A drabble in ten parts: Part VIII

VIII.

Frantically I race down the corridor, knocking open doors as I go. “Bill!” I call. “Bill, where are you?”

At the end of the hallway is a bathroom. The mirror is fogged up, as if someone was just taking a hot shower, but the room is cold as ice. As I turn to leave I slip on the slick tile floor. I catch myself on the edge of the sink, but my camera falls and I hear the lens crack as it makes contact. Scrambling to my feet, I rush to the staircase.

“Bill,” I plead, “please come back now!”