He draws up. Halts there among the tangled roots and waterlogged grasses and for just a moment as a pressure in the forefront of his head flares. It cuts up from the eye socket. Sharply jags its way to his temple, and burrows there. His thumb chases after the ache. The smell of ozone in the air smells sour. The lantern light stings. Wake presses with the flat of his hand to relieve the tension.

There is something he's forgetting. No, it's more than just something. It's a long list of things. A different plot entirely.

When his hand falls back away—

"I'm trapped," he says. Present tense? "I don't know for how long."

What kind of things does he write? Horror stories.