Into Pitch Black -

The sun had set. But the stars were out. Thousands of them. Billions. All that ancient, scattered, peaceful light.

Now there was only the dark.

“The phone,” she said. “Throw it into the right tunnel.”

Leo didn’t think. He turned and ran, phone held out like a torch, the battery ticking down: 3%... 2%... The tunnel forked again, then again, a labyrinth blooming in the dark. He could hear something behind him now—not footsteps, but a wet, rhythmic pulse , the glow gaining.

She was alive. Kneeling on the stone floor, the massive lantern beside her, unlit. In her hands, she held a match. Her face was calm, almost serene, as if she’d been waiting.

“Trust me.” Her eyes were wet, but her voice was steel. “The dark wants a single source. Give it the dying one. I’ll give it the living one. And you—” she smiled, “you run straight.”

It wasn’t the soft dark of a bedroom or the blue-black of a stormy night. This was pitch —absolute, solid, velvety nothing that pressed against his eyeballs. He tried to wave a hand in front of his face and felt only the resistance of cool, still air. No breeze. No scent of soil or rot. Just the sterile, suffocating taste of absence.

“The small light. The dying light. It offends us.” The creature tilted its head 180 degrees. “The other one. The woman. She brought the proper light. The long beam. The hungry one.”

“Next time,” he agreed, “I’m staying home.”

“Leo,” she said. “I knew you’d come left.”

He burst into a chamber. And there was Mira.