Her side of the bed is cold.

You struggle to pull yourself from sleep's firm grip; half awake, the darkness is heavy and confusing. Your hand tangles in the blanket, fumbles across her pillow, reading the indents that comprise the memory of her face. Her perfume wafts sweetly up like a warm ghost.

The door to your bedroom is open but the hall light is off. The room is a portrait in gray: charcoal, slate, smoke, the vanity and bookshelves silent gargoyles. The entire house seems to be holding its breath: no hum of the furnace or refrigerator, no creak of the floorboards to betray her presence elsewhere. For the first time in your adult life, you understand fear of the darkness.

The lamp is on her bedside table. Stretching forces you to roll across her pillow, and you hate the way it folds beneath you. As though you've somehow hurt her. Your hand finds the photo from your wedding, and then her glasses. The frames are bent strangely. Your stomach rolls.

The light won't turn on.

You need to find her. You need her to be sitting in the kitchen laughing at you. You swing your legs from under the blanket and wince at the draft of cold air.

Your toes sink immediately into wet carpet. Panic folds your knees. You catch yourself with your hands and scream, but you're sure she can't hear you. Even the darkness can't mask the muddy burgundy of her blood.

. . .

. . .

A/N: This story was originally published during the first week of Fear Project 2015, at davidwellingtonsfearproject dot com .
The prompt was a frightening setting in 250 words or less.