I look onto the path, to find it is paved hazardously. The cobblestone is more than worn, the heavily used areas making the shape of W. I see a broken bottle and remember that there is no one around to tell me to not pick it up. Yet there is a withholding sense.

There are several reasons I did not walk forward. One was the steepness, another was darkness, and the other was a voice telling me that someone told me I did not want to see what was up there.

That someone was never real – yet the voice was. It was not male, not female. It spoke in a neutral, yet cautious tone. No anger, no threats, but no listening would cause dire consequences.

I proceed downward to the base of the mountain. This is typically where I stop the story or lie about the ending – I say whatever was up that path came after me or that I thought it was following me due to the sound of my own footsteps. The truth is that nothing happened at all. I got to the bottom and realized how insignificant the trip was – no one knew I went there, no one knew I was gone. All the stories I had heard about the mountain were fake – because they said they had a good time. I know now that they just want people to listen – even if it is not the truth.

At the base of the mountain, I feel a tug at my shoulder. There are a lot of sensations that could describe it, but it is identified immediately. There is a whisper then a scream, inside then outside. But because there is no one there, there is no rushing to help. So I am telling you, nothing happened at all.