Free The Clearing by Dan Newman

eyes closed, he waited for it. He waited for the thud of the blade, the grunt of the man wielding it, and the muted crack as it splintered through bone.
    But it never came.
    He lay on his back, dragging breath into lungs that were empty, and finally opened his eyes. The man was gone, and once again the light from the corridor poured through in a perfect rectangle on the floor, this time interrupted by his own legs from the knees down. Soon a face peered round the edge of the door. It was an older man in pajamas, bleary-eyed but startled nonetheless, and soon he was joined by a woman in a housecoat, and then others.
    Lights were flicked on and people flooded the room; guests, staff, and a man who seemed to be a doctor, or at least somehow medically trained. As he looked up, Nate saw wide eyes, hands over open mouths and wives clutching at their husbands’ arms. He could hear voices, high with concern, What happened? Oh my God, what happened? but his panicked mind couldn’t connect the sounds with the faces.
    He sat up and became aware of the wetness about him, and when he looked at himself he saw that his clothes, the ones he had fallen asleep in and still wore, were spattered with blood. He reached up to his face and his hand came away red. Panic flooded through him and his hands flitted desperately around his face in search of wounds.
    Someone passed him a towel and Nate wiped frantically at his face, and the man who might have been a doctor spoke in calm, reassuring tones: “It’s OK – it’s not your blood. It’s not your blood.”
    More staff arrived and the guests were herded out. The door closed and Nate took a hand that helped him to the edge of the bed. Then he remembered the sensation of something spattering his forehead as the man had held him down, and with a pang of relief he put the pieces together: the severed hoof, the spatter. Blood from an animal part – not his own. Nate forced himself to calm down. He was not cut. He was not going to bleed to death from some yawning wound at his neck.
    Finally, he became fully aware of the people in the room with him. He recognised the man from the front desk, and another from breakfast. The other two were strangers, and one held a cell phone to his ear and spoke animatedly. The man with the phone snapped it closed and took Nate by the elbow. “Come, come,” he said. “We take you to hospital. Jus’ in case.”
    Nate did not want to go anywhere. It was all happening too fast, and altogether too far out of his control. “No, I’m OK. I don’t...”
    â€œMr Mason, we must go. Jus’ to check, to make sure.”
    Nate shrugged out of the man’s grip. “No, I’m OK, really.”
    â€œBut, Mr Mason...”
    â€œNo!” said Nate sharply. He was suddenly much angrier than he expected, and regretted the outburst the moment it left his lips. He immediately backpedalled. “I’m sorry. Look...” he said, momentarily cupping his forehead in his hands. “I’m OK, really. I just need some time to gather myself. I’ll take myself in to the hospital tomorrow. I promise. But right now I just need to... I just need a bit of time.”
    â€œAre you sure, Mr Mason? I can drive you...”
    â€œNo, honestly. I’m fine.” It finally occurred to Nate that the man with the phone was the hotel manager. “But I appreciate the offer.”
    The manager nodded in understanding, then knelt beside Nate and spoke gently, as if to a child. “Can you tell me what happened?”
    Nate wiped his face again with the towel and looked at the blood that stained it. “I’m not sure. I was asleep. There was a man. At the foot of the bed. He had this sword thing, like a cutlass or something. He attacked me, had me on the ground, and I thought he was going to kill me.”
    â€œDid he take anything?” the manager asked.
    Nate looked around the room. It