I could hear them scurrying in the darkness, their little claws scratching, their yellowed teeth tearing. Their squeaks and squeals echoed through the cavernous passages. This was their home; I was the intruder here.
My little lamp barely showed me more than my next step in the darkness, and ever at the edges of its light those unseen shadows—how the dreadful hint of their true forms played at the edge of my light.
I do not believe in rats. That is only what the mind allows itself to see when it has light. There’s more, in the darkness, when the imagination is troubled. The rats are merely the bodies for the darkness. Kill the rats, the darkness remains. The darkness will find a new form. I don’t believe it is the rats.
In these lightless corridors I wander, searching for the heart of the darkness. There, I will take my light, and the shadows will disappear forevermore. No more will the darkness arise from the earth and fill our eyes with lies, seep into our hearts, make us like the rats below. No more will the darkness creep into our dreams. I will slay it, with my lantern, with the oil and the fire and the burning wick. Reason will prevail. The light of reason will shine. Darkness will fall away into a permanent day.
How much oil is left? How much oil can I burn? Do I have enough to turn back? No. I have to finish. I have to find the darkness. How close am I? I must slay the darkness. I must slay it. I must . . .
. . . before the wick burns out.
Tale Told 