Death has a new target. Death is a soulless soul, a demon, a devil. Death is seeable, yet you cannot see it. It is figureless, yet it has a shape. And it follows you. Wherever you go, it's always behind you. Whenever you look behind you, it's there. You can see it, but you can't. You know it's there. But you don't.
Amara lightly slammed the light switch. It flickered, with just a little bright light, then died out. Amara pounded the switch.
She groaned in the stiff, echoless darkness. The felt around for a flashlight. She knew there was one. She clasped at a cold, metal cylinder. She pressed into the squishy gelatin button.
With a small, soundless sigh of relief, she felt someone was in the room with her. She looked behind her.
Swoosh. A black figure.
She shrugged it off. And walked deeper into the basement. Down the wooden stairs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Each step, a stronger, louder noise. Each noise, a stronger, menacing presence surrounded her. Death hung in the air, still, waiting for its prey.
Amara wasn't going to let it happen. She wasn't scared. It was the one thing Death fed on.
Death played with her. The bright, white flashlight flickered off.
The darkness was still, stiff. Death hung everywhere. The basement lights flashed. A crackle, then a buzz. They had flickered back on.
But in front of Amara, a girl, hair over her face, giant horns the size of Amara's arms hung over her head. The girl made a demon growl. She wore a yellowed gown. Her feet were bleeding, from the sweat bores. Little beads of blood. All over her body.
"I follow you" said a whisper, the gender could not be guessed. The lights flickered off.
Death had succeeded in killing its prey.