sorry, no title!

This is the prologue to what I hope will be my first published work. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

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Prologue

It is dark when they come. As if the new moon cannot bear to watch the village fall, it closes its shining eye that night, and the shadows invade.

In a small but tidy cottage on the edge of town, a young girl shivers at the sounds of frightened screams and desperate cries. At the foot of her father’s sickbed she whispers, “Papa, I am frightened.”

“Come here, my child,” he says, and as she enters the circle of his frail arms, he kisses the top of her head. “I know you are frightened, but you must be strong, and have courage. Can you do this?”

She nods, but her dark blue eyes are round with fear, for the screaming has grown closer. “Quickly, child,” her father says. “Bring me the box with your mother’s things.”

She hurries to a secret place and comes back with a silver box, intricately carved with leaves and vines and a name, “Gwendolyn.” Her father produces a tiny key that hangs by a chain around his neck and, with trembling hands, unlocks and opens the ornate trinket. Inside are his wife’s treasures: her wedding ring, a dried flower picked by her daughter, and a yellowed letter from her husband. Despite the urgency of this moment, he takes great care as he removes each item from the box and lays it gently in his lap. The child watches as he lifts the velvet lining from the bottom of the box, revealing a secret compartment with a special treasure hidden within. Outside the house, the screams and the shadows grow ever nearer.

The father lifts the treasure from the box and places it in his daughter’s hands. “You must keep it always,” he says, “but keep it concealed, for no one you do not trust must ever know you bear it. It was your mother’s, and when she died she said it must be passed to you.”

The little girl lifts the deep violet stone to level with her eyes and stares into its depths, where a light glows dimly but steadily. Then shadows start to cross the windows of their cottage, and she urgently whispers, “Papa, we must flee, quickly!”

There is sadness in his eyes as he tells her, “I cannot come.” And though he is weak in his illness, his determination is not. “I have not the strength. My time is here, but yours, my child, is not. You must run with haste to the Haven. You will be safe there.”

She stares at him, tears polishing her eyes, her feet rooted to the ground. “Run, Gwenny,” her father says. “And do not be afraid. Where I go, I will be safe, too.”

He kisses her again on her forehead and she moves to the back of the cottage, turning as she closes the door behind her to whisper, “Good-bye, Papa.”

But the candlelight in the small house flickers and extinguishes, and a shadow-creature emerges through the door opposite the little girl. With an evil smirk, the massive being steps to the bed where her father lies and places a long and scabby finger at the dying man’s neck. He chokes and gasps as the shadow-creature’s yellow fingernail punctures his throat, and blood gushes into his lungs. When at last he has drowned, the monster steps away, then pauses and turns toward the door where the little girl stands, frozen with terror. His pure black eyes meet hers, and she gasps.