To little Judah, the dark had never been scary. The fiend under his bed and the brute tucked away in his closet hadn’t shook him once. It was like that because he knew he was safe. Unlike the masses outside his window, little Judah was impermeable from the plague. The cackling demons of the night couldn’t harm him when he was stashed away in his parent’s estate.

The street lamps used to be lit every night but now shadows ran around the grounds with the sky being cloaked with feathers plucked from a Raven’s wing. The lamplighter must have been infected.

Children little Judah used to school with were no longer tyke’s he’d play with between lessons. They all fed with the hazardous mutants now. And little Judah would watch as they did. When little Judah would look out his window, sometimes he would see a boy with smiling golden hair. Despite the plague and despite the fiend’s and brute’s… this golden boy would send him tender looks and unspoken words. After several nights, he was gone and was replaced with a foul beast who had cancered hair and holes for eyes. When little Judah went to bed that night, his reclusive soul sung him to sleep. He woke up, praying his dreams would take him away from this place.
Little Judah’s voice echoed in the halls. “Mama? Papa?”

He creeped down the hall with his hands cupping a candle, the howls in the wind threatening to blow it out. He made his way into his parents bedroom, which was dark and velvety. Under the covers laid his father, and his mother next to him. Their eyes were open and staring into the blackening nightfall like they had been doing for the past few days.

“Papa, I’m scared.”

His father was laying still.

“Mama, wake Papa up.” He said, now, tugging on his mother’s gown but she was silent and her skin was as cold as the snickering outbursts from the cadaverous city. Little Judah took a step back, gasping as his small body clattered into the wall behind him. “Mama… Papa…”
The candle flickered to black.

We’re dead, he heard a voice say. We’re all dead.

Little Judah wiped his eyes until they were red. “Who are you?”

A friend, it said.

“What’s your name?” Judah asked, reaching out into the dark but his hands came back to him empty. There was no response. “What are you?” Still, no acknowledgement of his question. “Can we talk?”

I’ll tell you a story, it finally said.

“What kind of story?”

It ignored his question and began: There was this boy who found a candle and he would huddle around it and the candle would dance for him and the flames would sing him astringently composed melodies. The flame would dance in the dark and it lit up the boy’s home, one room at a time. The boy, allowing his humanity to get the better of him, touched the flame. The fire’s blaze withered until it was no more as the wax crumbled into dust and was carried off into the wind. Soon after, the boy disintegrated into dust as well and the world grew exquisitely cold.

Little Judah’s voice was low and precarious. “Who are you?”

A cold gust flew through him, causing his bones to shatter beneath his existence. Out of the shadows, it stepped forward. Its hair was fringy and its eyes had been torn away from its sockets. Its skin was colored with death and cantankerousness. Come, it said, we shall go together.
The boy ran for the door, but the draft locked it shut. Little Judah turned around, staring at it and screamed: “WHO ARE YOU? TELL ME YOUR NAME!”

Its voice was cold and barbaric, I am Judah. Now come, let us go.