Читать книгу The Principle of Evil: A Fast-Paced Serial Killer Thriller - T.M.E. Walsh - Страница 32

02:58 a.m.

A deep pounding echo. A rush of blood through the ears. Breathing is hard and rapid.

She can see her own feet when looking down with eyes that don’t quite feel like her own. The ground is drenched in melting ice and snow. There are trees, so many trees, skeletal branches and trunks like twisted figures in the grey. Her surroundings are void of colour, entwined in a thickening mist.

Running.

She runs across the woodland floor. She has no shoes, and her feet are turning numb. Her legs are heavy. They can’t keep up with the will of her heart, the pull of her soul.

Her eyes scan the surroundings and everything whips past in a blur. A panoramic view of no way out, no place to hide. Her heart slams harder against her ribcage, fear driving her on.

All she can hear now is the sound of her own breathing, a fearful rush through the depths of her body.

A body too tired to run for much longer.

She sees the path ahead.

A path dense with trees, their roots stretching far and wide. She doesn’t see the twisting, dark root, snaking its way above the earth, and crossing her path. It’s too late now to stop herself.

Her foot is hooked. Her legs pull from under her. She is no more than a rag doll, cast aside. She panics as the ground rushes up to meet her. She can hear a voice as she falls.

She knows she can’t fight any more.

Still the ground rushes towards her. She feels like she is endlessly falling in slow motion, the wind pulling through a mass of blonde tangled hair.