There’s a gleam of light from up above, and I spin rapidly, throwing my black cape up as a shield. But it’s gone, and the room is dark again, the way it should be. It was my daughter, no doubt; she found the removable knot in my bedroom floor a full year younger than I did. She’s become wayward since my wife had to go, but she’s still young enough to mind her father.
“The Dark Distillery”
Tocsin and other stories
About the story: What if you could distill and refine the darkness of human souls?