Pitch Black Outside Novels & Stories

Bats fly overhead, feasting on the small bugs attracted to the light before flitting back into the attics and crawl spaces of the slowly decaying craftsman houses. I turn a corner into a deep black darkness. It feels eternal, and while I feel the cold cement pressing into my sneaker-covered feet, I also feel like I’m falling through space. The street seems quieter than before. Too quiet. The common sounds of early evening have faded to nothing, not a single flap of wing or whisper of wind through the trees. Even the crickets are quiet. I have never felt a darkness so complete. I look up.

••••••••• The day the lights went out in the city and there was a blackout, Trisha had no idea she would end up fúcking the neighbor she barely spoke to. "Shít. Not tonight," Trisha muttered, twisting her key in the lock after what felt like hours of walking through the dark streets of Brooklyn. She stepped into her apartment and kicked off her flip-flops, feeling the thick, humid air press against her skin. It was suffocating inside, worse than outside, and sweat trickled down her spine, soaking the back of her tank top. The blackout had taken the power, and her patience, with it. She lit a few candles and scattered them across the room. The soft amber glow clung to the walls, throwing shad

Suddenly there was the sound of hiking boots on the porch in front of the cabin, but just one pair of hiking boots. “Did one of them come back for something they forgot?” Rachelle, still naked down to her underwear, wondered out loud. There was a metallic shearing sound followed by a heavy thump on the floor of the porch. “Sounds like bolt cutters,” Mont said. The door opened. The Sun hadn’t really set yet, even though it was blocked by the Dirt Storm, so it was about the same level of light as a dark thunderstorm out there. We couldn’t see details of the silhouetted figure very well. Also, in the very next instant, we all received a blast of Dirt in our faces, causing us to close our eyes,

He has it in his head to help this man and he is not going to change his mind any time soon, despite the fact that she is clearly uncomfortable with the situation. There were approximately three street lights shining in the area by the gas station. Those lights illuminated the road for maybe three hundred yards or so, until they moved out of range of it's dull, yellowish glow. Now the pitch black night has decended once more and the road is ice covered and ominous. The interior of the car is now substantially darker and quieter, as the conversation between them has stalled.

When previously there was cold and darkness, darkness which had a possibility of light of finding something unknown now Blackness enveloped me. Pitch black. Cold, shuddering, chilling Black. It promised to swallow me. It did because I gave myself in. Nothing that I could do. Still, my thought rounded around the fact that; She didn’t come back.

Why is it so pitch black? We step inside as our eyes take time to adjust to the surroundings. Eventually, I can slightly shadows and forms. Oh, the monster hasn’t been here. I notice that the floor here is soft. Definitely not concrete. I sit down to touch the ground, pick some of it and rub them against my fingers. It feels like soil. Is this the playground? “Hello! Is there anybody here?” Harris tries to call out for other survivors. But no one responds. Why did the ghosts tell us to come here?

She desperately wanted to know more. A sudden, muffled sound like a twig snapping outside made Lyda's head jerk up toward the window next to the back door. It took her eyes a short second to adjust from the candlelight. Her breath came to stop when she thought she could see a pitch black figure standing there, just outside the open window. No facial features, just a dark shadow staring right at her. Lyda's heart raced as she quickly rubbed at her eyes to make sure they were seeing clearly, but when she looked back up, there was nothing there.

The urge to see Alex overpowers any hesitation, and I push the door open further, stepping in. The room is shrouded in darkness, the blinds drawn tightly shut, creating an illusion of nighttime despite the daylight outside. The silence hangs heavily, and I make an effort not to linger on the thought that I could be the last person he wants to see at this moment. Ignoring those thoughts, I cautiously enter the pitch-black room, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light.

You don’t get used to it, but you get good at pretending. That’s my trick. Another close shifts over. Another two a.m. where the world peels down to the sound of my boots and the scrape of my own voice inside my head. I slam the bar’s side door behind me and stand for a second under the eaves, watching snow drop from the roof in clumps big as raccoon skulls. Pinecrest looks like it always does at this hour: a row of dead eyes, every window blacked out, the only signs of life a cluster of brown-bag empties in the gutter and the sick glow of the ancient streetlamps.

A second later, it gave out its black smoke. Ibekwe dropped the pot on the ground and rubbed his eyes. Everywhere was quiet now. The children had stopped singing and dancing and the birds seemed to have gotten what they desired from their ruthless efforts on top of the tree. The light of the moon was still bright and Ibekwe knew he shouldn't be alone.