[ WP ] the monster in the closet finally lures the child into the darkness , only to realize something is very very wrong

I hate darkness now, but it was n't always like this. Not by a long chalk. 
 
 I remember when I ruled the night! I was an emotional vampire, drinking the fear of others and gaining vitality from their terror. I ventured into the black with impunity, and the sight of me was enough to cause grown men to wet themselves and cry for their parents. Back in those days, the God-botherers did most of my work for me. All I had to do was turn up. 
 
 Now I'm trapped in a closet, too weak to escape. I can feel myself shrinking, fading, turning into nothing more than a vague memory. And it's all because of little Sybil Terpsichore. 
 
 I should have known that it was a mistake to come here. 
 
 To be honest, things had been getting progressively more difficult out there, ever since those accursed computers became widespread. It was bad enough in the 1980s, when the movie industry began raiding the collective unconscious for symbols of primal fear to turn into popcorn movies for teens. They stole our gimmicks and turned them into ironic jokes, and left us with nothing. Many of us faded away, and those that survived only did so because they focused on more vulnerable targets: children and the elderly. 
 
 I picked the kids, because I figured that their fear is more fundamental, and they are easier to manipulate. Until Sybil Terpsichore, I used to still be able to hear a couple of my colleagues who went the other way. They haunted the airwaves with their polemics on immigration, terrorists, FEMA camps and the like, and scare the bejeezus out of the less discerning oldies. I wonder if any of them are still out there. 
 
 I had been getting the brush-off from so many kids, dehumanised by open access to the kind of horrors that humanity inflicts on one another - far more bone-chilling than anything we might dream up - and I thought that finding some remote location, off the grid, might dig up some suitably sheltered souls to freak out. Hence this farmhouse, and the Terpsichores. 
 
 Margaret and Howard Terpsichore moved in to this ramshackle old place in 2004 after Margaret's father passed on and left it to her in his will. They got to grips with managing the sizable plot of land that came with the property, and they soon had a child, Sybil. 
 
 When I arrived, I was drawn by Sybil's reedy little voice from her bedroom window, singing some kind of nursery rhyme probably sung to her by her mother. Paydirt! I waited until she slept, and took up residence in the closet amongst her toys. She did n't appear to be having any nightmares, which was surprising to me. My aura tended to induce them back in the old days, which was always good for a bit of latent fear to snack on. I was hungry, but I could wait. I needed to get to know her, find out the best way to approach and maximize the effect. 
 
 That morning, I followed her around the house. She made herself some breakfast and went outside to run around in the cornfield. I wondered if she was just independent for her age, or if she just had lazy parents? I thought it best to investigate further. Bad idea. 
 
 I entered the master bedroom and found Margaret first, then Howard. Both were long dead - Margaret had been poisoned, apparently by Howard. Howard was less intact, having been shot in the face, then mutilated. I could n't move without finding a new bit of Howard. 
 
 `` What are you doing here?'' 
 
 It was Sybil. She must had been watching me for the last few minutes. 
 
 `` FEAR ME LITTLE GIRL! I AM YOUR worst nightm-'' 
 
 `` No you're not. You are my new friend!'' She offered me nothing, not fear, not anxiety, not even a little nervousness. 
 
 I began to get afraid now. 
 
 `` I AM NOBODY'S FRIEND! I RULE THE NIGHT!'' My voice was too shrill. 
 
 `` Well, it's not dark yet'', Sybil responded flatly. `` Come back and try again later.'' 
 
 And that was that. I slunk off into the closet, utterly defeated, too weak to flee elsewhere. Sybil went downstairs to make herself some more food, and I waited for her to go to bed, even though I knew it was futile. I tried, did all the big voice and the gruesome shapes. She just giggled and called me `` silly''. 
 
 I, who had actually caused kings to die of fright, was now `` silly''. I gave up at that point. 
 
 Now I lie here, frightened and alone. Irony.
