he night was cold and a mist covered the grassy plains. I was lost, and did not know where I was going. A soothing sound beckoned to me, and I followed. I came to a lush green pasture and a man dressed in darkness. He was playing the fiddle. I listened to the soft music and he spoke to me without ever opening his mouth. He asked me if I remembered dying? "I’m dead?” I retorted. He smiled and kept playing softly. "Of course.” He said, "that’s why you're here.” Then I remembered. I was hunting in the woods when I was suddenly attacked by a ruthless gang of teenagers. They beat me to death with their clubs and maces. I remembered the pain…..so much pain all over. I didn’t know where they came from.
s I recalled this, the fiddler played louder, and the lush green had more people come to it. All of us spoke to each other. I heard an adventurer say he was ambushed in a dungeon he ravaged for treasure and was certain he had cleared it. Another hunter who slept in a cave was attacked by brigands and beaten to death. We heard the tale of a woman who entered a tomb with the intent to grave rob in order to help pay for her husband’s funeral. As she pocketed the golden necklace, the draughr swarmed her and tore her throat out with their teeth. We wanted to ask the fiddler what all of this meant? But when we opened our mouths all that came out was screaming that followed his melancholy tune. We witnessed the fiddler on the green grin as he played fiercer and as he played fiercer more screaming could be heard off in the distance. The distant screaming grew louder as more deceased entered the lush green. We were all prisoners trapped in his purgatory. We were all instruments in the fiddler’s orchestra—our deaths, were music to his ears.