From the back of the book:
The coach rumbled forth on the old overgrown forest road, and the horses were galloping frantically as if trying to outrun the quickly encroaching darkness. The sounds were different here. The meditative hooting of owls, or the rustling in the trees from the wind, was nowhere to be heard. In fact, there were no sounds at all.
Nervously, you opened the crimson curtain and peered out of the tiny window. You saw nothing but the pine trees passing by and the violent silhouette of the horses in the lantern light. Then it struck you. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Panicked, you yelled for the coach to stop, banging on its ceiling, but it seemed oblivious to your distress. Dark thoughts entered your mind, and you realized you had to escape this furious race to the grave. You clenched your teeth and swung open the door, tumbling into the ditch below the road. The coach continued its mad dash, the sound of hooves against dirt abandoning you, along with your hope.
Cut and bruised, with thorns and poison ivy stuck everywhere, you dared a glance over the edge of the ditch. There was an old man, dressed in rags and covered in dirt, shoveling earth back on to a small mound. Lightning struck nearby, illuminating the whole scene and showing a moss-clad tombstone, and a skeleton in the man's wheelbarrow. He turned around and looked at you with milky eyes and a crooked smile. "Welcome to Gloomshire!"