It's so black you can't see from one step to the next. Your nose tightens from the acrid dust swirling with each foot fall. There is a lingering smell of rot, like hot shit dried in a tin can, wafting up from the bowels of the blackness, but you can't see what you might kick. The hair on your neck and arms begins to raise, and you feel your back tingle with an unmistakable presence watching you, communicating with you.
Perhaps it is ebbing panic that forces your hand, or perhaps you crave to view that thing in the dark. You turn on your camera, flip open the flash and take a picture into the blackness.