He clumsily stumbled into a tree, catching himself before collapsing into a forest of dreams. His mind was in a haze, either from the confusion of his sudden predicament or perhaps from the evening’s reckless behavior. More likely it was the latter. Mist crawled across the earthen floor and wrapped around his ankles where he stood in solitary. The somber night sky obscured everything in darkness, absent the twilight of the stars. Only the faintness of a blue-hued moon, whose position hinted the time must have been well after midnight, broke through the treetops creating streaks of light as it cascaded into the fogbelow. Not quite aware of his surroundings, he was relieved to notice something shining dimly just past the tree line and the endless undergrowth of the forest. He decided to make his way towards the distant glimmer and away from the melancholy of the forest.
“Where the hell am I?” he wondered aloud as he wandered forward.
The shadows reminded him of old ghost stories told around campfires during his childhood summers at the lake. While stumbling towards the soft glow from beyond, the moan of the trees swaying in the cool breeze was an unsettling soundtrack to this inexplicable place where branches and shadows danced about in an unnatural manner. The crunching noises of dead leaves and twigs under his footsteps served as his personal contribution to the score as he walked along through this place where death seemed to dwell.
He began to notice something curious about the shadows after a short while, something about the way they moved. They weren’t merely swaying slowly along with the trees anymore, but moved almost independently, dashing from one place to the next. They seemed to travel in unison towards the light still out of reach, converging in a small patch of overgrown grass blanketed by a thick fog. Approaching the clearing, he noticed the trees encircling him now weren’t moving anymore. They were motionless here, having no leaves or pines growing outward, and appeared as black as the night sky. They weren’t just old and dry from the change of seasons, though. These trees were touched by death; he could tell by the smell of it all. The air itself felt foul and cold, life snuffed out across the unhallowed plane. He paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes and compose himself in a hopeless attempt to make sense of this abyss.
Squinting at what he assumed was his imagination getting the best of him, he saw a figure emerge, seemingly forming from the shadows. It stood still, like the surrounding dead trees, and just as black. Slowly it raised an outstretched arm, its hand held open welcoming him forward with the gesture. He heard a strange voice speak to him, yet it wasn’t spoken aloud. It was coming from within; he felt it in his heart as real as he heard it in his mind. Filled with an urge he couldn’t resist and against his better judgment he kept walking. Dead whispers kept calling him home, and so he continued toward the figure of silent shadows; its hand extending pale slender fingers toward him in unholy divinity. He felt his body moving independently against his will; obeying the darkness it pulled at him like waves rushing past his feet as he sank into the banks of his childhood lake. Thoughts running wild now, he entered the clearing in front of the spirit in the mist.
“Who are you? What is happening to me?” he shouted, but no reply was given.
Suddenly he felt something pulling at his soul, unable to turn back. His eyes fixated on the figure's left hand, ignoring its halo of blood. It was clutching a long wooden pole, curved slightly towards the top. It met with a metallic blade that shined against the dim moonlight.
“A scythe.” He realized, but it was too late.
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