I write by the light of a candle. And no, it's not because I live in the time before electricity. It's because it was the only light we could afford to show, for fear of being seen. Also the dang thing doesn't need to be included with batteries or electricity; which was a plus.
My cousin's form crossed the candle light, for the fiftieth time; making a shadow fall across my paper yet again. She continued to pace, trying to comfort the baby in her arms, while praying that he would stay silent.
Stuffy breathing of a dozen other children could be heard throughout the room; if you could even call it that. Our shelter was nothing more then four stone-cut, moldy, damp walls; roof and flooring made out of bug-infested dirt; and a lonely, broken window cut into one wall, several feet above our heads.
Gee, you say, sounds like your average Halloween, or maybe a common nightmare. It is. You see, we're the only ones left, the thirteen of us. We're the ones they're hunting, we're the ones they want.