’s eyes burned, desperate to close, but she forced them open, her breath ragged. 

“I won’t let you take me,” she gasped, stumbling toward the door, guided by muscle memory.

She reached the hallway, where a single emergency light glowed faintly. The darkness recoiled, but its whispers grew louder, filling her skull

“You cannot escape.” Aio leaned against the wall, trembling, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

The book, now in her hands though she didn’t recall grabbing it, pulsed warmly, its pages open to a new line in fresh ink: You kept your eyes open, Aio. But the dark is patient. Quola’s darkness waits for you.

“All light fades, Aio. When it does, you’ll see only her dark.” 

The emergency light flickered, and the shadows stirred, closer now, their whispers weaving her name into a promise. 

Aio clutched the book, her eyes locked on the fading light, knowing one day maybe tonight, maybe years from now the darkness would claim her, and no light could save her.