Roof

It’s wild weather. Pitch black, rain lashing down, the wind pulling insistently at you. You stagger out and push the door shut behind you. If you work your way around the outside of the stairwell, you might find some shelter. You crouch down and pick your way over the duct-work until you’re in the lee of the top of the lift shaft. It’s the best you can do, and you hunker down, turning the torch off, hoping that you’re not noticed.

Waves are breaking over the top of the parapet. The spray is in your face. The whole building, the whole world seems to be drowning. You hear the door bang open, and you stand up, ready and not ready to meet what’s coming. You click on the torch, and its beam picks out a shambling figure, wrapped in rags and plastic. Davy. It has to be Davy.

Also, it can’t be Davy. You know that it’s not Davy.

You back away until you’re right next to the parapet. The water roils and churns behind you. Davy – or whatever is in Davy – is still coming. Inexorably, inevitably. It always was.

“I did what I thought was best,” you say. “You can’t blame me for that.”

He’s past reason, so there’s very little point in saying any more.

Do you:

Close your eyes and wait.
Try and fight.
Jump.