The forceful footsteps splash the water, flooding cracks in the cement around them. The footsteps were loud, uncontrolled, and dragging water by their heels. The air was muffled and strong enough to squeeze the lungs it inhabited. The dew that stuck to skin was overflowing in the air, the suffocating scent of  petrichor growing each second. No one comes out at this time, at least not the people who live here. In this abandoned place, this quiet aura that resonates above and beneath the ground. They know not to be seen in the dainty beam of the streetlight. The beliefs of the superstitious people who hear of this place cling to the light, their lasting hope for its protection dims as they realize the hand of the fear they hold touches the light little by little without being burned.  

The footsteps were moving at the speed of light, but as the hand reached them again, they knew that no matter how much light they emitted, all of their beliefs had been ripped from them as the truth presented itself in the form of fright and strength.

This place is of unexpectedness, where light is hand-in-hand with the darkness that taunts us.

This place is of sadness and weakness, where the mind of a human being is both the inspiration and the victim.

When one steps into the dewy air, they see a mirror staring straight at them. The mirror is darkened, old, and the position you hold when you look into a puddle of water.

The darkness of looking down reflects the light the reflection holds when it stares back up.

The footsteps halt, slip, and hit the ground.

Fear cannot be escaped.

Fear cannot be outrun.

Fear is everywhere.

Fear is in the most unexpected places.

Fear is beside us, above and below, front and behind.

Fear is

Us.