Against her better judgement, and for lack of any other idea, Beth pushed forward towards the sounds of gunfire and unnatural thunder. Whatever illusion this was, she maintained it was just that: an illusion. A realistic one at that, but nevertheless. She remained physically intangible, yet kept her eyes to the ground. Whenever she found a tripwire, she cautiously brushed apart the foliage on the ground. If luck prevailed, the disturbance would draw attention to the trap.

Every so often the snap of a twig or rustling of leaves would bring Beth to her feet, but nothing came out of the trees, and no sounds followed those. She moved back several paces once, investigated all the hiding place she could find, and found nothing. She blamed the magic of the illusion for playing with her mind.

At the sound of another burst of gunfire, nearer this time, she jogged ahead. Perhaps the sounds belonged to Flint, or Tony had retrieved a gun. She'd even welcome the hunter at this point. Emerging into a clearing, sure that this was where the sounds came from, Beth saw an old woman.

A familiar old woman, sun-tanned, with wrinkles deep set in her cheeks and around her eyes, just as Beth remembered her. She stood clutching a rotting heart in one age-spotted hand and a ruby pendant in the other. [I]I buried that,[/I] Beth reminded herself. The witch smiled at her, as though she weren't straining to crush either heart or ruby, but her eyes held no warmth. The witch had to be a construct of the illusion, for she had no place in the jungle. And still, fear crept into Beth's mind and clouded her logic with doubt. 

Heaviness began to set in. The light-weightedness she'd grown so used to ebbed away. The old witch swung the pendant gently side to side, while the odd thunderous rumble carried on elsewhere. Beth felt her knees hit solid ground and her hands fall into her lap, and all she could do was watch the ruby swing.