Pitch

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I can smell the blood. It tastes metallic on my tongue and I close my mouth tight, clamping my teeth together until my jaw aches. Still the scent of it invades my nostrils, sweet and ripe as an apple left out to rot in the sun. My stomach cramps, a knee jerk reaction to what the smell of blood has come to signify: death.

A Drinker has been in the hotel. I can see its claw marks running down across the woodwork of the main desk. What little furniture remained in the lobby has been completely wrecked, as if the Drinker went into some kind of mindless rage, destroying everything in sight.

He was wrong. Not all of the Drinkers left. At least one remained. One who knew where we were hiding. One who waited until I left to finally strike.

With my heart in my throat I sprint across the lobby and fly up the stairs, screaming their names with every step.

The green and cold carpet muffles my footsteps as I race down the hall, bypassing door after door until I get to the one I want. I throw it open with such force I nearly fall forward onto the mattress, but I catch myself just in time.

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