The Misted Mind

"Guys, we just can't," the blonde-haired boy would urge the others, "This is the day we can't."

Unfortunately, the other three young humans would ignore him and walk into the mineshaft regardless.

"Guys!" the boy would call once again, "Don't! He's here! It's over!" Then there was a moment of silence, followed by a piercing shriek. The other three would turn around to find the boy dead, with no trace of his killer. They would do the unwise thing (although they really didn't have an option) and they'd run deeper into the dark, mystic bowels of the mineshaft.

This would replay itself every single night.

They would run for what seemed to be a long while (anyone would find it outstanding they didn't run out of breath) until they would come to a fork in the shaft. At this point, the pair that looked as though they were siblings would take the path on the right, and the little girl with the dark hair down to her posterior would take the left. The little girl would continue tip-toeing until she came to a bridge. She would stop suddenly, clutch her head, let out a shrill scream, and fall the deadly drop into the lava below.

The siblings would never hear their friend die; they would always be too far in the opposite direction.

Of course, unknowing the events about to occur, they would continue quietly down the path until they came to a staircase leading to diamonds. Bewildered by the perfect placement of this precious ore, the sister would begin climbing down the stair, ignorant to her brother's cry of warning. An iron door would come down at the top of the staircase, trapping the girl in a room of diamond ore. Or, at least it was diamond ore, before a layer of bedrock came crashing down, covering the stone, leaving no way out, and leaving only a peek hole for the brother. He would hear his sister's startled cry and watch her bang against the door, and he would simply walk away, muttering, "I'm so sorry, Marcie."

The sister would turn around discouraged, only to find a familiar shadowy figure behind her. Only a gasp would manage to escape her lips before poor Marcie would fall to the ground dead.

The brother would scream in hysteria, sobbing and muttering about being the "last one left."

"SO," he would shout, his voice cracking in rage," COME ON! I'M THE LAST VICTIM, RIGHT? SO COME AND GET ME!"

Almost as if in obedience, the same figure would appear in front of him. The boy would tilt his head back and hold his arms out, embracing his own end. The figure would nod, oddly as if in respect, and then the white glowing eyes would glisten. The swords would come out, and the last Herobrine Hunter's wish would be fulfilled.

And it was in this instance each night that I would awake from that horrid, chilling, dream.