2nd half of the first chapter, first draft.

The second half of the first chapter.  Again, it's a first draft, so be kind.

 At least he’d walk away from this disaster with that much satisfaction.

The ground sloped downward on the southern side, facing one of the two streets that bordered the building.  He’d been surprised to find that he need merely followed the contours of the original structure to keep it on the level.   The old time builders had been pretty good, even if the later owners had been horrible neglectful.

He left the sidewalk and walked around to the back entrance.  There was a steep incline down to the river on the other side of the path.  While he’d poured the steps and smoothed off the terraces, the landscaping wouldn’t be installed until spring.  Not his problem, thank god.

He unlocked the right side of the double doors and slipped inside.  No one would question his presence, yet he still felt slightly naughty knowing his intentions.  He went right toward the stairs and quickly went up four levels to the top floor.  The Presidential Suite took up the whole western end of the inn, with magnificent views of the river below and in the distance, the Cascade Mountains.

He didn’t turn on the lights, but shed his clothes in the dark and pulled back the covers to the king-sized bed.  He decided not to turn on the heat, and so shivered in the cool sheets for a few moments.  As he warmed up, he felt himself relaxing.  He couldn’t see, but he could sense the high ceilings, the solid heft of the walls and floors.  There was heavy traffic on the southern side, but he could barely hear it. 

I’m probably couldn’t even afford to stay here anymore, he thought ruefully.  So screw them.  Whatever rich bastard sleeps here next will just have to sleep where I’ve already been.

He luxuriated in the firm bed and high-count cotton sheets for a few more minutes and then fell asleep.

He was instantly wide-awake.  There was someone in the room; he knew without a doubt.  He almost reached over to turn on the lights, then thought better of it.  He didn’t know what time it was, but it was close enough to dawn that someone might see the illumination and know it was out of place.

“Who’s there?” he said, firmly.

The jangling of his nerves, the way he’d instantly been alert despite the fact that he was known for his morning grogginess -- it was a running joke with his morning crew not to talk to him until he’d had his eighth cup of coffee -- made him think that whatever sound had awoken him was unusual -- even threatening.  He could almost sense the echo of the sound, but couldn’t quite catch it.

Moonlight was streaming through the window, and as he stared upward, wondering if he was just feeling guilty and paranoid. 

A shadow moved across the ceiling.  He let out an involuntary sound, like a grunted, battle-ready warning, and jumped out from under the sheets.  He backed into the corner and strained to see into the dark.  The lamp was on the other side of the bed, or he would have turned it on.  He considered scrambling across the bed, but felt safer for the moment with his back to the wall. 

He’d always been a brawler, a heavy drinker, willing and able to mix it up with anyone.  But right now he was naked and shivering, and whatever had made that shadow had been big and fast.  He couldn’t see anything, but he could sense that someone -- or something -- was there in the dark, unmoving, watching him.

“Who’s there, dammit!” he shouted.  “Is that you Roger?”  Rodriguez was his new foreman, but Jones had decided to call him Roger.  Sounded better when he was talking to his wealthier clients.  He didn’t have anything personal against Hispanics -- he actually thought they were better workers -- but rich people liked to think they were getting the old guard white guys.  

Nothing.   Silence.  He wasn’t even hearing the traffic, no matter how he strained.   No clicks of the settling lumber, no wind outside the window -- nothing.  It was as if he was in outer space.  It was unnatural.

He glanced up at the moonlit ceiling again, half hoping to see a shadow, half afraid he would.  Instead, a quick flash of light blinded him -- a pinprick that seemed to shoot directly into his cornea and into the back of his brain.  He was confused and the adrenalin that surged through his body was like a physical blow and he grunted in pain.

“Hello, mister.”

His blood froze.  Such a gentle voice -- a tiny little girl voice -- and it was like nothing he’d ever heard before.  The voice seemed to caress every inch of his body, but not in a gentle way, but like a brutal lover.  He was blind now, but he knew that whoever -- or whatever it was -- had moved in front of him.  Just inches away.

“Want to play?”  The voice was still soft, but now digging into the soft insides of his body.

Shivers ran down his spine, and he lost his footing, falling to his knees, his back slamming into the wall.

“I like to play…” The voice was twisting his insides, squeezing his heart, closing his lungs, ripping open his guts -- loosening him up.

With his last ounce of strength he stumbled to his feet and pushed away from the wall, reaching out blindly.  It wasn’t so much courage as the will to survive.  As he did so, sound returned, and his then vision. 

He walked quickly around the bed and turned on the light.  The room was empty.  He sighed.  A nightmare, the worst he’d ever had.  His heart was beating so fast he was worried it might burst into an arrhythmia.  He’d had that happen once, and it had taken several shot of digitalis in the emergency room before his heart reverted to normal.

He turned to make the bed.  He’d made his point.  He’d been the first to sleep in the Pilot Butte Inn -- he was satisfied.  Let the next guy sleep in his sweat.

There was one corner of the room that the light didn’t quite reach, and he saw a movement in the shadow.

He whirled around, silent this time, his arms up as if to ward off a blow.  He didn’t so much see the little girl in front of him, as see the shining outlines of the girl, dressed in a penafore, like Alice in Wonderland.  And then it was as if the shining shape expanded and surged toward him, faster than he could move.

 A small soft hand brushed up against his face.  It was cold, seeming to burn into his skin.  He felt a warm stream running down his leg and realized he’d lost control of his bladder.

“No,” he whispered.

The voice was getting louder with every syllable.  “I want to play!!!” 

The fingers of the little hand grew longer -- and sharper -- and he felt them dig into his numbed face, and another flow of warm liquid ran down his neck.  Somehow that freed him of his paralysis again.  He jumped toward the door -- and fell onto a hard surface...which then gave way, and he was falling, tumbling into darkness.  Something was on his back squeezing him, and a hot breath burned his ears.

“I want to play….” And then, it was as if his ear was torn off his head, and the little arms were now bands of steel, closing, forcing the breath from his crushed chest, and he cried out in agony and despair.

“I’ll play with you forever...”

No longer a small high voice, but deeper than he should have been able to hear, as if the little girl was as big as a mountain.  He realized it was only in his head, and the sound of it pulled asunder the parts of his brain that understood what was happening.

And yet he was conscious of what was happening, and he knew he’d always be conscious -- to feel every moment of pain as he fell endlessly into the burning darkness.