“Shut up,” Zachary says to the darkness. He intended to shout it but his words are weak, not even strong enough to echo.

You know this is true. You believe it because it is more believable than this nonsense. You are pretending. You have imagined these people and these places. You tell yourself a fairy tale because you are too afraid of the truth.

The torchlight is fading. Cold like snow creeps over his skin.

Let go. You will never find your way out. There is no way out. You are at the end now. Game over.

Zachary forces himself to keep walking. He can no longer see where the path goes. He concentrates on one step and then another. He shivers.

Give up. Giving up is easier. Giving up will be warmer.

The torch goes out.

You don’t have to be afraid of dying because you are already dead.

Zachary tries to move forward but he cannot see.

You are dead. You perished. There is no extra life. You had your chance. You played your game. You lost.

Zachary falls to his knees. He had thought he had a sword, why would he have a sword? That’s so stupid.

It is stupid. It’s nonsense. It is time you stopped fantasizing about swords and time travel and men who don’t lie to you and owl royalty and the Starless Sea. None of those things exist. You made them up. All of this is in your head. You can stop walking. There is nowhere to go. You’re tired of walking.

He is tired of walking. Tired of trying. He doesn’t even know what he wants, what it is that he’s looking for.

You don’t know what you want. You never did and you never will. It is over and done with. You have reached the end.

There is a hand on Zachary’s arm. He thinks there is a hand on his arm. Maybe.

“Don’t listen,” a different voice says near his ear. He doesn’t recognize the voice or its accent. Maybe British or Irish or Scottish or something. He is bad at accent identification like he is bad at everything else. “It lies,” this voice continues. “Don’t listen.”

Zachary doesn’t know which voice to believe even though British-Irish-Scottish accents tend to sound official and important and the other voice didn’t have an accent but maybe there aren’t any voices at all maybe he should rest awhile. He tries to lie down but someone pulls at his arm.

“We cannot stay here,” one of the voices insists. The British one.

You imagined help for yourself, you are so desperate to believe. That’s pathetic.

The hand releases his arm. There was never a hand there, there was nothing.

A light flares, a sudden brightness sweeping over the space. For a second there is a tunnel and a path and huge wooden doors in the distance and then darkness again.

You are a small, sad, unimportant man. None of this matters. Nothing you can do will have any impact on anything. You have already been forgotten. Stay here. Rest.

“Get up,” the other voice says and the hand is there again, dragging Zachary forward.

Zachary pulls himself awkwardly to his feet. The sword in his hand hits his leg.

He does have a sword.

No.

The voice in the darkness changes. Before it was calm. Now it is angry.

No, the darkness repeats as Zachary tries to move and someone—something—grabs ahold of his ankles, wrapping around his legs and trying to pull him down again.

“This way,” the other voice says, more urgently now, leading him forward. Zachary follows, each step meeting with increased resistance from the ground. He tries to run but he can barely walk.

He tightens his grip on the hilt of the sword. He focuses on the hand on his arm and not the other things that are sliding up his legs and around his neck though they feel just as real.

Tags: Erin Morgenstern Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net