The only thing darker than the writing was the ink used to print the words on the page.
The girl finished the chapter, closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.
She reached for the light switch. Click. The room was drenched in nothingness.
The book fell from the table and she flinched as the paperback hit the floor with a muffled thud. Burying herself in the blankets and squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to escape her writhing imagination. But shadows licked the walls and the darkness smelt of horror.
She sat up, switched the light back on and snatched the book from the floor.
With her index finger, she traced the cover of the shabby paperback and quietly chanted to herself.
Stephen King. Stephen King. King Stephen. The Dark King.
She opened the book again – but it had changed. It was blank. There were no words or printed stains. The dark marks were not there.