Night of Dead Power
The lights went out without warning—no flicker of alert, no sound of a transformer exploding in the distance. One moment, the resort lobby glowed with the sterile warmth of overhead fluorescent lights, reflecting off polished oak and large windows crusted with ice like frozen stained glass. The next, darkness rushed in. Not merely the absence of light, but something more substantial: thick, tactile, almost suffocating in its completeness. Emergency lights blinked briefly in the corners—sickly pale green—before fading entirely, their batteries perhaps drained by age or extreme cold. The resort was wrapped in a darkness so dense that the eyes struggled desperately to invent shapes that were not there, producing flickering purple and gray ghosts on the retina. Snow thundered against the win
- Writer
