He tried to crawl away, his hands slipping in his own blood.
But the torment didn't stop.
Again and again, his body was lifted and smashed, ten times, maybe more. Each impact stole another piece of his consciousness until everything finally went black.
When George opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his bedroom.
Days passed in a blur.
Sometimes he woke up. Sometimes he drifted back into darkness. His body grew weaker by the hour. There was barely anything to eat, barely any water to drink.
Occasionally, a sweet taste touched his lips.
'Someone's feeding me?' he wondered deliriously. 'But how?'
There was no maid. No granddaughter.
As the sweetness returned again, thicker this time, he forced his eyes open. And looked up.
A figure clung to the ceiling, twisted and unnatural. Blood dripped slowly from its body, falling directly into his open mouth.
He wanted to scream. But his throat was too dry.
Too thirsty. So all he could do… was open his mouth wider.
