At the Red Rock House it grows. It knows no bounds. Skulking through the night like blood through the car seat, it permeates all, infects all, forgives none, pardons none. The night envelopes it, casting darkness across its glistening amorphous saturation as it climbs, crawls, penetrates and destroys. The wind, cool and clammy, caresses it softly and it seems to enjoy the contact. In the form of a cat it would purr, but mute and low it only slinks in silence.

The Red Rock House is its cradle, its birthplace. Born from the darkest malevolence ever to breathe. But nobody sees it. Nobody that gets to live, at least. Few had visited the Red Rock House in over a decade. None had left. Their corpses lay, cold, stiff, unrotting. Their clothes still adorned them as it untouched by the passage of time.

In the distance, through the midnight mists, there came the muffled drone of a motorcycle.

There!

Its headlight pierced the night, stabbing into the dark, revealing almost colorless trees either side of the track that shouldn’t be there. Lost? The rider had become disoriented in the misty night. A soup of black had surrounded him for hours. Gas tank low, eyes heavy, limbs aching tired, he turned the last corner to find the Red Rock House covered, draped, drowning in it. Too late! The headlights glistened off the shimmering scarlet.

(Tidied up from A Writing Exercise)