The Flincher

flinch v.i. draw back, shrink; wince
The New Concise Oxford Dictionary

That night, like any other, the corridors of the hospital were awash with their own unique and intrinsic ambience. Although, as I said earlier, strange noises are common inside, the general atmosphere is usually rather subdued. You hear dripping sounds, the odd creak, whistle or echo - but nothing could prepare us for what was about to happen. Something broke the silence....and to this day I do not know what it was.

There was a noise and we froze. A very loud noise - like nothing I'd heard before. A bang followed by sublime groaning - an ethereal roar of both bass and treble - an insane screeching that destroyed the tranquility of the night. At the time, I imagined that the noise might be heard from Jupiter - but it appeared to emanate from somewhere around the very southern tip of the great corridor - maybe thirty metres from where we stood. Closely (certainly too closely for comfort) came the subsequent atmosphere. Something was rushing toward us with incredible force - almost cyclonic. The only way I could sum this up was that it was like a million bats, or more accurately, the draught that might be created by a gigantic set of pounding bat wings coming our way. It wasn't just the noise, it was this instinctive feeling that something nasty was on its way. No, scratch that - not nasty - absolutely evil and terrifying. What was calm one moment turned suddenly into the most intensely bad emotional feeling I've ever had (perhaps more so than even the "Turkish Devil" at Dead End? in 1996 which I will get round to writing about someday). The breeze changed and, whatever it was, was closing in on us. I could feel it, sense it getting nearer, and the nearer it got, the worse it felt. I don't know how many seconds we stood there glued to the floor, but I wager it couldn't have been many. However, it was long enough to know that what was happening was not a joke - it was all too incredibly real. Not only that, but whatever it was appeared to mean serious business. Deadly serious business. As soon as this had dawned on us, following seconds that had seemed like an eternity, we bolted out of there. Not just ran, but RAN.

Never before have two grown men ran so fast outside of an athletics meet. It was behind us, hunting us down the whole time. And we didn't stop. Through the twisting corridors we went, escaping - never looking back, for who knew what we might have seen had we done so. Out through the main doors, across the moonlit forecourt and over the glass- topped wall. In the urgency to get out of there, if I'd have shredded my hands on the wall (which I had done badly once before), it wouldn't have mattered, as long as I'd gotten over that wall and out of the hospital grounds. At this point, and only at this point, did we stop - if momentarily. I looked at Owen. Owen looked at me. Neither of us had to say anything. We both knew what the other one was thinking. To this day, I cannot recall if we actually did speak then. I am still undecided about this, but if we did, it would have been a "did you ...(see? feel?)...what I... (did)?" perhaps answered with a nod. The most basic of telepathic human communication. All the same, we headed rather briskly back to the Feathers in the dark, still wary of what might be lurking in the shadows behind us. It was only once in the safety of the car, and even then after we'd driven past the hospital entrance on the way back to Maidenhead, that we had calmed down sufficiently to discuss what had just happened.