An inner truth.

The flesh falls apart like burnt leaves, sewn haphazardly to brittle bones and empty souls. There is no heart, only a deep and sullen void, a barren landscape of a man, who walks but is already dead. There is no desire, no bright spark, if ever he had one. This being damned to Perdition, hung to die and abandoned by his own. He trusts nothing to be as it seems. A hope returns, though a grim hope. There is release at least, he knows this. A forbidden release, but it sings sweetly to him. He listens, and is charmed. His own hear this siren-song as well, and return. Suddenly as never before they rally about him, and they become one, as it was meant to be: swaying and dancing the macabre steps of those already dead, and yet yearning for Death to claim them.

There are two options:

Live as empty souls, walk as the undead...or embrace that which will deliver them to darkness.