Re: Mini-log, the B&B: Clementine M/Reece E
No, the box shouldn't have toppled, and Reece squeaked, surprised. Luckily, he was able to quickly force quiet on himself with a palm sealing his mouth, making him eat his sounds of fear, as he jumped backward.—Then he realized it was nothing, just a box falling, apparently. Okay. That was fine. He just had to...—
As he came forward on knees, to collect those pieces, the parts spilled, as if tugged away by invisible strings, and if that wasn't enough, the lightbulb in the lamp shattered, sending sharp glass down over Reece, peppering his hair and cheeks. He felt some tumble along over his eyelids as he reacted, pulling long limbs close and tucking his nose between his knees, as if that offered any real protection against—what? The, uh, the undead?
Then came the footsteps, which of course meant he almost swallowed his tongue, jumping again. A cascade of... rifles...?—sprung out from behind the bed, and Reece had just about had enough. Because, yes, he was terrified, but he was stubborn too. And no ghost was going to make him disappoint Dane Blake. In any other endeavor, he would've run, like five minutes ago. But, his ambition was more resilient than that, and it had him crawling forward on his belly, reaching out for all the scattered pieces of the destroyed laptop.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck—" He shoveled bits of plastic and wiring into the tiny pocket that bore his initials (R.D.E.) in a delicate blue thread. Real fingers grabbed the tail of that cord, and he all but crabwalked his way to the door, smacking his head on it when it swung open in really, really bad timing. His yell was loud, like maybe he thought what bashed into his skull was something more insidious than a door, but he didn't look back to see.—He was up, running, slippers smacking against his feet, heart in his throat, and his bladder this close to emptying itself in clean pajama pants.
Back in his room, he slammed his door shut, locked it, and went into the bathroom for good measure.