The Curse of the Towne Motel
Slipping the book under your (good) arm, you turn to the door, hiss as your hand makes contact with it, throw it open and exit into the night outside. You trudge back to the road, hoping to flag down a passing motorist and plead for help.
Or, should I say, you attempt to. The pain in your hand seems to get worse with every step, and what began as a simple burn now seems an excruciating mark of torment. A quick peek at your hand reveals some sort of horror appendage, the fingers swollen and red, where they aren't purple or, even worse, black. The pain seems to be creeping up your arm, setting every nerve on fire. You quickly look away, and walk faster.
But now its your feet that are hurting. You couldn't have walked that far, could you? The road seems so far away, still, like you've walked nowhere at all. Either you've got tunnel vision, or... what? You don't want to contemplate that. You keep moving. You'll walk it off.
It doesn't get better. It gets worse. Soon your legs are cramping, your calves all up your knees, into your thighs. Your hips and groin muscles spasm painfully, causing gasps of agony. Your hand has taken a turn for the worse; now it's numb, and you do not want to look at it. The book feels heavy under your arm, like you're carrying a truck engine, but you can't, don't want to let it go now.
Your legs soon give out, pitching you to the dirt. The road is no closer. Looking back, you can't even see the hotel, just a mass of brush and roadside debris. The book is still under your arm, and the pain now makes your neck sting. You blink your eyes; the exertions have made you tired. The ground here is comfortable. A nap might be prudent. Sleep heals; you might just be fit to travel upon waking.
Except you never wake.
Or, should I say, you attempt to. The pain in your hand seems to get worse with every step, and what began as a simple burn now seems an excruciating mark of torment. A quick peek at your hand reveals some sort of horror appendage, the fingers swollen and red, where they aren't purple or, even worse, black. The pain seems to be creeping up your arm, setting every nerve on fire. You quickly look away, and walk faster.
But now its your feet that are hurting. You couldn't have walked that far, could you? The road seems so far away, still, like you've walked nowhere at all. Either you've got tunnel vision, or... what? You don't want to contemplate that. You keep moving. You'll walk it off.
It doesn't get better. It gets worse. Soon your legs are cramping, your calves all up your knees, into your thighs. Your hips and groin muscles spasm painfully, causing gasps of agony. Your hand has taken a turn for the worse; now it's numb, and you do not want to look at it. The book feels heavy under your arm, like you're carrying a truck engine, but you can't, don't want to let it go now.
Your legs soon give out, pitching you to the dirt. The road is no closer. Looking back, you can't even see the hotel, just a mass of brush and roadside debris. The book is still under your arm, and the pain now makes your neck sting. You blink your eyes; the exertions have made you tired. The ground here is comfortable. A nap might be prudent. Sleep heals; you might just be fit to travel upon waking.
Except you never wake.
