I am the spirit of fear and pain. I lie waiting to inflict torment. I am
a shade, a shadow, a faded imprint of a horror unspoken. A horror with
which I haunt this place. I am the spirit of fear and pain. It is what I
must do.

* * *

He feels it as he nears the door, both feels and fears my presence. It
is only a moment's pause as he turns the key-- a flicker of unease--but
it is there. If I could smile I would.

He enters and walks slowly, deliberately down the hall, not looking up.
There is a patch of ceiling that is darker than the rest, though not
through any lack of light. It is not I, who am here and yet not, it is
merely the way my presence sours the air. Nevertheless he will not look
at it.

He will not look, yet does not know that I look through his eyes. His
thoughts are open to me as the night outside is open. I am not trapped
by walls or flesh and bone.

He hangs up his jacket and puts on another, an old coat stained from
work and sad memory. Feeling in the pocket he finds hard reassuring
metal. He is preparing, so must I.

He walks toward the cellar door and now I am the space surrounding it. I
thicken the air and strengthen my will. He shall not pass.

He pauses, grasping again that pocketed tool which seems to give him
courage. I must not relent. He has will and a purpose but so do I, and I
intend to frighten him from his course. I weigh down on him like a heavy
cloak, like a shroud I cover his head with darkness.

There is a moan, not him, but coming from below.

He yells “shut up!”, and I am almost dislodged by the force of his
anger.

As he descends the stairs, I envelop him with my terror, embracing him
about with all my impure energies. I delve into his memory to stir up
demons-- a childhood's pain and uncertainty, a youth forgotten and
uncared-for, a man maligned and misunderstood. I wrap him in these
illusions of things past, visions of that which hurt him. I want to make
him feel it again. I want him to feel.

But he has iron in him, a mettle born of hatred. A hatred I can see, it
is purple and red and on fire in his fingertips. His mind is calm and
clear but his heart is overflowing with a hunger to taste this evil.
When he reaches the spot where his latest victim is chained to the wall,
it is I who falter while he remains sure.

He takes out the knife. Its touch has been his surety, his
steadfastness. The blood begins to flow and I am undone. I am the spirit
of fear and pain, and once again they fill me completely.