The window was covered with thick curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Only on a table at the center, a slender candle struggled to burn its final remnants, emitting a feeble glow. Under the dim light, several pale and rigid faces were revealed, each expression focused and tense as if waiting for something significant to happen. A gruff and deep voice arose from beyond the light, with only a vague shadow visible, small yet brawny, its race and identity indecipherable.
"Young Johnson was filled with terror, madly sprinting along the mountain path in the darkness." The gruff voice seemed to grow hoarser and deeper from tension, whispering, "Strange rustling noises kept coming from behind him, as if the Undead were chasing him through the night. There was no moon that night, and the mountain road was pitch black. The small child stumbled and tumbled down the mountain, falling countless times along the way."
