Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas

After so long, there are few things that I remember clearly. I remember feelings, emotions. I remember light and darkness; I remember joy and pain; I remember hope and fear. And I remember the dying of the light, the days when the whole world became dark. Mostly, though, I remember the long walk, and the death that was with me at every step.

Orrell was first. I suppose such details do not matter in the grand scheme of things, but my master has always said that it is best to start at the beginning.

We arrived without fanfare: in fact, my master and I were barely noticed as we entered the town. Such is the way of things. People rarely recognize the important events in their lives until long after they have happened; occasionally, they miss them altogether. So it was with the people of Orrell. As my master and I wandered on into the town, its citizens carried on their daily lives as if all was normal.

Even when the disappearances began, most people seemed not to notice. For a while, it was almost as if nothing had happened - as if those who had gone had never existed, and so couldn't be missed. There were never bodies, and I suppose that made it easier for people to forget. No bodies, no bad memories: just...absences.

The turning point, I think, was Salla. Orrell may not have been a large town, but Salla had certainly been a big part of it: he had been mayor for...well, to many, it seemed like forever. He was a man who would be missed.

I remember the day he disappeared. I watched from across the street as George Rumall - Salla's assistant on Orrell's council of Elders - knocked frantically on his master's door: I can still see the worried look on his young face, a look which turned to indecision when there was no answer. It took him a full two minutes to pluck up the courage to enter the house.

I did not go into Salla's house myself, but I know what he found, and I know what he must have felt: the cold, the absence of life, and the darkness. He didn't stay long: just long enough to see that his master was no longer there, and long enough to feel my master's presence.

George refused to enter the house again. It was a common reaction to the homes of the vanished: once they had felt the cold and the darkness, people would not willingly cross the threshold again. Houses, streets, quickly became uninhabited.

The council had known of the disappearances from the very beginning. They may not have known the truth, but they had noticed the drop in revenue when they collected the taxes, and they knew from the guards on the gate that no one had left the town.

Of course, the disappearance of a few of their poorer citizens was not something they were going to lose sleep over. Now that their leader had become one of the vanished - now that it appeared that they might be in some real danger - they began to take the matter more seriously.

The disappearances continued, however, and they eventually came to realise that there was nothing they could do. With a silent and invisible killer in their midst, paranoia set in and the people of Orrell began to turn on each other. By the time my master and I left, Orrell was no longer a place for living things. The darkness had taken it.

'Sirs?'

We were given no time to reply before Mrs Lewis bustled in, and began her nightly attempt to tidy my master's room into something resembling good order.

I have rarely seen such economy of motion as our erstwhile landlady possessed. Not one ounce of energy was wasted as she set about tidying and cleaning. Dust was banished, sheets were folded and arranged, curtains were straightened - all with an ease and efficiency that must have taken years to perfect.

We had arrived in Newhaven during one of their holy ceremonies, and my master, ever one to respect the niceties of any custom, had resolved to wait. Once the ceremony was over, he would begin his work, but not before. So we had lodged with Mrs Lewis - a small, rotund woman of unnaturally good cheer and impeccable housekeeping - and waited.

Which was all well and good, but we had been in the city for over a fortnight now, and the citizens were only just beginning to show signs of returning to their daily routine. It was...frustrating.

To alleviate my boredom, I had occasionally ventured out into the city - I had never been to such a place before, and I wanted to see as much of it as possible while I still could.

My master was not so adventurous: he spent much of his time shut into his room, coming out only for reports on how the ceremony was progressing. He showed no signs of annoyance at the delay: his was a patience all of its own, and the passing of so much time did not seem to intrude upon it.

Once a day, I would sit with him, and we would discuss the things I had witnessed on my excursions. That is to say, I would talk, and he would sit and listen: he was only mildly interested, I think, but he listened attentively - or appeared to, at least. With my master, it was always difficult to tell.

'Will you be needing anything, sirs?'

'No, thank you, Mrs Lewis,' my master replied. 'I believe we have everything we need. Your ministrations are, as always, most gratefully received.'

'Very good, sir.'

'Oh: Mrs Lewis? There is one thing.'

'Yes, sir?'

'My pupil has told me that your ceremony is almost over. Is that correct?'

'Yes, that's right, sir. Finishes at midnight tonight, as a matter of fact.'

'Good. Good. Thank you, Mrs Lewis. I'm sure we shall call if we need anything.'

'Right you are, sir. I'll bid you goodnight, then.'

'A good night indeed, Mrs Lewis. I'm certain you are right.'

The Turnpike didn't have much going for it. It was on the southern side of Newhaven, set among the lanes and cobbles of the district the locals called the Dredge.

Given its position, it was a fairly up-market pub: the beer was rarely warm, the tables usually clean, and the clientele generally unarmed. Friday nights had a tendency to get a little raucous, but things rarely got too far out of hand.

Walker liked it because it sported a nice dark alley to one side, an ideal spot for those caught with a full bladder or no money for a lift home. Or both. Of course, he occasionally had to share it with some of the bar's other regulars, but as long as they didn't disturb him (and as long as they were careful where they urinated), he didn't mind too much.

On this particular night, he had company. A couple of the Turnpike's regulars had joined him an hour or so ago: one of them was now sleeping soundly a little further down the alley, the other noisily relieving himself against the opposing wall.

Walker was just drifting into catatonia when a short yelp dragged him back almost to sobriety. Looking about him, he could just make out two figures near the entrance to the alleyway.

Even in the darkness, he could see that one of them was inordinately tall, seven feet or more. The other seemed taller still, though it quickly became apparent that this was because his feet were no longer planted on the cobbles: the tall man had lifted him by the neck, and was holding him some three feet off the ground. Walker didn't need to be told which of them had cried out: nor did he need telling that it was one of the men he had been sharing the alley with.

As he watched, the tall man placed his free hand over the other's mouth and muttered something under his breath. There was the briefest flash of blue, so brief that Walker was almost convinced that he had merely blinked: only the shifting after-images in his eyes told him that he had not.

It was only then that the tall man appeared to notice him. Slowly, and with little discernible movement, the man made his way down the alley until he was at Walker's side. Seven feet hadn't been a bad guess: the man towered over him, and Walker was not a small man. It was difficult to tell through the folds of his robe - and in the dark of the alleyway - but he also seemed to be thin, almost to the point of emaciation. Only his hands protruded from within the robe, long and thin as bones. Walker could not see his face.

'What just happened?' he spluttered. 'What did you do to him?'

'I took him. It was his time.'

'His time? His time for what?'

'Just his time: everyone has a set time, and everyone's time comes to an end. His came to an end...now.' He turned, and began to walk away. He walked slowly, but with huge strides: Walker almost had to run to catch up.

'Wait a minute! Hey! Wait!'

'Yes?' the tall man replied, slowing but not stopping.

'What do you mean, 'his time'? Who the hell are you?'

Walker almost ran up the man's back as he came abruptly to a halt. He turned slowly, and leaned forward until he was looking straight at Walker. Two pinpoints of blue glared out from the darkness of his robe.

'I THINK YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT,' he replied, before turning and continuing to walk away.

Walker watched him go, unable and no longer willing to follow. He was suddenly very glad it was not his time yet.

It took my master three weeks to clear Newhaven. None were left: a few fled the city, but there was really nowhere they could go to hide themselves. It is difficult to hide from someone such as my master, for whom time and place do not matter, and whose sole purpose lies in finding people and bringing them in.

One by one, the towns and cities fell. After Newhaven, our pace quickened. My memories are hazy beyond there: the places, the people, all blur into a single mass of darkness and cold. Perhaps my master's influence was finally beginning to take hold. Or perhaps the novelty had simply worn off.

Once our work was done, we retreated to my master's domain to watch events unfold. The extinction was complete. The world had been scourged, and so we left it to renew itself: we are still waiting. Everything has its time, after all. Soon, there will be a new beginning, and the cycle will start once again.