At first, you feel nothing, you see nothing, you begin to believe that you're part of that nothingness.

You step forward and the ground gives under your feet like thick, dank moss. Long grass brushes against your legs. You can smell dew-fall, turned earth and the sharp, green smell of broken grass and fresh leaves.

You can sense the feel of moonlight on your skin, you can smell the night, but your eyes pick out no stars, no light. Your eyes see only the darkness of an utterly moonless night on the open moors.

A sense of dread begins to fill you.

You feel something brush against your skin, as soft and light as cotton.

Right behind you, a voice slides out of the darkness. A woman's voice in a low, long wail that speaks wealths of that which once was, and that which will never be again.

Oooh Oooh Oooh, She says again. Oh, I'm so sad.

Once, I roamed the sunlight and held the beating bodies of songbirds in my hands.

Once, I ran among the falling leaves. Once . . . I was free.

Now all I see is death . . . All I see is death.

The voice cuts away sharply and the door swings open. The dim light seeps in from outside and you see the room for the first time. There is no woman, there are no moors, no grass. All there is, is a small, dank and empty room, water dripping from the low, sagging ceiling.