Pushing past the door, hardly able to draw breath, I peer into the far corner of the room, and see the source of the light.
The blinking power light of an old laptop, screen up but black, perched on the edge of a worn wooden table. An upturned wooden stool lies in front of it in another of the pools of dark liquid; but there is nothing else. He has eluded me again!
I smash into the door with the palm of my hand, and a booming echo reverberates in the gloom. Immediately, the laptop screen flares, stark white, drawing my eye to it even as I throw my hand up to guard myself against the sudden light. Is it a trap? Slowly, I lower my hand, still gazing at the laptop across the room. Words have appeared on the screen:
Wary, unwilling, my feet shuffle towards it. I can see now that the liquid on the floor and in the pipes is deep red, bright red...I try to turn, to escape, but I cannot resist the pull. Slowly, inexorably, I am dragged across the room, until I stand directly in front of the computer.
Your quarry was here. He was entertaining for a while. As you will be. Now, type.
My trembling hand is pulled from my side, dragged towards the keyboard by an unseen force. I fight with all my strength to resist, my whole arm shaking, but it is too powerful. My fingers come to rest on the keys. Slight downward pressure and
God help me, and all who stumble across my tortured words. I am blogging.