Danny was always afraid of the dark, the kind of kid who slept at the nightlight and did it was way too old, one who never dared to step out of his room if the hallway light was off.

I remember our first sleepover. When tucked away beneath

his covers, he asked me to close the closet door for him. I laughed but still did it.

Something about the way the shadows fell in that little dark space was all they'd say, a perfect hiding place for something waiting in the

darkness. His fear became something unspoken between us from that day on, really seen as nothing more than a quirk as we grew up.

Still, I checked the closet for monsters when he'd ask.

After college, we'd simply drifted apart,

my lives taking us where they would,

and now, all these years later,

the last thing I expected,

was a call from him. Not in the middle of the night, trying to hide the nervousness

shaking through his voice. A day later, I found myself knocking at his door, watching the sun

set on the horizon, thinking about the last

words he said to me, please get here before dark.

Sorry Danny.

I called him sick at work, picked up a rental car and spent the day driving through

the boonies, navigating mile after mile of Country Road, only to find myself arriving so

late. I knocked again, starting to wonder if I'd had the right address.

It was a small house, not exactly off the grid, but at the end of a scarcely populated road

surrounded by dense tickets of woodland.

Not quite the place I'd expected Danny to land.

Somewhere so... isolated.

...