Ghost Lori was scared of the ghost. Her bedroom was dark, the world inky. Moonlight creeped through the slits in her blinds to drape the edges of her furniture in silver, curling fingers of light that all stretched menacingly towards her. Lori huddled upright in her bed, the wire headstand digging into her back. She clutched her blankets in a clumsy ball between her knees and her chin. The end of her bed was so far away. It stretched beyond her like a great white road into the distance. However, just behind the footstand, she could make out the dark, oppressive form of her knotted wooden wardrobe looming over her. So far away, yet far too close. Shrouded in the shadowy corner, almost hidden away by the wardrobe, was the ghost. He was dark, too dark to make out in detail. The silver fingers of moonlight exposed his bowed head, but still managed to glint off his glassy eyes. Like a candle radiates light, the ghost radiated darkness. The same shifting, uneven darkness as a flickering flame. Lori ached to turn on a light. She imagined herself reaching to the edge of her bed, fingers trailing the wood of the end table that stood there, groping for the wire that would lead her small fingers to the switch that would bathe the room in the sure, steady, artificial light of a bulb. But she didn't. She knew it would do no good. The ghost would still be there, watching. She just wouldn't be able to see him. The glare of her bedside lamp would reveal an empty corner, Lori knew. But he would still be there. Light doesn't chase away darkness. It just hides it. And so he stood in the corner, almost hidden by the wardrobe. He wasn't big. He wasn't imposing. He wasn't threatening. He was small, and almost hidden by the wardrobe. Lori was scared of the ghost.