The smell of charcoal and dust hung in the air. A feint whistling and a jingling of keys was the only noise that hung in the air. On most nights at this time almost nothing could be heard over the howling and screaming of each and every damned soul to be locked up in fearling prison.
“Koz?” A worried voice called down the blackened walkway. The guard quickened his pace toward a shadowy figure that hung in the midst of the dark. “Is that you?"
"Achluophobia, catoptrophobia, hypsiphobia, necrophobia.” A lilting sing-song voice counted off the guards biggest and deepest fears. A few steps back and the voice continuted. “Oh my old friend. ‘Koz’ isn’t here right now."
It started almost a rumbling growl and grew like thunder into a roaring symphony of shreiks. Laughter. Not like any the guard had heard before, echoed throughout the hallway. Shaking the guard lifted his torch, a familiar face caught it’s light. Smirking now, the black still coursing through his veins. "Sick em boys.” Fearlings crawled out of every orifice. Seeping through the shadows and climbing towards the guard. They ran but to no avail. The General had been taken, and now onto the rest of the universe.
I just couldn’t stop thinking about what must have happened at the fearling prison when Pitch was first created. So 1AM doodles turned into a thing. And I’ll probably hate it in the morning.