Like all staircases, all tunnels come to an end. If some opinionated psychopath tells you otherwise, then they are most likely embezzling money through their high end leather strap enterprise. While all tunnels end, often tunnels like to pretend that they never end when you're breaking your back, cramped and crawling slower than a legless turtle. If you ever happen to find yourself trapped in a tunnel by accident, take comfort in knowing that you’ve taken the straight, long and narrow path in life. (Unless, of course, the tunnel is not straight, long or narrow)

I grimaced as my knees scraped against the floor, as I slowly squeezed my way through the hidden tunnel. I tried not to think about the tunnel narrowing like a boa constrictor slowly squeezing its prey. I admit that I was afraid of snakes, but anything without legs was worth fearing. I prayed to all that was unholy that I’d reach the end before I ended up dead. The tunnel didn’t end before the high pitched echoes of satanic beasts filled the tunnel, however.

“You’re dead. I’m dead! We’re all fucking dead! They are c-c-coming.” panicked Dren.

“What’s coming?”

“The t-t-terror bu-n-nies.”

“All this time you had us fleeing from some bunnies? I love bunnies. Everyone loves bunnies” exclaimed Rose.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You’ll understand when you see it with your own eyes. You’ll see.”

“Understand what? That they’re cute and fluffy?”

“I’ve never seen terror bunnies, only terror cats. But I’ve heard rumors that they’re the top of the food chain. We need to hurry. It won’t be long before they catch us.” I interjected.

“They’re just bunnies!” Rose shouted.

The truth is that terror bunnies aren’t just bunnies, unless you think that a bunny is a bear sized bundle of muscle, whose bone crushing and razor sharp teeth could cut through even the toughest of carrots: carrots tougher than mithril. While terror bunnies are strictly vegan, they do like the mouth-feel of crunched bone and flesh, particularly while listening to the harmonic screams and wailings of the unfortunate souls who find themselves in the maws of terror bunnies.

My knees hurt, my arms hurt. The gashes and scrapes that accumulated during my crawl left a trail of blood similar to the way that a snail leaves a trail of slime. I came to the conclusion that the allure of being a snail was overrated. My blood worked as a lubrication that made it slightly easier for Rose and Dren to squeeze their way through the tunnel. I was slightly jealous of this, but I understood that there was always a cost for being a trailblazer.

I picked up the pace crawling slightly faster but still rather slow. The death mana that permeated out of the tunnel grew thicker as I crawled further into the tunnel, overwhelming my senses. I could almost feel the sickening cold feeling of the mana, as it surrounded me. We were getting close.

The excited howls and shrieks grew louder. Time was running out; we needed to make it to the end of the tunnel. I let out a sigh of relief as I spotted the opening at the other end of the tunnel. I crawled with renewed vigor. We were so close.

At the other end of the tunnel, was a small opening barely wide enough to fit the three of us standing up. Compared to the cramped tunnel it felt roomy, but my shoulders still bumped up against Dren’s shoulders. There wasn’t room for the three of us, let alone the terror bunnies that were currently making there way through the only tunnel connected to the small room.The room was empty except for a meticulous looking book that stood on a pedestal.

Dren patted down the walls desperately, looking for some sort of exit. If I was lucky enough to find a secret maybe some of the luck would rub off on him. I picked up the book, exuding the death mana. I opened the book.

Instead of finding words; only circles, shapes and gibberish hieroglyphs greeted me.

“All this for a picture book,” I mumbled to myself.

I stared at the symbols trying to make sense of the strange book, and the story it depicted. The pictures were stylistically different from the carving found in the square room crafted by the Azmorrilians. The pictures in the books were more basic, as if the person who drew in the book was not a very good artist. There was still plenty of death found in the pages, all things considered. Picture books were meant for children. I wondered how messed up the children who read this book were.

Headless corpses were depicted constructing the ancient walls that were synonymous with Nosturdam. One figure stood out among zombies and ghouls who slaved away lifting and dragging stone; he had a head. He stood on a pillar with his hands outstretched as if to tell the world that he had a head. I understood that sentiment since I too liked having a head attached to my neck. It was a kinship we shared.

“Look! On the walls are some stone buttons. This is a puzzle; this must be a puzzle.” Dren exclaimed.

I scowled as I forced myself to look away from the captivating picture book. If only someone would appreciate a good read, and have the dignity not to interrupt someone who was only half way done with a story. I looked towards the wall Dren was captivated by, and saw symbols etched into the wall, the same symbols found within the picture book.

I realized that Dren was wrong. This wasn’t a puzzle, testing our wit but rather an interactive story to engage the reader. I was foolish to dismiss this dark picture book as nothing more than a child's play thing. This was an interactive experience carefully and meticulously designed by a true artist.

I glanced at the wall before burying my head back into the picture book.

The tale depicted in the book highlighted the rise and fall of the figure with a noggin. As I flipped through the pages, I almost wept at the headed man's rise and fall from grace. From his celebration as he built the very foundation of which Nosturdam was built to the inevitable fall of his scientist friends betraying him out of jealousy for his innovation and ingenuity. The zombies turning on the master was an act of betrayal I didn’t see coming. Too bad, what I was reading was probably fiction.

“Stop zoning out on that stupid book and help us figure this out! The terror bunnies are coming, can’t you two of you fools see that our lives are in peril, that the very fabric that adorns my body will be ripped to shreds?” A rather compassionate Dren stated. I wondered if he too was moved by the story that I had just read. Probably not since it was unlikely he had read the picture book before coming to this room.

I examined the tiles with the hieroglyphs closer than I had before. Some squares held headless zombies while others held the men of science who betrayed the great innovator. It was clear to me that the order in which I needed to push the buttons was symbolic of the fact that innovation did not come without consequence. In an almost trance like state, I pushed the buttons accordingly, causing the stone wall to screech and hiss as it parted. I mostly went off of my intuition and feelings, because in art there is no logic. Just mucky feelings and bullshit symbolism.

“How’d you figure the puzzle out?” Dren asked.

“A lucky guess.” I responded, although that was a lie. The story really resonated with me in a way that most stories don’t. It was as if I was the man with the head.

As the three of us casually walked on the other side of the door, it closed behind us. Dren let out a sigh of relief. Surely, terror bunnies weren’t smart enough to solve puzzles.