And she began to slip from Conor’s grasp. “No!” he called. His mum screamed in terror. “Please, Conor! Hold on to me!”
“I will!” Conor yelled. He turned back to the yew tree, standing there, not moving.
“Help me! I can’t hold on to her!” But it just stood there, watching.
“Conor!” his mum yelled. And her hands were slipping. “Conor!” she yelled again.
“Mum!” he cried, gripping tighter. But they were slipping from his grasp,
and she was getting heavier and heavier, the nightmare monster pulling harder and harder.
“I’m slipping!” his mum yelled. “NO!” he cried. He fell forward onto his chest from the weight of her and the nightmare’s fists pulling on her.
She screamed again. And again. And she was so heavy, impossibly so.
“Please,” Conor whispered to himself. “Please.” And here, he heard the yew tree say behind him, is the fourth tale.
“Shut up!” Conor shouted. “Help me!” Here is the truth of Conor O’Malley.
And his mother was screaming. And she was slipping. It was so hard to hold on to her.
It is now or never, the yew tree said. You must speak the truth. “No!” Conor said, his voice breaking. You must.
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