The Wrong Game, Ramsey Campbell
I must have dozed despite the image that wouldn’t leave my mind or grow clearer, because I awoke at a few minutes past two. I had a sense that I’d heard something not especially substantial on the move in the dark. The only light came from the scrawny digits of the bedside clock, which aggravated the darkness. As I groped for the cord above the bed I felt as if the gloom was gathering like soot on my fingers. By the time I located the cord I’d begun rubbing them together. The light showed that I hadn’t closed the drawer of the chest as tight as I’d imagined, since it displayed a shadow like a thin strip of earth. Surely it was just because I hadn’t fully wakened that the sliver of blackness looked restive. Lurching out of bed, I slammed the drawer and found myself staring at the room. What should it remind me of? Then I knew, and rather more than that. It brought to mind the first time I’d stayed by myself at a hotel.