He should have been calmly strolling through the empty storeroom of the derelict shell once known as The Hanged Banker Pub and Inn. He should have been quite happily snapping shot after shot of the broken caskets and decaying bar stools. He should be hearing his mate Kieron just behind him, taking a slower and more methodical approach to his photography.
It should have been a quiet little venture that would inevitably end in a functional pub a few miles away.
Instead there was silence that Kieron's humming should be filling, there were fresh stains on the floor that barely resembled wine and sure as hell didn't smell like it. There were footsteps directly above him as someone matched his every pace on an upper floor that he knew had caved in last week.
The entry hatch creaked, Kieron's voice trembled out a soft "Sorry mate" as it slammed shut and locked. The footsteps now came from in front of him, moving with the deliberate slowness of something that wants you to know how close it is.
The stains on the floor became worse.
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