Ghostlight And Stormflies

It’s dark when it should be much lighter. A message is being received via a barely audible channel. A voice wishes to speak, but offers only fragments of words. I try to listen, but it’s too faint to hear. Let it grow stronger, then we’ll talk.
There are stormflies hovering in the air, a liminal presence you could miss until you feel them on your face, in your eyes, your mouth. They too have something to say: we sense the darkness approaching; we dance in anticipation; we await.
It’s a time for ghost stories. We huddle closer together, gathering strength in numbers. We whisper tales of the nameless ones: the stalk, the iris, the worm, the gash. We scare ourselves stupid, because only in stupidity do we feel free.