He would have to be more careful now - mountaineering was out of the question. Waldo was forced to satisfy himself with the view behind his windows. He decided he would do more painting and he well knew what he intended to paint. Perhaps he would write a book - throughout his life, he had surely gathered plenty of material for the task.

Above all, he must keep a large supply of light bulbs. Never to run out.

Seven years later, Waldo was a successful landscape painter and had just published his first adventure novel, whose authenticity, coming from the advantage of having experienced many of the described scenes, had won him international acclaim. It was believed he wrote during the nights, for the lights at his house never went out. He had not moved from the small town in which he had been born. The location was perfect for his needs, while whenever he needed a change of scenery, Waldo made sure the fuel tank of his Jeep was full and hit the road. In a separate box in the boot of the car two long-lasting torches always travelled along.

It was nearing winter, one of these nights of early frost icing the ground. His hammering heart awoke Waldo. The room was dark. Not even the little red diode on his TV set was lit. From behind the windows came muted shouts, people calling for help. Though full of dread, Waldo was struck by their scarcity. All he could discern in the dark were the dull glassy shapes of the windows; beyond, there was nothing. He sensed the darkness reaching out for him, the first time in seven years. The air around him had turned into ink, then tar. It was suffocating him, pouring into his mouth, ears and under his eyelids. Reduced to one thought, forgetting about the lighter lying on the night table close by, he sprang from the bed and threw himself against the closest window.

Ignoring the pieces of glass stuck in his shoulder, cheek and side, Waldo looked in what seemed to him to be the direction of the sky, but there were no stars to be seen, much less the moon. He could hear his blood dripping onto the ground, a number of drops falling in a broken, continuous sequence. Figures rushed in and out of sight - mere smears of dark grey against the surrounding blackness - like wretched souls sentenced to eternal damnation. Waldo's heart kept thrashing in his chest, seeking escape from the sheer terror of what he saw. He lifted his shaking hands to his face, only now feeling the scrapes inflicted when his hands absorbed the one-and-a-half-metre fall from his bedroom.

He could not see the sores. The darkness had clogged his vision and now his hearing, as suddenly he heard the shouts no more. The beast, absent so long, stirred in his breast. He vainly tried to fight it, even as it rose, took hold of the bone bars of its cage and shook savagely. Astonishingly, the darkness began to yield, but as it backed away, the beast grew fiercer, each yank flooding Waldo with pain, so much pain, until the cage burst and all was still.

The juxtaposition of the first two paragraphs is very unsettleing. It was hard to understand that Walso was in a completely different place and time frame. The first sentences was very weak and my immediate feeling that it was extremely ambiguous considering that I still thought he was in agony.

well knew sounds better as knew well.

closest window sounds better as nearest window, i personally misread it as 'closet window'.

No stars to be seen, much less the moon should be switiched around due to the fact that you are more likely to see the moon on a cloudy night, much less the stars.

The last paragraph was incredibly. Absolutely incredible, no other words can describe it.

Other than the really close reading I did to find the above points as I'm sure you want some criticisms, this was a very well written piece and completely publishable.