Tim Larson

“About midway through her latest (admittedly trashy) romance novel, Connie felt the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly rise. She was no clairvoyant but did not need to be. She knew she was being watched. She pretended to be unaware, and casually stretched and briefly looked around, figuring it looked slyer in her mind than how she pulled actually pulled it off. One look around was all she needed. She saw it immediately: there was a figure standing in the shadows at the edge of the tree line. Though the rain let up, it was still far from a sun shiny afternoon. The shadows of the trees made everything worse. It was Frank, the creep at the front desk – it had to be. Trying to play things cool, Connie stood and stretched before walking into her room and closing the doors, and drawing the curtains. Jake had been gone barely twenty minutes; she knew he wouldn’t be long but honestly couldn’t say when he would return. Connie picked up the phone to call the lobby, having no idea what to say or do if Frank somehow answered the call. The line rang and rang with no answer. Connie was on her own. She looked around the sparsely furnished room for anything”
― Tim Larson, Terror Island!