“That’s right,” the voice says. “Now you understand. I’ve missed you so. But I’ve been waiting.”

 

You turn. The voice is Ben’s but the figure is not. A yellowing skeleton, shambling, grinning, a lit cigarette clutched between its teeth. You recognize it. Ben had the Van Gogh print hanging above his desk. You hung it above your own after his death. You can barely bring yourself to look away from the sinister smile, but you do, for an instant. The print is empty.

 

 

If, as a child, you were afraid of the dark, turn to page 25.

If, as a child, you had no fear, turn to page 27.

If you understand the truth of things, leave this story now. Nothing will save you.