I watch in dull, paralyzing fear. Your body is being pulled across the rock, limbs outstretched in the echoes of deathly agony.
You are face-up, a corpse awaiting an embrace from the shadowed ceiling above. You are not moving on your own, but I cannot see what cords or limbs must be reeling you in. You’re like flotsam, drifting out to sea, upon still waves of stone.
Motions shiver through your arms, blood pulsing violently through vessels which cannot understand surrender, no matter how far the brain seems to have faded.
I brighten the light, and direct the beam along your direction of travel. Gnarled debris casts shadows, but everything is otherwise in full view.
Then what could possibly be pulling you?
I blink, hard, trying to clear my vision of any potential illusions. I watch you carefully, disregarding your rigor mortis as a trick of the eye. There is no mistaking the blood trail, smeared across the rough granite. It’s getting longer; it’s definitely getting longer.
There cannot possibly be anything there. Nothing stands between you and the sparse ruins. I take a few steps forward, but hesitate. I wonder what must be watching me with invisible eyes. What unknown shapes are somehow camouflaged perfectly against that stark backdrop?
How far away is it? When will your body stop moving?
Will I be next?