Perhaps horror and terror aren’t always the same thing, and darkness isn’t always indicative of harm.
The traveler in the tunnel groped his way forward with a hand against the wall, a chill creeping up his spine. The guardian, watching its brave trespasser stumble, lit a candle for the man to find: on the other side he’d be outside the spirit’s care, but now at least there would be a light to guide his way.
The man alone in empty rows of cubicles allowed himself to be taken advantage of by his employers. The resident spirit kept watch on its melancholy charge, encouraging him to leave by spreading a vague feeling of unease: endless mechanized work was not meant for mortals, whose lives pass by so quickly if they let themselves be stripped of joy.
The guardians kept a close eye on the young woman. She was blithely unaware of the unscrupulous fraternity boys who never overstayed their welcome in her apartment after a wild party: who, instead, always stumbled home to pass out on their own couches, and fell asleep to the vision of many eyes judging their guilty thoughts.
The boy liked to be alone. When his father was home it was never good, but once his family moved into their new place something crept through the darkness that was stronger than his father’s temper. It wasn’t long before his father stopped raising his voice and his fists, frightened by horrible dreams that left him drenched in sweat whenever he so much as thought about hurting his son. The boy slept soundly: he always felt safe for as long as he lived in that house.
The radio broadcaster had recently lost his husband. When he was at work the good memories felt close by, and some of the horror of those last days beside a hospital bed faded away. Sometimes, when the weight grew unbearable, he almost thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, a soft voice telling him he was never truly alone. His love was there. He would always be there, as long as he was needed.
The darkness watched out for the ones who couldn’t watch out for themselves.
