The fluorescent lights hummed, a constant, unwavering drone that permeated every corner of Helsinki. It wasn't a gentle hum; it was a forceful proclamation, a sonic barricade against the encroaching night, against what lurked within it.
Every building, every street lamp, every single dwelling glowed with mandated illumination. Darkness was not just discouraged; it was legislated against, a public enemy number one.
For thirty-one years, Aino had known no other way. Born into a world already bathed in perpetual light, the concept of true night was almost foreign, a whispered legend from a forgotten time.
Her apartment, like all others, was a beacon. The living room lamp, positioned strategically in the corner, cast a harsh, white glow that bounced off the pale yellow walls.
Even the curtains were a thin, translucent material, designed to let the city's artificial sunlight bleed in, ensuring no pockets of genuine shadow could form.
Aino stood at the window, not looking out, but staring at her reflection. Her face was framed by the ever-present light, highlighting the faint lines around her eyes, the tiredness that clung to her like a second skin.
She'd just returned from her shift at the bakery, the scent of yeast and sugar still clinging to her clothes. It was a simple life, predictable, safe. Or so it was supposed to be.
Lately, though, a disquiet had begun to gnaw at the edges of her peace, something subtle, insidious. It wasn't anything tangible, not a threat she could name, but a feeling, a prickling sensation at the base of her neck whenever the light seemed to flicker, however briefly.
Aino moved away from the window, the floorboards creaking softly underfoot. The building was old, one of the few pre-Mandatory Light Act structures still standing. Its age gave it character, sure, but it also meant drafty windows and sounds that the newer, sterile buildings lacked.
Usually, these sounds were comforting, familiar. Lately, they'd taken on a different tone. The creaks seemed deeper, the rustles in the walls more pronounced, almost… purposeful.
She poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher on the counter. The kitchen, small and functional, was also bathed in light, a fixture directly beneath the cabinet illuminating every surface. The water was cold, tasteless, and did little to quench the dryness in her throat. It was a nervousness, she realized, a low-level anxiety that had become a constant companion.
"It's nothing," she murmured to herself, setting the glass down with a clink. "Just tired." But the words felt hollow, unconvincing even to her own ears.
The mandatory light was supposed to keep them safe. It was the law. Everyone knew the stories, whispered in hushed tones, about the time before, about the things that had emerged from the darkness, things that light repelled. Things that scurried.
A shiver ran down her spine despite the warmth of the apartment. She glanced at the light fixture in the living room, the buzzing becoming more noticeable now, a higher pitch than before. It wasn't flickering visually, but she could sense a change in its rhythm, a slight instability.
It was probably just old, like the building itself. She should call maintenance tomorrow, get it checked. But the thought of even a temporary dip in illumination sent a jolt of unease through her.
Aino walked over to the television, switching it on for some background noise. The news anchor's face filled the screen, cheerful, bland.
Another story about the success of the Light Act, statistics showing decreased incidents, increased safety. It was always the same. Reassuring narratives designed to soothe the collective anxiety, to reinforce the belief in the system.
But what if the system wasn't foolproof? What if the things in the dark were evolving, adapting? The thought was irrational, she knew. The scientists, the government, they had assured everyone that the light was the answer, the impenetrable shield. Yet, the feeling persisted, a cold finger tracing patterns on her skin.
She changed the channel, landing on a nature documentary. Vibrant images of daytime landscapes filled the screen – sun-drenched forests, sparkling rivers, animals basking in the golden glow.
It was a stark contrast to the artificial white light of her apartment, a reminder of a natural world that felt increasingly distant, almost mythical.
The documentary host's voice was calm, authoritative, describing the intricate ecosystems, the balance of nature. Balance. Was there still balance when one half of the natural cycle, the night, was eradicated, forced into perpetual retreat?
A sudden scratching sound from the wall behind the television made her jump. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but definitely there.
Aino turned down the volume, straining her ears. Scratch, scratch… pause… scratch. It was rhythmic, deliberate, not like the random settling of an old building. This was something else.
She moved closer to the wall, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. The scratching continued, now a little louder, closer. It sounded like claws, tiny claws scraping against the plaster.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice barely a whisper. Silence. The scratching stopped. She waited, holding her breath, listening for any sound. Nothing. Just the hum of the lights, the distant drone of traffic from the brightly lit streets outside.
She was imagining things, she told herself. It was the stress, the lack of sleep. She was letting her anxiety get the better of her.
Aino turned back to the television, willing herself to relax. But the image of the sun-drenched forest now seemed menacing, almost mocking her unease. The documentary host was talking about nocturnal animals, creatures adapted to the darkness, thriving in the absence of light. A chill went through her again.
What happened to those creatures when darkness itself was outlawed? Where did they go?
The scratching started again, louder this time, more insistent. It was definitely coming from inside the wall, just behind the television. It was moving, she realized, shifting slowly along the wall, tracing a path. It wasn't rats. Rats scurried randomly, erratically. This was different. This was… deliberate.
Aino reached for the lamp on the side table, her hand trembling slightly. She lifted it, the harsh light casting elongated shadows across the room, shadows that seemed to writhe and deepen even in the constant illumination. She pointed the lamp at the wall, focusing the beam on the area where the scratching was coming from.
"Who's there?" she asked, her voice stronger now, laced with a forced bravado she didn't feel. Silence again. Then, a different sound. Not scratching, but tapping. Faint, rapid taps, as if tiny fingers were drumming against the inside of the wall. Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap… tap.
She edged closer, the lamp held out in front of her like a weapon. The tapping was getting faster, more frantic, spreading now, not just from behind the television, but from all along the wall, a network of tiny, desperate sounds. It was as if something was trapped inside, trying to get out.
Aino backed away slowly, her eyes wide with a dawning horror. It wasn't rats. It wasn't anything she understood, anything logical. It was something… else.
Something connected to the darkness, something that the mandatory light was supposed to keep at bay. But it wasn't staying at bay. It was here, inside her walls, in her brightly lit apartment.
The tapping turned into a scraping, a tearing sound, like fabric ripping, or… skin tearing. Aino stumbled back, knocking over a small table. The lamp in her hand swayed, casting wild, erratic shadows that danced on the walls, momentarily obscuring the source of the sounds.
When she steadied it again, she saw it. A thin crack, hairline at first, snaking its way across the wall, just above the baseboard.
Dust trickled out of it, fine, black dust that seemed to absorb the light, creating a tiny patch of deeper shadow on the pale yellow paint. The crack widened slowly, deliberately, accompanied by a wet, slithering sound.
Aino gasped, dropping the lamp. It clattered to the floor, the bulb shattering, plunging a small section of the room into momentary, terrifying shadow. She scrambled back, away from the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The other lights in the room seemed to dim, just for a fraction of a second, as if something was drawing power away from them.
The crack was wider now, jagged, uneven. And then, something pushed through. Not something solid, but something… fluid, viscous. A dark, glistening substance oozed out of the crack, slowly at first, then more rapidly, spreading across the wall like spilled ink. It smelled acrid, metallic, like ozone and decay.
And then, the scurrying began. Not inside the walls anymore, but on the wall, on the surface, moving within the dark ooze.
Tiny, frantic movements, too fast to focus on, too numerous to count. They were under the ooze, in it, made of it, somehow. Things with too many legs, too many eyes, too many… parts.
Aino screamed, a raw, primal sound that tore through the hum of the lights, through the cheerful drone of the television.
She backed away further, stumbling, falling against the door. She fumbled for the handle, her fingers slick with sweat, her vision blurring with terror. She had to get out, get away from it, get to somewhere brighter, safer.
But as she reached the door, the oozing substance reached it too, spreading across the wall, climbing, flowing. It surrounded the doorframe, sealing it off, trapping her inside.
The scurrying intensified, the sounds closer now, louder, coming from all around her. The lights flickered again, more noticeably this time, the buzzing growing erratic, strained.
She beat on the door, pounding with her fists, screaming for help, but no sound escaped the thick, oozing barrier that now encased it.
The lights dimmed again, weaker, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed and pulsed with the scurrying on the walls. The television screen flickered, then went black, plunging the room into an even deeper, more oppressive gloom.
The humming of the lights faltered, sputtered, then died completely, plunging the apartment into silence, into darkness. True darkness, the kind that hadn't existed for decades, the kind that was forbidden, feared.
And in that darkness, the scurrying intensified, no longer confined to the walls, but descending, dropping, filling the room.
She could feel them now, brushing against her skin, light, delicate touches that sent ice through her veins. Aino sank to the floor, huddled against the door, her screams choked off in her throat. She closed her eyes, wishing for the light, for the hum, for the false safety of the mandated illumination.
But there was only darkness, and the scurrying, and the cold, wet touch of countless tiny legs crawling over her, covering her, consuming her. The last thing she felt was a sharp, piercing pain in her eye, and then nothing.
In the morning, when the maintenance crew finally broke down Aino's door, responding to a neighbor's report of flickering lights and a strange smell, they found the apartment bathed in mandated sunlight once more. The emergency backup system had kicked in, restoring the required illumination. The television was back on, displaying a cheerful morning program.
The walls were clean, pale yellow, unmarked. Everything was as it should be, perfectly normal. Except for Aino.
She was there, slumped against the door, her eyes wide open, staring blankly ahead. Her skin was cold, clammy, and strangely… translucent.
Her clothes were undisturbed, her hair neatly in place. There were no marks on her body, no signs of struggle. She looked peaceful, almost serene, as if she had simply fallen asleep.
But her eyes… her eyes held a depth of terror that no amount of mandated light could ever dispel. And if you looked closely, very closely, you might have noticed something else. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer on her skin, a subtle, oily sheen that caught the light in a peculiar way.
And if you listened very carefully, in the silence of the brightly lit room, you might have heard it. A faint, rhythmic scratching sound, coming from inside… from inside her.