Kyle Standford cowered in the darkness.
There were others, like him, but he feared them, sensing their rage, their universal hatred.
If this was Hell then there were no flames or leering gargoyles, just an infinite, cold, loveless, dark eternity.
In the distance he could make out a solitary candle, its light and warmth tantalisingly close but somehow unattainable. In vain he reached for it, but his self-made darkness clung to him and drew him back where the others waited.
