I actually have some stuff for it. Some odd, creepy, and in one case sweet stuff.

Et voila:


It’s there, you know, that which we locked away
all those years ago. We brought down the cities,
tumbled the skyscrapers, pulled up the concrete
and buried it where no one would see it again. It’s
still there, though. It won’t go away. Returning to stone
and farming, to the old ways, won’t keep it happy.

We hide in our houses, now, because we’re afraid
of the Night. We fear the nameless creatures, the
wordless killers, the howling beasts, the deepest
shadows of the moonless darkness. We can’t turn
back time. It hunts us because we hurt it. Going back
to being slaves, slaves to it, won’t keep it away.

Children, they say, went to where we hid all the
electricity. The Night took them,
tearing at their bodies, gnawing at their souls,
ripping them apart, blood burning earth. We heard
the screams. The silence was worse. No one could
muster the strength to bury their bones alone.

They were the last children, because after that
no more were born. Every woman was barren,
after a blood-burning sickness, fever and pain,
and some ran to the wolves. They disappeared,
screams like howls. The sadness hurt. It was the
deepest blow the Night could strike.

We tried to fight, then, when there wasn’t anything
else to do. No sword could harm the Night,
no spear pierce its heart, no arrow strike it,
and all our strongest died. All the heroes were lost,
woman and man. The priests fell. We were left
alone, huddling and praying by the fire.

It’s still here, you know, no door could hold the
monstrosity. The city lights were no beacon of hope
against it, in all it’s outraged, poisoned strength,
but perhaps they were better than this. This slow
degradation. This wasting away in huts. We’ll all
die in the end, in the cities of our minds.