Imagine a prison with no shade, for a killer afraid of the dark.
Karl flicked the lights off and on.
"Please," Jorgen begged, "don't. I made a deal."
Karl's hand hovered over the switch. "Does the widdle psychopath need a nightlight? Want some warm milk, too?"
"Please. She'll kill me."
"Bullshit. You made her up. Tell me the truth, or-"
Karl plunged them into pitch black. Fingers of cool air caressed his face. A voice like snowfall whispered, "Thank you," in his ear.
He slammed the lights back on.
Jorgen's head rolled across the floor, eyes staring, mouth still gasping.
Author bio: Imagine... anything. What are you most afraid of? John Xero's greatest fear is the day he can no longer write, and anything that may cause that.