The Curse of Hamelin

They were coming.

He couldn’t see them yet; he sensed them.  The scent of moist tilled earth teased his nostrils, and bile rose in response.

How did this happen again so soon?

Harold made a frantic dash to the dresser and yanked open the drawers.  He needed to get out fast.  Snatching up his pressed and folded clothes, he placed them on the tidy bedspread and reached under the ruffled bed skirt for his suitcase.

Something grabbed his hand.

Harold squealed, and tugged, trying to free his limb. “No please!  Let me go!”

Wet, guttural cackling answered him from under the bed. 

His heart slammed in his chest, and a slick sheen of perspiration spread across his face. “Who– Who’s there?  Please, just let me go.”

A heavy bead of sweat ran down his forehead, along the curve of his nose, and finally dripped onto the front of his white dress shirt, distracting him from the impending doom lurking under the bed.  With his free hand, Harold fumbled at the sweat stain, frantic to get the spot out.

The thing under the bad gripped his wrist tighter and yanked, slamming Harold’s head against the mattress.  Snapped out of his compulsive sweat-stain cleaning, he tugged back.

“Let- me- go!”  Harold wrenched his hand free, stumbling backwards into the desk chair of his hotel suite.

The thing under the bed hissed, filling the air with a stale putrid stench, and Harold gagged.  Forget the clothes.  He’d buy more.  Racing for the dresser, he grabbed his keys and cell phone and spun toward the door.

“Oh my God!” He gasped. 

The thing from under the bed now blocked his only exit.  Wisps of fine white hair poked out from beneath the black hooded robe, and gnarled gray hands protruded from the oversized sleeves.  One of the bony digits rose up to point at him.

“You cannot escape your destiny, Harold Frommer.”

The sound of its voice raised the hair on his arms. “How do you know my name?”