The Color That Waits

Ever since she could remember, seventeen-year-old Clara Monroe had been afraid of the color black.

Not spiders, not heights, not death—black. It was more than a fear. It was a sickness in her chest, a clawing in her brain. Black wasn’t just a color—it was a presence. When she was a child, she told her mother that black people “watched” her. Her parents thought it was a phase. But it never went away.

Clara wore only whites, creams, and pastel colors. Her room was painted ivory. The windows were never curtained. She avoided movies with nighttime scenes. The inside of her eyelids? Terrifying.

Now, with her parents gone for the weekend on a business trip, Clara was alone. Alone with her carefully controlled life, where every bulb burned bright, and every shadow was scrutinized.

At first, it was bearable.

But on the second night, something changed.

The light in her bedroom flickered once, then twice, then died. Her heart seized in her chest. She bolted from her room, her hands trembling, her breath shallow. The hallway light flickered too, until she was surrounded by the creeping void.

Black.

She screamed and slammed herself into the wall, clawing for the switch. When it clicked on again, the light was harsh, unnatural.

She tried to tell herself it was fine. Just old wiring. Just a storm.

But then came the movement.

The first time, she thought it was a trick of exhaustion. A shape in the corner of her eye, just outside the glow of the lamp. It disappeared when she turned her head. But the shapes kept returning—closer each time. Sliding under the furniture. Breathing behind doors.

She covered the mirrors. Threw out her black leggings. Stuffed a black hoodie into the trash. But it wasn't enough. The color found her—in the unlit corners, the backs of her eyelids, the empty screens of the television.

That night, every light in the house was on. Lamps. Overheads. Nightlights.

Still, she didn’t sleep.

Then—everything went dark.

A loud pop echoed through the house. Then another. The fuses blew, all at once.

Clara screamed so loud her voice cracked. She stumbled through the sudden darkness, smacking her hands against the walls, trying to find the breaker box. Her feet thudded across the carpet as shadows seemed to chase her, pulling at the edges of her vision.

“Don’t look,” she whispered. “If I don’t look, it isn’t real.”

But it was real. She could hear it now—breathing, scraping. Laughter, low and dry. It was behind her. In front of her. Inside her.

She collapsed to her knees, shaking. Her whole life, she’d been told it was just a fear. But this wasn't a phobia anymore.

It was something that had waited for the darkness.

And now it was here.

Her fingers found the cold handle of the emergency lantern in the hallway. But the batteries were dead.

Clara started laughing, thin and cracked. Light had failed her. Her rules, her rituals, her precautions—nothing stopped it.

So she made a new plan.

A final one.

She went to the garage, still giggling, eyes wide and unblinking. She found the red gas can that her father kept for the mower. She drenched the carpet, the walls, and the drapes. The smell of fuel filled her nose like perfume. It was chaos. It was madness.

But in it, she saw freedom.

Her white nightgown clung to her soaked skin. Her bare feet slipped as she lit a match.

The flame jumped. It caught the curtain, then the sofa. Then her sleeve.

She watched it crawl up her arm like a golden pet. For the first time in her life, the black retreated. Her body glowed—brilliant, beautiful. The shadows screamed and shriveled. She twirled in the living room like a dancer on fire.

And she laughed. And laughed.

By morning, the house was gone. Charred earth, blackened timbers, the smell of ash clinging to the quiet neighborhood.

Neighbors had seen smoke in the night, heard laughter. The fire department came too late.

Her parents arrived the next day, their faces blank, shattered. Police gave them what little was left of Clara—bones curled inward, a melted nightlight clutched in one hand.

“She was afraid of the dark,” a neighbor told them. “Always kept the lights on. Always so quiet.”

They stood where the front porch once was, staring at the black scorch mark left behind.

The irony was inescapable.

She had lived in fear of the color black.

Now she was part of it.