He stood at the base of the bridge, his hands twisting behind him. Don’t show fear, they had warned. You don’t want to attract the grimdark, they had said. He kept his face carefully blank (he hoped), but his hands fidgeted. He wondered if the grimdark could hear his heart pounding.
The orange light of the forest began to coalesce at the apex of the bridge while shadows advanced. He tried to make himself stand straighter, focusing on the light in front of him. He took a single step forward, his boot scuffing against the wood planks. The light pulsed and shimmered, and he paused, swallowing hard.
Low notes whispered to him, and he looked around wildly before realizing they came from inside his head. They swelled in volume, a deep bass thrumming against the inside of his skull. This wasn’t right! He clutched his temples, salt drops leaking from his eyes, and stared with growing horror at the light. Burnt orange flames reached for him as the pounding notes churned his brain. He screamed, and the light went out.
The Word Worker 