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Donald O'Hara stumbled forward into the darkness, the thick fog swallowing him whole. He was alone in the vast fields of the seminary in Kerry County, a place that had been both his refuge and captor for too long now.
A gust of wind raced through the trees, creating an intense chill that filled him with dread. But it was more than just the cold air; it was a deep, inner fear that had been growing inside him ever since he chose this life. Was this really his destiny? Was this what he truly wanted?
The shadows around him seemed to come alive and shiver in a sinister dance as the wind blew through them, and he quickened his pace, needing desperately to get back inside where it was safe and comforting.
But then he stopped as the thought came to him:What if he wasn't meant for this life? What if there was something else out there waiting for him to explore it?An excitement filled him at the thought of being free of it all: the duty, the responsibility, and the weight. But shame soon followed excitement again. He had no clear answer.
He shook his head, trying to bat the thoughts away and started walking again. The night air was cold and unwelcoming, and he shivered in it. But there was something else on the periphery of his worried mind. Something he couldn't quite get a hold of yet. All he knew was he had a sudden intense desire to be inside.
Donald O'Hara's footfalls sounded like thunder in the stillness of the night. He glanced around nervously, feeling as if someone was watching him. Then he heard it—footsteps in the darkness behind some bushes.
He stopped and listened carefully, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Whoever was there was trying to remain hidden, but Donald could sense their presence, looming large and menacing in the darkness.
He considered running back to his dorm room, but something inside him kept him rooted to the spot. He had a feeling that he was supposed to confront this thing—whatever it was—and find out what it wanted from him. It was like a test of faith.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the bush and into the open field. The moonlight illuminated a figure standing at the edge of a wooded area off to his right—a figure shrouded in a long, black cloak with hood pulled up so that only its pale face showed.
Donald swallowed hard and broke the silence, "Who are you? What do you want?"
The figure said nothing, merely stared at Donald with an intensity that made him shudder. Finally, it spoke, "It is your time."
Donald O'Hara saw the figure move fast, as if it was a blur in the darkness. He tried to react, but before he could do anything he felt something tight coil around his throat. It was so strong and so sudden that it paralyzed him on the spot with fear.
He gagged and choked as he felt the burn of a rope wrapping around his neck, saw stars dancing in front of his eyes. He tried to scream for help, but all that came out was a strangled whisper. He thought he would die at any moment and believed God had forsaken him.
But suddenly his vision cleared, and he realized that he still had breath left in him, enough to cry out into the night, "Dear God! Please save me!"
At that instant, miraculously, the rope loosened and dropped away from Donald's neck. He gasped loudly as relief flooded over him, and he stumbled backwards out of harm's way. It seemed like an eternity had passed before he was able to focus on what was happening around him.
The figure stood there watching him from underneath its dark cloak of shadow, silent but unmoving. Donald looked up from the ground and felt like it was considering him.
Momentarily, he believed he was safe. But that safety lasted but a moment. The shape in the darkness abandoned its short peace and lunged forward again.
Donald tried to get away, but he was too badly injured. "Please," he begged desperately, "you don't have to do this!"
The figure did not listen. It wrapped its coil of rope around his neck once more and tightened it. Donald felt the rope against his skin and, as he lost consciousness, he was certain that he had died at the hands of the devil himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Valerie felt utterly confused. She was looking through something hazy and warped. The world beyond it was a deserted wasteland. Except for two small figures.
She gazed at them as they walked to a withered tree. One of the figures placed something on the ground beneath its canopy. The two figures stood there for a moment, embraced, then slowly walked away.
It was only when they had turned that Valerie knew what was really at the foot of that tree. It was a gravestone. And she now implicitly felt that the two figures were her partners, her friends, Charlie and Will.
Now, a third figure appeared. He walked to the grave and wrung his hands. She could just about hear the man's voice shouting in anger, yelling at the occupant of the grave.
It was all so confusing, but the voice eventually drifted through her mind enough for her to interpret the speaker. It was her fiancé, Tom.
"It's cold down in the dirt," a graveled voice then said from behind her.
Valerie felt terror enter her heart. Looking down, she realized where she was. She was inside a tractor cab, looking out to a sterile version of the Kerry County hills.
"You'll get used to the cold and the dark," the voice said.
Valerie listened to it. She felt the garbled quality of it, as if something watery was moving in the mouth as it spoke. The sound made her feel ill.
Something cold touched her shoulder. Valerie shivered. She turned to see what it was. A pale white hand rested on her shoulder. Around the wrist were burn marks, which she knew instinctively had come from rope.
