Ghost.

The dark is like a sickness. Alive and growing, pulling everything into it's grasp.

I sit with my back to a tree.

The shadows spill across the ground, their edges unfinished, unclear. I can't tell where the forest ends, and I begin.

The forest is a giant inkstain, spreading and the trees look like blotches, tangled in the darkness. They impression of letters, a message someone couldn't quite say.

But there is a light. I stand and see it is coming from the house across the clearing.

If you look closely, it looks like someone is standing at the window.