Fight or flight. The command was hardwired into Simon’s nervous system.
Fight? There were too many of them. He was not even sure what “they” were. Had they been humans, practitioners of some art unknown and revelers their own mutilation? Or were they something worse?
Piercings and gold teeth flashed in the moonlight as the others growled angrily.
Elongated heads, split tongues, wild patches of shaven and ankle-length hair increased Simon’s disorientation.
The spirit said they may react this way. Simon had never been fond of spirit guides – those moonlit creatures of nature who glowed with indigo and teal auras. The spirit who reached Simon looked as if he was murdered by an invisible force just before he could put on his coat. His wrinkled shirt and bowler gave him the air of knowledge, and spoke of one simple task left unfinished before death. If only he had a few more seconds to throw on his suit coat. If only.
There was something to do in the building. It had been a community center when the spirit died, where events and dances were held. Later it became a privately owned roller rink, then a members-only workout gym. Now it was a husk of a once-living place.
Now it was infested.
Simon ran. He could not fight the creatures. He had to take flight.
(Come back tomorrow for part 2.)
