The scariest things always come when you expect them.
Lamplight is dim in the corridor. You stand at the threshold, mincing eyelids to solidify distant, nebulous furniture, but it blurs amid the lemon luminescence. You struggle to enter or retreat.
You’re doomed. You feel it in your skin: prickly and cloying like the lusterless glow of the room.
A distant silhouette creeps towards you.
Creeps towards you and—
Like a treadmill flicked on its highest setting you fling across the corridor.
Blinding light. You soar over tables and chairs and open the hall’s door. What were you so afraid of?
The Fiction Writer 