The Shadowman

A man with a tattered cloak of pitch-black night stood in the ever-growing darkness that came with the dying of the day. As the sun fell and the moon rose, the man stood still.

A breeze, light and cool, tried tugging playfully at his tattered cloak of pitch-black night. The breeze slowly died as it brushed against him—like the cold kiss of death brushing against one’s lips.

A faint smile played across the man’s face. It was as if he knew the wind’s death was because of him. It was, and he did. That was why he smiled. If that doesn’t give you a hint of his character, I don’t know what will. Perhaps if you read on, you will see that this is not the sort of person with whom you should spend any amount of time.

Be wary of such a person as the man with a tattered cloak of pitch-black night. If you see him, whatever you do, do not linger; do not remain. If you see him—run.

The creatures of the wood knew this, and they knew it well—which is why you’d hear no birds chirping at dusk on that particular night, no movement of hurried feet among the forest leaves. The woodland creatures had all fled. They sensed him long before his arrival.

He brought with him the smell of decay and death—a scent that wafted on the wind with terrible forewarning. Animals knew to flee the forest at the smell of smoke long before a terrible inferno spreads. So too, they fled the forest before the smell of the man with a tattered cloak of pitch-black night.

Yet, he was not alone.

As the darkness grew and the shadows lengthened, two figures slowly began to take shape at his right and left-hand side. It was as though they stepped out of the shadows—or perhaps they were made of shadows themselves. They were difficult to see. At first glance, they might have been mistaken for shadows. But I assure you—they were not.

Children saw them more easily than adults. They saw them because they believed in them more easily. After all, children have what many adults do not. Or perhaps, they have simply kept what many adults have stolen from them. They have not lost it. Not yet.

See, we are all born with a small spark—a spark that has the potential to grow into an ever-burning flame. A flame of creativity, of inspiration, of joy, and wonder. If we guard it, if we shield it, and allow it to grow, it will become something greater than itself. Cupped in our hands and held against our fragile, beating hearts, it is a flickering flame that burns bright in the pitch-black darkness of the world.

The trouble is that light in the darkness is a beacon that draws all manner of vile creatures to it. Like moths to a flame, the light we hold cupped in our hands against our hearts draws such creatures—like the ones which stood behind the man with the tattered cloak of pitch-black night. Observe them carefully now. They lurked in the darkness; they loomed in the night.

They were known by many names, but what they were rightly called—was known only to them. Far and wide, they were known as the Shadowfolk. And they will steal our light—if they can.

Yet, they were not there for the man. There was subservience to their stance—as if he were their master and they, his servants. They were. If anything, that should tell you something rather important—the man in the tattered cloak of pitch-black night was not actually a man.

What that exactly made him was difficult to say, and few could answer that question. He was older than man—more ancient than they. He was not one of the creatures—there were many things he could do that they could not.

He had a name—for all things do—but what his name was, even fewer people knew it than those who knew the name of the Shadowfolk. For the sake of convenience—and the sake of mystery—we shall call him “the Shadowman.”

Look at him—but do not look too closely. And whatever you do, do not look into his eyes. Avert your gaze; avoid his eyes—if you can. Observe him as he stood in the growing darkness with two of the Shadowfolk standing on his right and left. Remember that he just killed the wind for trying to play with his tattered cloak of pitch-black night.

He will do far worse if his gaze falls upon you.

His dark eyes seemed to devour the light itself, like a black hole dragging helpless stars across a field of ever-night. There was a hunger in his gaze, never satisfied, never sated. He always wanted more. He craved it. He needed it.

Indeed, he loved the light as much as he hated the light.

His gaze turned upward to the night sky above. The field of ever-night, the twinkling stars, and the slim sliver of a silver moon looked back at him, unafraid.

The Shadowman stared back with a scowl. Those glittering stars were out of his reach at the moment. They were safe in the night sky above. For now. But if they ever fell from the heavens, the Shadowman would be waiting for them.

The Shadowman turned his gaze forward again, toward lights that were in reach, lights that called to him, siren-like in their allure. Observe him now, as the Shadowman stared down at a city filled with flickering lights. They beckoned to him, whispering to him a promise—sure and certain—that what he was looking for was somewhere down below.

The scowl turned to a slow smile, soft and sinister. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator baring its teeth in anticipation as it caught sight of its prey. His teeth were cracked and yellowed with age and improper care. He stared down at the city with a ravenous hunger in his gaze. There was hatred there as well, deep within—a raging flame.

The Shadowman with a tattered cloak of pitch-black night turned his head slightly, acknowledging the two Shadowfolk on his right and his left. When he spoke, the Shadowfolk listened. They obeyed his—and only his—command.

When he spoke, there was gravel in his voice—a rasp of crushed glass underfoot. It was not a voice you ever want to hear. If you do—run. For if you hear his voice, know that the Shadowman is not far behind.

“Steal their light.”

This command, spoken by the Shadowman, set the Shadowfolk loose. They melted into the darkness. They crept forward, skulking like shadows across the ground, drawing closer and closer to the distant city below. The Shadowman watched them for a moment and then followed after them, walking slowly toward the faint and distant lights.

The Shadowman with a tattered cloak of pitch-black night and the Shadowfolk will do whatever it takes to steal our light—if they can. But we mustn’t let them.

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