The first thing she did when she walked into a hotel room was check the bathroom - especially the tub. She had this theory that you could tell exactly what kind of stay to expect from that one small room and she'd never been wrong before.
When her great aunt died and she had to sort out the remaining estate, she stayed a short while away in a scenic, if a little rustic, place called Thatchbeck Lodge. It sat right beside the Thatchbeck Marshes which were probably quite scenic in summer but autumn made them look brown and morose.
While her room looked clean enough, there was a faint brown ring around the bathtub and the tiled walls reminded her of an aquarium somehow. She brushed it off, thinking she was just stressed and she'd just give the tub a quick wipe down before running a bath.
She never thought about where the hotel's water came from, never thought to stare out of the window and see all the strange shapes moving through the tall grass and stagnant water. She might have seen one slip into the hotel's back door, might have heard all the other guests locking their rooms up.
If tit weren't for the old taps running at full speed she might have heard the sound of something wet and heavy dragging itself up worn, carpeted stairs. She might have had more time to scream if she hadn't been too caught up waiting for the murky water to clear.
She might have lived it she'd only stopped to look.
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