Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Woolhat's Travelling Mood. I got this from Donatella's Head.

Rating: NC-17

This fic was inspired by The Shining and has three parts

***

{part 1}

The pad was dark when Micky got home. Large shadows from the moonlight were painted across every wall and they watched him creep in slowly. Micky bowed his head and removed his shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible. If he could survive tonight he would be safe. He moved edgily forward, aiming for the spiral stairs. He just needed to get to bed, by morning all would be forgotten; he knew that. Micky held his breath as placed his foot on the first step of the stairs. Soon he would be home and free. The drummer took one more step and was blinded by a sudden flash of light. He shielded his eyes for a moment to let them adjust, and then turned to the source.

Mike was sitting in the armchair, arms crossed and the meanest look Micky had ever seen was playing with his face. Micky was trapped, and his stealthy arrival had only made him look guiltier. Trust Mike to never let an issue drop and now he was in serious trouble.

Micky hated being scared of Mike, and usually he laughed him off, but there were situations, like this one, when he just wished he could run and hide. Mike could hurt him, he had in the past even though he claimed it was by accident, claimed he just lost his temper, but Micky knew he meant it. And now it was going to happen all over again.

They had been out playing a gig at one of the best clubs downtown, and if they were good enough, they would have a string of gigs there. Micky felt sheepish now, like a child standing in front of his headmaster, what could he possibly say to make it up to Mike? It was his fault they lost the gig.

"Where have you been?" Mike spoke calmly and slowly, eyeing Micky's humbled form up and down.

"I...I, um, thought that I might hang round the clubs a little more, I didn't feel like coming home right away."

"Trying to avoid me?" "What?!" Micky's voice raised a couple of octaves, "No! Why would I want to do that?"

Mike looked at him menacingly. He cleared his throat yet never broke eye contact. "So are you going to explain?"

"Explain?"

"Why you fucked up the gig? Or am I to assume you're going to do this on a regular basis?"

Mike was getting really pissed now; Micky could see it. The drummer looked down at his feet, and his head cleared of any useful thoughts.

"It was a girl wasn't it?"

"What?"

"Micky, would you drop the innocent act?! You sang the wrong fucking song for Christ's sake! It sounded ridiculous; WE looked ridiculous. What were you thinking?!"

Mike was on his feet now, glaring at Micky like shit on his shoe. Micky's mouth worked but all that came out were little noises of embarrassment, showing his fear.

The Texan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "You've really let me down Mick."

Then came was the fatal mistake. Micky kicked himself for it.

"But it wasn't my fault." He argued.

That was it, he had been almost home and dry with a mere reprimand and now he had made things a hundred times worse. He should have just admitted defeat, apologized, but oh no, not bigmouth Dolenz.

Mike was fuming; you could almost see the smoke and this made the whole argument go a hundred times quicker. Micky shook with every word Mike yelled at him and was tempted to run, but there was a certain amount of pride stopping him from doing so. Why weren't the others backing him up or at least trying to calm Mike down, surely they could hear him?

As Micky's mind ran with a thousand little thoughts, he didn't have time to prepare himself for the finale of the situation.

The blow knocked him sideways, sending him to the floor in a split second. He lay there for a long time, feeling a warm liquid dribbled from his nose contrasting with the icy coldness of the concrete floor. Mike seemed to be waiting too until finally moving off silently, entering the bedroom they shared and closing the door quietly behind him. End of discussion.

Since that day, work dried up to a complete stop. It had never been flowing, but now they had nothing and this was taking its toll on Mike. He never said anything more about that night, about just leaving Micky there, bleeding on the floor. Micky would have stayed there all night, just to prove something when Mike came back down in the morning, make him feel guilty, but Davy came from his bedroom shortly after Mike had gone and ordered Micky onto the couch. Micky was sour. No one had cared about how he felt, only about how it would affect Mike. Poor Mike, he had so much to deal with, he didn't need immature kids spoiling it all for him. Micky took on a dark look, which lasted for a couple of days, but it slowly dropped when he found that no one was taking any notice.

Micky lay on the couch, surrounded by discarded magazines and watched the dappled sunlight play against the bandstand. They hadn't rehearsed in days, none of them felt like it, what was the use? The drummer gazed around the room and centered on Mike and Peter who were sitting at the kitchen table. They were having a quiet conversation and Micky had to strain to hear what they were saying.

"But do you really think it's for us? I mean, five months Pete." Mike was glancing over a piece of paper in his hand and there was a concerned tone in his voice.

"Michael, it's a brilliant opportunity, I mean, we practically get paid for doing nothing."

Mike looked at him uncertainly and his eyebrows knitted together in thought.

"I s'pose you're right Pete." He sighed.

Later that evening, the truth came out. There was a job that Mike was interested in, for all of them, but there were a lot of issues to consider. The job was in a large hotel in the mountains, where they would have to take care of it during the winter months, just them, alone. Micky didn't like the sound of that. They would be isolated, for five months. Davy looked a bit disgruntled too, the fact that there would be no girls for that long didn't sound too appealing, but when Mike finally reasoned that if they didn't try, they'd end up starving in the street, the Englishman looked persuaded.

When asked what he thought, Micky could feel three sets of eyes burning into him. Mike's were stern and commanding, Peter's were pleading and Davy's were anticipating. They all waited for Micky to speak. Micky knew that if he disagreed they would probably go without him anyway; leave him behind.

"Sure," he breathed quietly, "why not?"

~~~

The hotel was bustling with non-stop activity; everyone was getting ready for their well-deserved break.

Micky stood behind Mike in the lobby, watching silently. Mike had a big grin on his face, pleased with himself for securing the job and finally giving himself something worthwhile to do. Occasionally he turned to look a Micky and once he gave a reassuring wink. It didn't brighten Micky's mood much. There was already a threat of snow and he hated it when it was cold. He wanted to go back home to LA, not trapped up here.

The daytime janitor showed them around, which took most of the day given the enormity of the hotel, and then they were left there, alone. The hotel had several floors; each one had a main hall, as well as smaller recreational ones and what seemed like hundreds of bedrooms. The guys separated to take a look around and all became quiet.

The evening crawled on slowly and Peter found that he was still scouting out the building. He couldn't get over the shear size of the place. On the fifth floor he followed a long series of corridors, gold and burgundy in color, before they opened up like a giant Japanese fan welcoming a large hall that glowed with the glimmer of a huge log fire that was nestled in the center.

There was a silhouette painted on the wall and Peter adjusted his eyes to see who was there.

"How you doing, Pete?" Mike asked without looking up, "Settling in?"

Peter gave a sigh of relief, although he didn't quite know why, and shuffled over to where Mike was nestled in a large armchair, which surrounded him completely. The blond made note that Mike had his legs tucked under him, curled in an almost feline position, something that Peter would never have expected him to do.

"Sit." Mike gestured to a nearby chair and Peter accepted, flopping down into it heavily.

Mike smiled into a glass of liquor that he had cuddled up with and then looked up at Peter with large cocoa eyes.

"Well, what do you think of her?"

"She's enormous; I don't think I've ever seen a bigger building. I haven't seen the others in a long time."

"I know, I don't think Micky's been out of the games room, and I have no idea where Davy disappeared to."

Mike watched the fire with a constant gaze and Peter could see the flames dance in his eyes. There was a strange atmosphere, the blond couldn't put his finger on what it was, but he didn't like it. Mike's gaze continued, his eyes seeming to take on a dewy effect, as if he were remembering a fond memory.

"Yeah," He finally spoke, breaking the silence with an ominous tone, "This is gonna be one hell of a winter!"

Among the many duties that came with the job was taking care of three horses in some stables around the back of the hotel. They were beautiful animals, pure bred and healthy. They were all part of the extravagance of the hotel and were symbols of the kind of people who usually stayed at there; people who had more money than they knew what to do with. Davy spent most of his time with the animals, riding and grooming them, remembering his life back in England when he spent more time with horses than people.

"There you go," The Englishman smiled at the rate the animal before him devoured its food. Slowly he raised his auburn head and gazed across the open stretches of white, snow covered plains mixed with the tall peaks of the looming mountains. Turning, he looked back at the huge hotel, the ink spot against the ivory backdrop. The sun was vanishing beneath the mountains, casting a dying amber light and Davy watched from the distance as some of the lights in the magnificent building were switched on, giving their own eerie glow. His eyes noticed the window at the very top of the building, just below the attic, and watched as a light was switched on there too. He knew that was Mike up there, hiding himself away where he couldn't be found. On the first couple of nights they had still had meals together as a group, but gradually that ritual had disappeared. He rarely saw Mike anymore, the Texan was acting as if he was stowing something away, tangible or not, and an agonizing curiosity gnawed away at the Englishman's mind. Mike was changing, and he was definitely hiding something. They would just have to find out what.

Days turned into weeks and everything seemed to be going smoothly. The guys found numerous things to occupy their minds. Mike seemed to center solely on his music, spending hours by himself just playing his guitar and writing down random thoughts. A modern hermit.Peter spent most of his time outside in the snow. He hadn't seen snow like it since he was a child and although it scared him that now they had little chance of leaving the hotel, he couldn't get over how beautiful the views were. The mountains glistened with their own special magic and he found himself endlessly sitting outside in one of the many gardens, just thinking.

Micky was not so keen. The solitude gave him a lot of time to think, and when he spent too much time thinking he realized how miserable he was. They'd been there for a fortnight now, and he had never felt so lonely. The hotel was so big, they could have a wing each, and because of that, he hardly ever talked to the others. He could go a whole day without seeing any of them. Sometimes he was terrified by the thought that they had actually left, or worse yet, something had happened to them. It would take him weeks to find out.

He didn't tell Mike that the size of the building scared him, that the fact that they wouldn't be leaving for five months was worse than the death penalty, he just kept quiet, to keep Mike happy. Thoughts of Mike had been plaguing Micky since the night when Mike had hit him. Things just hadn't seemed the same since, and Micky had lost all trust and respect for the Texan. In fact, it was Mike's volatile character that scared Micky even more than the hotel did. As the days went by, he seemed to act stranger and stranger. He had always been the control freak and would have some strange moods, but usually that was just him being moody. Recently, since their arrival at the hotel, he had seemed to become more recluse, yet more unpredictable. His mood would suddenly swing from one emotion to the other. Micky used to be able to tell if Mike was in a bad mood, he had certain traits like crossing his arms, but recently Micky found that Mike would just suddenly snap for no apparent reason and more than often the drummer found himself in the crossfire.

The floors were freezing against his bare feet as he stepped edgily around various tables, looking at all the carving knives hanging on a nearby wall. Micky rubbed his hands together; it was definitely getting colder. Creepy, he thought, as he shifted silently through the hotel kitchen.

It was so cold. Micky could see his breath dancing on the air, like the fog that sometimes set out over the beach back home. God he missed LA. The sooner this sentence was over, the better...for all of them.

Micky wandered into the food storage room and nosed among the various boxes of cereals and dried fruit. He wasn't hungry, just bored. He neared the back of the storage room and suddenly realized how hard his heart was beating; it was pounding so loud, ringing in his ears. His breath quickened and his chest tightened, something was wrong, someone was there. The building was so old and spooky, and Micky was the first to admit his belief in all things supernatural. There was something about the building he didn't like, something was very wrong.

Micky spun around just in time to watch the large iron door slam shut, locking him inside. For a moment the drummer just stood there, paralyzed with fear and nausea, unable to comprehend, at first, what had just happened. Then his body took over and he leapt at the door, screaming at the top of his voice and pounding on it mercilessly.

He screamed and shouted for all he was worth, the fear of being forever abandoned gnawing at his soul. Soon he wore himself out and he slumped against the door, his breath ragged and his throat sore.

"Help," he whispered meekly, his hand running feebly down the cold iron, tainted with blood from the continual pounding.

"What do you want help for?" A voice joked mockingly from the other side.

Micky's heart pounded harder, partly through fear of some kind of stranger who had locked him up, and partly through excitement of being released.

"I can't get out, help me!" Micky climbed to his feet and pressed his whole body up against the door.

"Why should I?"

"Who is this?"

"Can't you tell?"

"No! Let me out for fuck's sake!" In Micky's fear and confusion, he couldn't concentrate on the voice that was taunting him; all he wanted was to be released.

"Temper, temper!"

"Let me out!" Micky kicked the door several times, trying to emphasize his point.

"Well, now maybe I will, and maybe I won't."

"Let me out!" Micky screamed as loud as he could, trying to fight back tears. He was terrified, and his hands shook. Everyone knew that he got claustrophobic; everyone knew he couldn't stand being locked up on his own. "Please."

The lock sounded a loud clanging of metal that rang painfully in Micky's ears and the door swung open.

There was no one, an empty kitchen stared back at him and creaked menacingly with the howling wind outside. Micky quickly scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, hiding the tears that had toppled over and gazed around the vacant room.

"Hello?" he asked meekly and stepped giddily from the doorway. He moved forward a little more before he heard a couple of somber footsteps behind him and the iron door slammed shut.

Micky spun on his heels; fists raised and found Mike leaning smugly against the door, a playful look in his eyes.

Micky was still breathing hard and he stood there, mouth wide with astonishment.

"Mike?" he murmured, unsure if he was seeing things.

Mike smiled and stepped forward, arms outstretched as if he were surrendering in front of a firing squad.

"Micky, man, you sure get worked up!"

"You locked me in there?" Micky still couldn't believe what was going on.

"Hey, babe," Mike was only a couple of inches away now, "It was only a joke."

Mike began to chuckle to himself and reached out, running a hand through Micky's hair before giving him a pat on the head.

"Only a joke," He repeated himself.

That was it; Micky couldn't take anymore. He had slowly simmered and now he couldn't delay the inevitable boiling point. He hated this place and he wanted to go home, he hated everything to do with the hotel, he hated being lonely and now, if it wasn't bad enough, Mike was having a 'joke' at his expense! How dare he, after all he had done, after all the pain he had caused!

All his anger seemed to filter through his body from his mind and bottled up in his hands. Before he knew what he was doing, he swung out and slammed his fist into Mike's face, sending the Texan plummeting to the floor.

Micky stood paralyzed, realizing what he had done, and gazed at Mike, sprawled across the cold tiles. Micky's mouth worked but nothing came out. His hands shook and he watched as Mike slowly staggered to his feet. His ebony head rose up into Micky's blurred vision and there was a look of pure hate in his eyes. Blood pumped from his nose and he dabbed at it aimlessly with the back of his hand. Large droplets of the crimson liquid fell from his face and gathered with the already existing pool on the once immaculate white floor.

"You!" Mike growled, but before he could continue, his gaze fell over Micky's shoulder and the drummer turned to find Davy entering the room.

"What the hell's gone on here?" The Englishman stood, hands firmly on his hips and his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

Micky looked back at the Texan and they gained eye contact.

"Nothing," Mike breathed wearily, drawing himself up to his full height, "I...fell - tripped over the stupid table leg."

Mike kept eye contact with Micky while he spoke, his eyes telling a different story.

"No harm done." Mike gave a small smile, before ruffling Micky's curls once more, tightening his grip on them for a brief second, causing Micky to wince, before he strode confidently out of the room.

Micky knew that he was in trouble now, what had he done? But there was also another feeling inside of him. Glory. He had actually hit Mike and it made him feel slightly happy with himself.

Davy shook his head and sighed. "'e's been acting weird since we got here. I think this old place is having a strange affect on him."

"I just hope he snaps out of it soon." Micky mumbled, glancing wistfully at the spreading pool of blood. It was only a matter of time before Mike would get his own back, and with the strange way he's been acting, Micky didn't like to contemplate how Mike would have his revenge. 

{part 2}

        Peter stood in the lobby and gazed almost longingly out of the windows. The first storm had come; the snow fell in heavy drifts and now there was little chance of leaving this place before the spring.

"No turning back now." A voice came from behind.

Peter turned quickly and found Davy standing behind him, arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face.

"I just hope we made the right decision." Peter gave a suggestion of a smile.

"Well, we haven't killed each other yet." Davy joked, but his voice was laced with a serious tone. He hadn't believed Mike when he found him and Micky in the kitchen. Something had happened and he wasn't going to believe for a second that Mike's injury was an accident.

Peter shook his head and returned to gazing out of the window. Maybe it was time he found his faith again, something told him he was going to need it.

~~~

The darkness engulfed him like a large blanket, suffocating him, choking the air out of him. Micky lay awake staring at the ceiling, drumming his fingers lightly on his other hand. He had hardly slept for three nights now. Worry and fear plagued him, making any kind of rest impossible and all his thoughts returned to one thing - Mike.

Micky was terrified of what Mike might do, of what he could be planning. He sat endlessly drifting into the deeper realms of thought. The room creaked menacingly and Micky shivered, pulling the covers up closer around him. The wind howled outside, rapping at the windows and creating drafts which made the door open ever so slightly.

The drummer lay there motionless, a terror that had stayed hidden inside of him slowly rising up, squeezing his throat and making his breath quicken. There was a soft banging coming from upstairs in the attic, a gentle tapping like someone dancing a slow waltz in a pair of high heels. Micky listened intently to every sound, his heart pounding harder and harder.

He was sure he heard a rummaging sound down in the lobby, like someone sifting through the drawers in the manager's office, but that was stupid, there was no one there. He hoped there was no one there. The wind howled again and the door creaked a little more, opening up into the room only to expose more darkness.

Micky knew he couldn't take anymore, if the situation stayed like this he would go insane with his own self-created fear. Slowly he peeled back the blanket and slipped his feet out onto the thick carpet below. As he stood the floorboards groaned in protest and the drummer almost leapt straight back into bed again. But no, he had to do this; he had to get everything sorted out.

Micky stepped forward edgily, continually gazing around so that nothing could suddenly leap out and surprise him. He felt a cold sweat dribble down his forehead and cling to his back, making him feel ten times worse.

Micky managed to get himself out into the hallway and looked both ways. Darkness. He would have to do everything by memory. He knew that Mike's room was three doors down, the closest one to his. When they had arrived, they had naturally enjoyed all this extra space and had all spread out as much as they'd dared.

Micky outstretched his hands in the thick, soupy blackness and wandered along, tempted to close his eyes, it would make no difference. An urge to end this fear of every corner, to end his anticipation of a savage plot against him, drove him on until he was standing outside Mike's door.

Micky swallowed hard and felt a pain trail down his sore throat like swallowing a razor blade. Gently he raised his hand and laid it on the doorknob, watching as it quivered slightly. The moment of truth. Micky turned it gently and was surprised how easy it was to do, as if the room was making it easier for him, leading him more speedily to his fate.

The door drifted open, almost of its own accord and Micky was shocked to see a faint light spilling across the room. His feet began to turn back the way he came - if he could get back to his room he could lock the door and be safe - but no, he couldn't keep living in fear. He had to do this.

He crept stealthily forwards, gently pushing the door as he went until he gained a full view of the room. It was a small room; not a suite but it did have a wardrobe, a couple of dressers and a double bed. Micky held his breath to keep himself quiet and gazed silently at the figure sitting on the bed.

Mike was perched on the edge, wistfully staring out of the window, watching the snow highlighted by his bedside lamp. He sat bolt upright, as if waiting for something disastrous to happen.

Micky swallowed and that's when the Texan's head snapped sideways, fixing him with a frozen glare.

Now was a good time to run, Micky told himself, but in a way he was relieved, the hard part was over. Now, if it was what Mike intended, he would get what was coming to him, get a beating, and then the whole thing would be over and he would no longer have to wait for it to happen, no longer be scared of his own shadow.

Mike said nothing, he just continued his gaze as he had done to the window just a few moments ago, but Micky could see the guitarist's mind working, calculating - he would not be caught out.

Micky edged forward, pushed on by cowardice rather than bravery, and stood before Mike, his hands outstretched slightly, signifying that he hadn't come to attack. Mike eyed him up and down but still said nothing, letting his eyes do the talking.

What are you doing here? His deep brown eyes asked, a sharp, spiteful tone in their voice.

"Mike... I..." Micky swallowed and the razor blade evolved into several pieces of broken glass, "I've come to say I'm sorry for what I done. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it. I'm really, really sorry."

Micky found himself eagerly grovelling as if his pitiful voice would somehow melt that cold stare. He stood, fumbling with his fingers and waited for Mike to speak, if he would speak at all.

Mike looked at him with that patronising gaze, the one that reduced Micky to about an inch in size. Micky felt sick to his stomach and was close to vomiting. The fear and intensity of the situation was bearing down on him, making his temperature rise despite the winter storm outside.

Mike sighed and a small, almost good-natured smile crossed his lips. He began to chuckle to his own private joke and shook his head, the smile growing slightly.

"You're sorry," He laughed, and Micky was almost tempted to laugh with him. "You're sorry?"

The tone changed the last time he spoke. It was suddenly accusatory, laced with malice. Micky instinctively took a step back and Mike rose to his feet, quickly eliminating the space between them.

"You're fucking sorry?"

Micky turned to run, everything had suddenly been thrown into a horribly clear perspective, but a sharp hand tangled in his hair, tugging viscously and snapping his head backwards. Micky yelped as the same hand spun him round and threw him up against the nearest wall.

Micky's legs gave way but before he could reach the safety of the ground, he was dragged back up again by his throat and was then staring back into deep eyes of hate. The hand around his throat tightened, not too tight as to send him spiralling into unconsciousness, but enough to hurt painfully, especially when Mike dug his nails in the soft tender flesh of the drummer's neck. Mike took a deep breath and kept his grip on Micky, never wavering.

"What stops me from killing you right now?" he growled.

Micky whimpered from beneath his steely grasp and the Texan tightened his fist for a little emphasis.

"Who would notice that you were gone?" That little sentence seemed to give him unlimited pleasure.

"I mean, we're out here, no one would know. I could kill you and leave you out in the snow. Pete and Dave wouldn't be the wiser. 'Sorry, poor old Micky froze to death'."

Micky tried struggling but he was already feeling slightly numb. All he could feel was the pain in his throat and Mike's voice was the only sound that filled his ears, booming, commanding.

"You humiliated me Micky, and you hurt me too. I thought we were friends." Mike acted hurt, putting on a downtrodden expression, but his tone of voice let Micky know that the guitarist was having more than enough fun right now.

"And what brought you here? So you could grovel for your life while you had the chance? Jeez Mick, you're more of a cowardly son of a bitch than I thought."

Micky wanted to cry, the pain in his throat was literally forcing tears to his eyes, but he held them back, he couldn't cry here, not now.

"And what's your scrawny little life worth anyway? What are you prepared to do to see another day?"

His grip loosened and Micky sagged against the wall, coughing and rubbing his sore flesh.

"What would you do to keep living, Mick?"

The drummer looked at him, confusion, hate and fear brimming up in pain filled tears beneath his eyes.

"Aren't you gonna answer you selfish prick?"

Micky didn't say anything, he wasn't quite sure if Mike actually wanted an answer or whether he was just bathing in his awesome power, the bastard.

"Well, I'll tell you what." Mike hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and allowed a broad smile to cross his lips.

"Either you do what I'm about to tell you, or I kill you. Fair?"

Micky looked at him quickly, then glanced to the door, then back at Mike. There was no escape, even if he was safe tonight, Mike would always be after him, so why put it off? Yes it sounded cowardly, and it probably was, but Micky didn't intend to die that night. He knew that since arriving at the hotel, Mike had changed from a young man with a bad temper and wild, fictional threats, to a man who would gladly kill if it meant one less problem for himself. And Micky saw himself as the big problem number one.

"What do you want me to do?" He choked.

~~~

Davy finished the last of his warm tea as he watched the dying light fade behind the mountains. A certain heaviness seemed to weigh down his eyes from lack of sleep the previous night. He had been woken by a banging and raised voices, which he later guessed to be Mike and Micky. He couldn't make out what they were arguing about but he knew it must have been something to do with what he saw in the kitchen. He hadn't seen either of them all day, although he had heard Micky practicing his drums, which they had brought with the other instruments from LA, so he guessed they were both ok.

Davy sighed wearily and dragged himself to his feet. His expression changed to slightly mournful when he saw how the light was quickly disappearing and he hurriedly walked to the stairs and descended down to the lobby.

There he drew out a notebook and pen from the reception desk and scrawled in his muddled handwriting:

'Have gone to give Mayday her evening hay. If not back in three days, send out search party!!!'

Davy taped the note to the desk and headed to grab his coat. Sometimes he was glad to have the horses to tend to, but as the nights drew in he began to despise having to feed them their evening meals. The danger of being lost in the thick snow in the dark was growing all the time and soon he would have to start taking someone with him.

Davy trudged around the side of the hotel building, being batted from all sides by the howling snow, giving his hair and face a ghostly white tinge. He could see the stable outside light winking at him from the distance and he hurried along, hoping to get the job done as soon as possible.

It took him the best part of fifteen minutes to reach the stables and he drew a heavy sigh of relief when he reached the feed shed. Quickly he ducked inside to the cosy warmth and filled a net with a pad of hay. Hurriedly, he ran out of the barn again and towards the nearest stable, trying to avoid the stinging of the harsh weather. It was like being attacked by an entire wasps nest.

As he flicked the light on to see into the stable, he found that Mayday, the beautiful chestnut Thoroughbred mare that he had grown to love, was lying on her side, her back to the door. Her head was flat against the floor and he found it strange that she did not look up when he opened the door. Horses rarely stayed in a vulnerable position like that when people were around.

"Come on girl, dinner." Davy cooed lightly, stringing up the net in an effort to coax her. She didn't stir and a frozen hand grasped Davy's intestines. There was something very wrong.

Gently, so as not to startle her if she were awake, he crept towards the animal and laid a gentle hand on her back, easing himself closer so that he could look over onto her face. At first his eyes failed to register what was happening and a thousand thoughts plunged through his mind. What if she's sick? There's no vet that could help. What if she's lame? What would the owner think? He edged forward so that the light could be seen on her face and then froze.

What he saw made him scream in immortal agony and he fell back into the straw bed on the floor, tears beginning to topple down his cheeks. What in Christ's name had happened?

He looked to his right hand and found it soaked in blood from the dead animal. His sleeve too had quickly become wet from the blood, which ran steadily from the gaping knife wound in the animal's throat. Who would do such a thing?

Davy covered his face in his hands and when he looked up again, the animal's blood adorned his cheeks like tribal war paint. He would kill the person who did this, he would make them suffer like he was suffering now. Such a beautiful animal had been wasted and there were only three suspects...his three best friends.

Davy giddily rose to his feet and took one last glance at the lake of deep crimson that seemed to surround the mare's head like an unholy halo. Her eyes stared back dully at him and the head seemed almost completely detached from the rest of the body, but those eyes, they were begging him. He took a few deep breaths to gain his composure before heading back out into the weather, forgetting completely about the other two horses who whinnied anxiously for their food.

Davy stormed in through the lobby doors, letting them swing back and allowing a huge gust of wind driven snow to surround him like a flowing cape. His face was sore from the weather but there was only hate inside him at that moment and that was his driving force.

Quickly he ran up the stairs, three at a time, and hurried into the huge hall where he himself had been barely an hour ago. The lights were on, banishing the outside darkness and Davy looked around to find a familiar ebony head resting in one of the huge armchairs.

The anger in Davy's soul was reaching meltdown and all he could hear was a painful ringing in his ears.

"Mike!" He yelled, his voice uncharacteristically deep with hatred.

The Texan turned, a puppy dog expression on his face, the innocent look of a choirboy, and his mouth formed a quiet word, "Davy?"

The Englishman couldn't restrain his angered pain; he needed to lash out. He opened his mouth, ready to let loose all the horrible things he had ever wanted to say to Mike and finish it off by beating him round the head with the brass statue by the fireside.

He opened his mouth and raised his hands but was cut off.

There was a scream. A bloodcurdling horrifying scream. Davy spun around and found that Mike was immediately by his side; his once schooled stony face was now one of surprise and anticipation. Davy took a step forward, then stepped back again, unsure whether that noise had even been human.

The two waited and watched as the hall light came on and Peter appeared. The blond was in his pyjamas that hung baggy around his frame. His hair was ruffled in several directions and his mouth was working a hundred miles an hour, yet no noise came out. His face contorted with expressions of fear and growing shock, but that wasn't the worst. His hands came flying out from behind his back and a dark crimson dripped from them, quickly staining the carpet beneath. The sleeves were soaked in blood and ran right up to his elbow, all dripping with the thick, ominous liquid.

Before Peter had a chance to get a word out, Davy had pounced on him, knocking him easily to the floor. Peter held his bloodied arms up to shelter himself as Davy tried to pound him to death. The Englishman seemed to be ranting on about some kind of animal but Peter couldn't hear straight. All he knew was that if he didn't get away quick, Davy would try and kill him.

Peter built up all his energy and lurched against Davy, throwing him off and knocking him out for a couple of moments. The blond crawled to his feet and immediately looked to Mike who had stood by, watching.

"I just woke up and it was there!" Peter wailed as he held out his arms, "All I know is it isn't mine."

"You're fucking right it isn't yours you bastard!" Davy cried as he clambered to his feet.

The two looked at each other and there was a moment's reflection. Peter's eyes looked so confused and Davy couldn't help feeling the twinge of doubt. If he had suspected anyone of doing this, it was Mike. He could see the Texan doing it as some sick joke, the two of them had never been fully eye to eye, or maybe it could have been Micky in a moment of madness, but never Peter. Davy was confused himself, but his anger had subsided slightly. He couldn't tell if the blood on Peter's face was the blonde's own, or the horse's. All he knew was that his favourite animal was dead and Peter looked to be the culprit.

"I never want to set eyes on your fucking face ever again, you hear me?!" He snarled, before storming past the bassist and jogging up the stairs to his room.

Peter turned to Mike and found an expression that was unreadable. The walls were up and it didn't seem like Mike wanted to get involved. At that moment all Peter wanted was a bit of consoling, but Mike just shrugged. The Texan put on an exaggerated yawn and ambled towards the stairs slowly, muttering something about going to bed.

Peter looked out over the hall and felt tears sting his eyes. He had never seen Davy look that way, never seen such hate in his eyes. But what could he do? He was as confused as everyone else. All he knew was that he had just woken up and found this blood everywhere. Davy wasn't going to believe him, despite the fact that he had no idea what was going on.

A lone drop of salt water trickled down his cheek and mingled with the blood, forming a raindrop of deep red. So, Peter thought, this is what hell looks like.

~~~

Micky sat on his bed and gazed at himself in the mirror opposite. It was the same face he had always seen, but now there was something in it that disturbed him, now there were secrets.

The drummer had heard all the commotion downstairs but had chosen to ignore it, he didn't know if he could suffer being down there, especially with Mike around too. He'd just say he was asleep. The guy in the mirror sniffed quietly, fighting back a few tears, and watched him intently. Micky had to escape, he couldn't spend another four months like this. He wanted to sleep, but every time he laid back and closed his eyes, the waltz in the attic would start again, along with the insistent tapping at the windows and the shuffling from downstairs. The hotel wouldn't let him sleep.

Micky lay back and looked at the ceiling. He was thinking about L.A., about the beach, when a shaft of light entered the room from the hallway, before being quickly shut off again.

"I didn't think you'd do it." Mike whispered and Micky could tell he was smiling. He didn't reply, he didn't know how.

"I never told you to put Peter in the frame though. A stroke of genius, or was it cowardice?"

"Someone had to get the blame."

"Frightened Davy would hurt you?"

"A little," Micky murmured truthfully.

He felt the bed sag a little as Mike sat beside him, looking down with thoughtful eyes.

"It wasn't very difficult though, was it?"

Micky looked at him with genuine despair in his eyes.

"Harder than you could ever imagine," he choked emotionally, "Davy would never forgive me."

"Who needs him." Mike smiled, wavering his hand, "Anyway, it wasn't exactly taxing was it? I mean, surely you would be prepared to do a little more to really prove your life was worth sparing."

"No, no more."

Mike's smile grew a little. Gently he raised his hand and clamped it easily around Micky's throat.

"Are you sure?"

For a moment, Micky longed for it to end, for all the pain to stop, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see were his dreams for the future, for a pretty wife and kids, for a good job and a nice home, for everything everyone wants. He couldn't die here, not in this shithole, not by the hands of his best friend.

"What did you have in mind?" he forced the words out and felt their bitter taste on his tongue.

"Something only you could give me Micky, if you'd part with it for your life?"

Micky's eyes went wide. Christ, what does he want from me now?

Gently, Mike got more comfortable on the bed and slid a lithe hand down Micky's frame, stopping briefly at his crotch.

"I want you Micky, I want to be inside you."

How had he agreed to this? Why didn't he lie down and die like you're meant to do?

Mike moaned in his ear, kissing and nibbling at the delicate flesh, leaving red marks and marking his territory. Micky had cried a few tears, but that couldn't soften this cold-hearted monster, which had taken the place of his best friend.

Mike moved himself down Micky's lean body, licking and kissing, making Micky moan despite himself. Mike reached further down and bent his head, taking Micky briefly into his mouth. He brought Micky to the edge and then backed off, watching as an expression of agony crossed the drummer's features.

"What's wrong?" Mike asked coyly, sitting back.

"Please...release me."

"Why should I?"

"Please."

Mike smiled, a big demonic smile and crawled back up Micky's body to kiss those pained lips. Micky kissed back, hoping it would urge Mike to finish the job but it seemed he was in no rush.

"Are you sorry you hit me Mick?"

"Yes."

"Really sorry?"

"Yes...oh God."

The kisses began marching down his chest again and Micky thought he was going to pass out. At that moment he hated himself for what he was, a crawling sniffling coward, and hated his body for betraying him like this.

The affection stopped a moment and he opened his eyes wider to see Mike kneeling between his legs, eyeing him hungrily. Micky felt tears clog his throat again but he soon forgot about them when Mike moved closer, readying himself.

Micky lay back and glared at the ceiling as a pain hit him at the base of his spine and sent foreign feelings shooting up to his brain. He couldn't tell the pain from the strange new pleasure, all he knew was that he wanted release and this seemed to be the only way Mike was going to give it to him.

Mike murmured a few expletives under his breath as he filled Micky completely, finally taking something that he had wanted so long, but what the hotel had given him, not just Micky, not just the sex, but also the power. No one could take it away from him now.

He heard Micky moan and whimper and the little sounds seemed so good, almost asking him go to faster, harder. And why not?

Micky's head rolled back and he let out an agonising groan as Mike pounded into him, sending him to hell and back. Mike began to stroke him in time with the thrusts and the pleasure merged with the pain. He couldn't see an end, just a continued stretch like a never-ending marathon.

Micky's back arched and Mike came, plunging deeper than ever. The warm sensation shooting inside Micky, spiralling up his spin seemed to send him off like a rocket and he came like he never had before.

Micky's body fell to the bed and he lie there, not even enough energy to open his eyes. Mike's breath was in his ear, and he had a strange smell, Micky couldn't put his finger on what it was, but it smelt almost like copper.

Mike shifted and Micky felt the weight leave him. He couldn't close his legs, it hurt so he just lay there, used and bedraggled, wondering what new game Mike would start playing. But he didn't. He seemed to have retired to a laconic world, one not dissimilar from his old self, and he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to get his bearings. That was almost too good, Mike thought, he would have to try that again. And anyway, Micky was asking for it.

The Texan looked back at the abused figure on the bed and a twinge of guilt squeezed him, making him turn away quickly. As soon as he was no longer looking at Micky's woeful eyes the feeling faded and he felt a lot better. Micky deserved it, he reassured himself, he had crossed the line, he needed to be punished, and who says punishment can't be fun?

The smile crossed Mike's face again and he stood to get changed.

"Are you gonna lie there all night like a cheap whore?" Mike growled callously, turning to Micky but not daring to look in his eyes.

Micky didn't say anything; he looked genuinely hurt, on the verge of utter despair. His face was slightly wet from a few stray tears and in the moonlight he looked like a fallen angel. Mike straightened himself up. No, he couldn't go back now. Micky deserved it. And with that, he spun around and headed for the door.

Micky watched Mike intensely and saw him turn to leave, but as he did a couple of words stroked his ears and they seemed to be in conflict with the nightmarish atmosphere that had already settled in the room.

"Goodnight Micky."

That's all it was, but there was a lifetime of emotion in those words. There seemed to be regret, and remorse, pain and confusion. But most of all, there was an overwhelming tone that seemed to drown out all others. Love.

Micky lay there, stiff and in pain and listened to Mike's weary footsteps down the hall. There was a real Mike in there, the guy they all knew and loved, and he was fighting to get out. Micky knew that by morning, Mike would probably be the bastard that he had been in the last few days, would probably inflict more torture on Micky just for the fun of it. But the compassion that was hidden in Mike's voice, especially when he said Micky's name, somehow filled the drummer with renewed hope and maybe, just maybe, he might be able to help release Mike from his prison - as long as they didn't all die in the process. 

{part 3}

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The room was silent except for the ominous sound of the kitchen clock, which went on and on and on. Micky timed his heartbeat's with the clock.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud. His heart beat quicker as he watched Mike saunter into the room, his face masterfully crafted to show nothing but disinterest. He brushed casually past Micky without even raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

Across the table, Davy barely glanced up from his bowl of cereal, heavy darkness lingering beneath his eyes. 'I feel that darkness too.' Micky thought, quickly taking a sip from his orange juice. Mike was behind him somewhere, finding his breakfast, and it scared Micky that he couldn't see what he was doing. He didn't dare turn around through pride and fear. What if Mike was looking for a knife? What then?

He could stab you in the back, Micky, and you wouldn't even see it coming.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Now his heart rang in his ears and he realized what Mike had reduced him to, a weak mouse, cowering with its tail between its legs. Micky stood and his chair scraped loudly against the tile floor, immediately striking his head with the image of fingernail's running across a blackboard, and he left, leaving a room of ignorance and self-pity.

****************************

'He had been reading for hours and now the letters were no more than lines and circles scrawled neatly across aged paper. Ants scurrying across the page would have made more sense to him at that point, but at least, in this semi-comatose state, no one could hurt him...or hate him.

Peter sighed and lowered his book for a moment, gently massaging his temples in non-existent thought. He felt a heavy ache rest on his chest, as if someone had just placed a heavy slab of rock there, and he wondered if things would ever be the same again. Probably not.

The snow outside danced against the windowpane and that was when Peter remembered what day it was. October 31st, Halloween.

"I doubt we'll get any trick-or-treaters." The blonde chuckled solemnly to himself, a deep sadness welling up.'

There was something, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Slowly he shrugged, although his eyes still carried out a good scan of his room - just in case.

Suddenly, with a huge crash that nearly killed the bassist then and there, a hard object smashed through his window and rolled to a halt near his cabinet.

The snow blew merrily inside and the wind growled around the new entrance, but Peter could not move. Looking down, he noticed his hands were shaking and before he knew it, tears of relieved, suppressed shock were rolling down his cheeks.

"What in the...?" He murmured, trying to compose himself. Inside his mind a voice was telling him that there was something very wrong about this - he was on the fifth floor and his window was sheltered by the roof of the third floor - how on earth could anyone have thrown an object all the way up here?

Peter slowly managed to get to his feet and struggled on wobbly legs to walk across the room to investigate the object. It was probably a rock, or maybe a piece of a tree, or the weather vane? But as the blonde drew closer, moving the object from where it was wedged under the cabinet, he knew with growing nausea and dread that such innocent articles did not belong in this hotel.

Peter couldn't scream, his throat had locked up and all that came out was a strangled wheeze. The tears fell heavily as his legs finally gave way and he fell against the wall, his hands shaking beyond all control.

He didn't know who the head belonged to, and by the state of it, it would be pretty hard to tell anyway.

The head was almost intact, fresh even, with thick auburn hair and skin that didn't look long dead. But it was the eyes, or rather the lack of them, that drew Peter's gaze again and again. The empty sockets stared at him, crying bloody tears that rolled down the cheeks and surrounded the mouth that was open in a kind of sinister grin. There were even freckles, dotted haphazardly across the pale skin and remained a relic of innocence and childhood memories.

Finally, as his breathing began in a more regular pattern, Peter screamed for all he was worth, hoping that someone, anyone, would come and tell him he had imagined things - just a symptom of cabin fever.

Along the hall he heard pounding footsteps and a second later the door swung open and Micky practically tripped over Peter as he lay immobile on the floor.

"Pete...?" Micky asked, but stopped when he saw what was lying on the floor.

"Jesus," The drummer murmured, before turning around and vomiting.

That night, there was a meeting. The first time in a week and a half that all four were in the same room at the same time. They sat in the huge hall of the second floor, surrounded by an empty stage where they had put their instruments and hoard's of unoccupied chairs.

They sat at a table, Davy and Mike spaced as far away as possible from everyone else, while Micky consoled Peter at the other end. In the centre of the table sat the head, delicately housed in a pillowcase that Micky had disgustedly thrown it in earlier that day. Even now, there were deep circles of crimson forming on the fabric, as of the sightless eye sockets were burning through the cloth so that they could watch everyone present.

Davy had his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his hair and an expression of utter sickness playing with his features.

Mike was examining his fingers. 'Looking for traces of blood' Micky thought, but made sure to keep his face looking neutral, if not a little scared.

"So," Davy began, "Has anyone got any idea who it is?"

Peter and Micky shook their heads and silence fell for another five minutes as everyone seemed too shocked to even think about what they should do. Finally Mike gave a lengthy sigh and leant back in his chair, propping his long legs on the table.

"If it's a trespasser then they deserved all they got." He spoke matter-of-factly, glancing from one amazed set of eyes to the other.

"You're sick." Davy growled, thumping his hands down on the table, "And even if they did deserve it, big shot, it still means there's a killer on the loose!" With that he looked directly at Peter, malice laced delicately into his pupils.

"What do you mean 'on the loose', what's to say they're not sitting right here?" Mike smiled diplomatically as he spread out his arms to the whole table. Davy looked up, eyes wide. Did Mike just read his mind or what? Micky and Peter looked at each other and reflected each other's growing panic.

"We should leave," Peter spoke up quietly, "We should get out of here while we still can."

Micky nodded, warily watching Mike who was shaking his head with a smug grin.

"And how would you do that little Pete? We have no phone."

"Use the snow mobile."

"It's out of action I'm afraid."

"WHAT?!" The other three cried in unison, gazing at Mike with pitiful eyes.

" Yep, checked it two days ago, some bastard forgot to stock up on oil and petrol for the damn thing, you think they would have checked." Mike still look particularly pleased by this, and systematically made everyone in the room feel uneasy.

"Wait a minute, there was oil and petrol, I used the fucking 'mobile to go down to the stables one day when the snow was really bad." Davy yelled in annoyance and terror.

"Then you must have wasted it David, because there's none now." Mike laid his hands placidly on the table.

"Impossible!"

"Wanna check?" There was an element of Mike's expression, which convinced Davy that he was right. They probably were out of oil and petrol, but not because he had wasted it. Someone had got rid of it; that he was sure of.

The meeting continued into the evening, while the snow and wind battled against the hotel in a brutal attack. They had argued and cursed each other, Peter had begun to shake again, and they were no further in solving their puzzle of the severed head.

Mike leant forward, his face taking on a ghostly shade and was about to speak, when he stopped and cocked his head to the side. The others did the same and froze, the hairs on the back of their necks standing on end and goose bumps prickling their skin.

Music. There was music, and it was coming from upstairs.

**********************************************

Mike led the way through the hallways, his posture straight and unnerved. Davy was close behind, not daring to let the Texan out of his sight and occasionally sneaked a cautious peek behind him to see Micky and Peter bringing up the rear.

The music was classical and it wound its way around the corridors, rising in volume with every step they took. At first it started off soft, almost ominous, until it grew to a crescendo of chanting voices of hatred. The little group bunched together as they avoided the elevator and began trudging up the stairs, listening as the voices screamed in foreign harmony.

"What the hell is that?" Davy asked Mike, warily watching every corner they turned, his nerve slowly going.

"It's Hall of the Mountain King by Greig, I remember studying it in music class." Mike murmured, rubbing his elbows gently as if he were cold - or worried.

"Well whatever it is, it gives me the creeps." Almost as soon as the words left Davy's mouth, the music stopped, and Mike turned to him with eyes wide but not with fear, but almost a kind of bemused wonder.

"I think they heard you." He smiled as they proceeded to the ballroom at the end of the floor.

By now another song had started, even more grotesquely ominous than the first. Davy was about to ask Mike what it was when Peter interrupted;

"This is Danse Macabre by Saint Seans," He whispered quietly. Davy turned to him and glared mercilessly, sending Peter into immediate silence and guilt.

"When I want your opinion I'll ask for it, ok?" The Englishman spat, turning back to Mike.

As Davy followed Mike across the corridor, Micky patted Peter gently on the back.

"Don't worry, he'll calm down eventually, just keep out of his way for now." Micky knew that was easy to do in this place, but he wished it was it was as simple to escape Mike - he seemed to appear everywhere.

The ballroom opened up before them with rows upon rows of circular tables giving out onto a dance floor that seemed almost a mile wide. It was freshly polished, as if it had only just been done and Micky could see his reflection in it.

Peter crept in slowly behind the other three and glanced around the room. The lights were on but only glowed dimly but he barely took any notice - his terror by now had reached fever pitch.

"Hey, look at that!" Mike pointed with the same bemused air that had haunted him earlier and all eyes turned to see a stuffed stag's head hanging aristocratically on the wall. Its dead glazed eyes glared back at them despite the regal position it had been mounted in - head held high, the king of the herd, the first to be slaughtered.

A random thought struck Peter hard, as if an exterior force had pushed the image into his head and he had to close his eyes to concentrate on his mind's impulse - the leader always goes first, the leader always dies first. It was a poetic, spontaneous thought, but nevertheless it made Peter glance at Mike in a worried, wary almost poignant manner. He couldn't help but worry for his friend.

The music had quieted down, now just a soft echo and Davy searched avidly for where it had come from. He was a rational guy; no superstitious element to be found and the possibility of someone lurking in the hotel had grasped his mind, dislodging the concept that the hotel itself might be creating such anarchy.

He found the source in an old music box, which sat discarded at the bar, a little angel danced round and round. Immediately his hand stretched out to close the lid but as his fingers came closer he felt an almighty pain, like an electric shock, pulse through them and he instinctively drew back.

The music played on and on, now just repeating the same endless bar over and over, the angel dancing round and round and Davy felt paralyzed, hypnotized, useless. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought him back to consciousness and he found Mike pushing him out of the way, nearly sending him crashing to the floor in his eagerness.

"It's not yours!" The Texan spat, shoving Davy harder, "Leave it alone, it's mine!"

Davy was about to warn Mike of the shock he had received but it was too late.

There was a bright flash of white light as the angel exploded into thousand upon thousands of shards of glass. Davy was dragged down to the ground by the force of the explosion and he gasped as glass cut him all over, sending red rivers running down his cheeks like tears. His head turned in slow motion and he saw Micky lying nearby, his head sheltered in his arms, Peter lying not far away beneath a table. The power kept surging, pinning them to the ground for what felt like hours until, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped abruptly and all was silent.

Davy lay on the floor for a while, trying to catch his breath. As he slowly sat up, glass tumbled from his hair and dug into his arms. Micky, too, was getting up, slowly moving over to see if Peter was ok. There were tears streaming down the drummer's face, but his expression looked determined, like a plane crash survivor, trying desperately to carry on with what he had left.

How could so much agony come from such a little thing?

Davy didn't want to look in the direction of the music box, but he knew he had to, something in his brain told him he had to. Gently, so as not to aggravate any more glass in his skin, he looked to where Mike had stood when he had touched the box.

Davy couldn't look for long as he knew he would throw up.

All the bottles that had hung empty at the bar had smashed, as well as the mirrors that gave such a cosy effect when the place was full. The bar seemed to be varnished in a thick crimson, thick as paint, which covered the surface and ran down the sides of the bar, pooling at the bottom on the cold tile floor. In the blood pool at the bottom was Mike.

To watch was agony, but at that point, there was nothing else Davy could do, he was too paralyzed with fear. The guitarist was seemed to be struggling with something, or someone and he writhed on the ground, clutching at his head, pulling tufts of his hair out, kicking and stamping before almighty screams of agony began to pass through him. He was clothed in blood from head to toe and for a moment Davy thought he was having an epileptic fit. Mike's hands grabbed and tore at himself, trying to rip his own throat out; trying to kill whatever he believed was inside. His head shook, his eyes wild, searching. One moment he looked like a killer, the next moment he looked like a victim.

Davy wanted to do something, anything, but there was nothing. At that point, he realized, he would have killed Mike if he could, just to put him out of his misery. The pained screams continued for a few more minutes until finally Mike stopped and lay motionless in a continually flowing river if blood.

He's dead, Davy thought, but as he warily shuffled over, he found Mike's wild eyes staring back at him, his ragged breath whistling past his lips, his hands shaking feverishly by his side. By now Micky had joined him, and they both looked down at their fallen leader, who could merely bleed silently in bewilderment.

Something grasped Micky's mind and he realized that Mike looked different, like a memory of the past. The horrid power hungry look that had captured him for months, even before they had come to the hotel, was gone and was replaced by the honest, placid look that had once been a characteristic when they had first met, barely older then teenagers. The old Mike had returned, at least for now.

"Micky..." Mike croaked and promptly coughed up a mouthful of blood.

"Shhh, don't..."

"No, I gotta tell ya. You gotta run, go, leave. All of you. If you don't leave it'll kill you, I'll kill you!"

Davy was shaking his head but Micky knew the truth. Something was using Mike to get them - he didn't know why or how, but it was and he had no doubt that it would try again. Before Mike could speak again, a loud guttural groan sounded beside them and all eyes turned back to Peter.

One of his hands was stretched out in a pointing gesture; the other was over his mouth, probably stopping him from being sick. His eyes were wide and flooded with tears and for the four of them, time suddenly stopped.

The other three looked in the directly that Peter was gaping at and all stalled in shock. Davy felt a pain pound at his temples as he looked upon the scene and he suddenly felt extremely weary. What else could happen?

Mayday's head had replaced that of the Stag's, and now she hung there, staring right at them, blood seeping from her nostrils and eyes, her mouth hanging open to a callous grin. A gift horse.

Davy uttered a small wail, emotional agony ripping at him, making his stomach churn with nausea.

"See." Mike moaned, "It's getting stronger and it's going to get you." Mike seemed to be addressing Micky directly now, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, welled up with intense guilt and sorrow.

"How? The snow mobile..."

"I hid the fuel," Mike grasped Micky's arm earnestly, "It's behind the..." But before he could finish, the lights went out and Micky felt Mike's grip loosen.

Micky felt his heart pound. Harder, harder, harder. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Something told him the worst was yet to come.