The days brought less and less light until we wondered if the sun
would no longer show itself above the horizon.  Matilda had lit a
candle against the early shadow when she noticed that the breakfast
dishes had not yet been washed even as the windows strained to accept
the dying light of the setting star.  She went mad with terror then,
screaming unthinkable horrors as she bludgeoned her head with the
candle stick until we tied her to her bed.

That night, Fred lit a fire to drive back the inky blackness and the
chill which had crept even further under the crack of the door.  But the
fire gave no light, only a sickening green glow that seemed only to
deepen the shadow. The shrill shriek of the wind was a ghastly
accompanyment to the branches rattling against the window.  From the
blue of the sky fading to black, white crystals began to fall.