He levers backwards, hands first outstretched, then windmilling sideways, eyes widening as his brain finally connects with his peril.
Hurling myself away, I crash back against the wall, pressing myself close, watching as he totters over boards pulpy with age and rot…
The cry of alarm…
… then of real fear...
With a splintering wrench and a puff of sawdust and woodworm, the floor descends under him…
The figure staggering for a footing that isn’t there…
The arms, flinging up...
The shriek…
… rapidly diminishing downwards.
And the thump from below: the sack-of-potatoes thump of a soft impact.
Then silence.
I don’t go close. And I’m disinclined to lean too far forward. But through the gash in the floor, I can see the legs, twisted at impossible angles to each other.
Footsteps again…
