Prose For You This Morning....

Here it is, kids...from The Hour of the Oxrun Dead, by Charles L. Grant.

She opened her eyes and was swept by the sensation that she was floating aimlessly beneath the surface of a grey motionless sea,  and all her gestures took minutes instead of seconds to complete.  She tried to count how many drinks she'd had tonight.  Two or three at the mansion, at least two at the Inn, and whatever had been in them was not mixing well.  She passed a hand over her damp forehead and looked over the counter, aware that Marc was speaking to her but she was unable to hear or understand him.  She smiled weakly, then laughed at the comical twist his lips had taken as they groped for words.  Another laugh when he reached out for her hand and a glaring red lightning bolt leaped painlessly between the tips of her fingers.  She floated a hand over the invoices and saw them flutter like birds disturbed in their sleep.   Without warning, her stomach clenched and she grabbed at it, reached out a hand to brace herself against the desk.

"Marc!"  she managed to gasp, and watched helplessly as he sprawled over the counter and slid slowly out of sight to the floor.   The folders tipped after him.

Slowly.

A tear etched into her cheek.  She released the counter to wipe it away, swayed and stumbled backwards, spun around and grabbed the chair.   It skittered away.  She fell.   Landed on her shoulder, toppled to her back while the ceiling whirled above her, the chandelier swinging in time to an inaudible tune. 

Voices, then.

A whispering.

Little children sneaking fearfully through a haunted house in the wake of midnignt....