Trying to focus on anything was an exercise in futility, yet I could not have denied the growing unease I felt. Traces of shifting glows were dashing in and out of my field of vision and the darkness itself seemed to ebb and flow around me, all while I remained unable to see anything clearly. Then came the feeling that most frightened me under such disconcerting circumstances: I’m taunted prey. The very thought of being quarry immediately cemented in my mind my role in the bizarre place I cold not identify. I was being hunted. I knew it with every fiber of my being, every bit of the essence that was Dave Lloyd, and it scared the hell out of me. Predators were watching, circling.
My best efforts to see what was out there were fruitless as I snapped my head around trying to focus. No matter how diligently I stared, there was nothing to see except a blank, lightless canvas occasionally marked with… Well, marked with something. Whatever I was seeing refused to be identified or even confirmed. All the same, my worry grew as I became more and more convinced I was seeing eyes in the darkness, blood red eyes filled with visions of me surrounded by transparent glass, me lying there like a slab of meat, me looking like an old stack of ribs tossed into the butcher’s display cabinet. There was no doubt I was being stalked.