Enter the bathroom

    Sure it can. That's the problem. I wish I hadn't had that thought.

    My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness, and due to an unfortunate addiction to horror movies, the first place I look is at the mirror. It's clear; no condensation, not even one scrawled, badly-drawn letter. I see only my own face, pallid and made strange by the shadows, my mouth half-open in a dopey expression of shock. My mouth drops open further as I notice something else. The writing is on my head. Scribbled in bold red just under my hairline are the words: You Will Lose

    Lose? Lose what? My grip on reality? My life? My temper? These all seem like distinct possibilities.

    A sudden hiss comes from the shower, together with an awful scrabbling sound like something with way too many legs trying to skitter up the tiles.

    I don't want to do it. I tell myself I'm nuts, but I take a step, and then another, and my hand reaches to pull open the frosted-glass door. It's the same instinct that makes you rubber-neck at a crash; sometimes you just have to see. No matter how bad you think it's going to be, no matter how mangled the vehicles, or how much blood is splattered on the road; you still have this need to know.

    The door swings open slowly. I'm not a total idiot - my arm is at full stretch. There's just a flicker of movement down near the grill, but the shower is otherwise empty as far as I can tell in the dim light. Empty, that is, except for a folded map, my car keys sitting invitingly on top.

    I make a snatch for them, relieved no nasty skittering thing makes a second appearance. It's a local map and three locations are circled on it in three different colors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End

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