That night, there was a meeting. The first time in a week and a half that all four were in the same room at the same time. They sat in the huge hall of the second floor, surrounded by an empty stage where they had put their instruments and hoard's of unoccupied chairs.

They sat at a table, Davy and Mike spaced as far away as possible from everyone else, while Micky consoled Peter at the other end. In the centre of the table sat the head, delicately housed in a pillowcase that Micky had disgustedly thrown it in earlier that day. Even now, there were deep circles of crimson forming on the fabric, as of the sightless eye sockets were burning through the cloth so that they could watch everyone present.

Davy had his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his hair and an expression of utter sickness playing with his features.

Mike was examining his fingers. 'Looking for traces of blood' Micky thought, but made sure to keep his face looking neutral, if not a little scared.

"So," Davy began, "Has anyone got any idea who it is?"

Peter and Micky shook their heads and silence fell for another five minutes as everyone seemed too shocked to even think about what they should do. Finally Mike gave a lengthy sigh and leant back in his chair, propping his long legs on the table.

"If it's a trespasser then they deserved all they got." He spoke matter-of-factly, glancing from one amazed set of eyes to the other.

"You're sick." Davy growled, thumping his hands down on the table, "And even if they did deserve it, big shot, it still means there's a killer on the loose!" With that he looked directly at Peter, malice laced delicately into his pupils.

"What do you mean 'on the loose', what's to say they're not sitting right here?" Mike smiled diplomatically as he spread out his arms to the whole table. Davy looked up, eyes wide. Did Mike just read his mind or what? Micky and Peter looked at each other and reflected each other's growing panic.

"We should leave," Peter spoke up quietly, "We should get out of here while we still can."

Micky nodded, warily watching Mike who was shaking his head with a smug grin.

"And how would you do that little Pete? We have no phone."

"Use the snow mobile."

"It's out of action I'm afraid."

"WHAT?!" The other three cried in unison, gazing at Mike with pitiful eyes.

" Yep, checked it two days ago, some bastard forgot to stock up on oil and petrol for the damn thing, you think they would have checked." Mike still look particularly pleased by this, and systematically made everyone in the room feel uneasy.

"Wait a minute, there was oil and petrol, I used the fucking 'mobile to go down to the stables one day when the snow was really bad." Davy yelled in annoyance and terror.

"Then you must have wasted it David, because there's none now." Mike laid his hands placidly on the table.

"Impossible!"

"Wanna check?" There was an element of Mike's expression, which convinced Davy that he was right. They probably were out of oil and petrol, but not because he had wasted it. Someone had got rid of it; that he was sure of.

The meeting continued into the evening, while the snow and wind battled against the hotel in a brutal attack. They had argued and cursed each other, Peter had begun to shake again, and they were no further in solving their puzzle of the severed head.

Mike leant forward, his face taking on a ghostly shade and was about to speak, when he stopped and cocked his head to the side. The others did the same and froze, the hairs on the back of their necks standing on end and goose bumps prickling their skin.

Music. There was music, and it was coming from upstairs.

Mike led the way through the hallways, his posture straight and unnerved. Davy was close behind, not daring to let the Texan out of his sight and occasionally sneaked a cautious peek behind him to see Micky and Peter bringing up the rear.

The music was classical and it wound its way around the corridors, rising in volume with every step they took. At first it started off soft, almost ominous, until it grew to a crescendo of chanting voices of hatred. The little group bunched together as they avoided the elevator and began trudging up the stairs, listening as the voices screamed in foreign harmony.

"What the hell is that?" Davy asked Mike, warily watching every corner they turned, his nerve slowly going.

"It's Hall of the Mountain King by Greig, I remember studying it in music class." Mike murmured, rubbing his elbows gently as if he were cold - or worried.

"Well whatever it is, it gives me the creeps." Almost as soon as the words left Davy's mouth, the music stopped, and Mike turned to him with eyes wide but not with fear, but almost a kind of bemused wonder.

"I think they heard you." He smiled as they proceeded to the ballroom at the end of the floor.

By now another song had started, even more grotesquely ominous than the first. Davy was about to ask Mike what it was when Peter interrupted;

"This is Danse Macabre by Saint Seans," He whispered quietly. Davy turned to him and glared mercilessly, sending Peter into immediate silence and guilt.

"When I want your opinion I'll ask for it, ok?" The Englishman spat, turning back to Mike.

As Davy followed Mike across the corridor, Micky patted Peter gently on the back.

"Don't worry, he'll calm down eventually, just keep out of his way for now." Micky knew that was easy to do in this place, but he wished it was it was as simple to escape Mike - he seemed to appear everywhere.

The ballroom opened up before them with rows upon rows of circular tables giving out onto a dance floor that seemed almost a mile wide. It was freshly polished, as if it had only just been done and Micky could see his reflection in it.

Peter crept in slowly behind the other three and glanced around the room. The lights were on but only glowed dimly but he barely took any notice - his terror by now had reached fever pitch.

"Hey, look at that!" Mike pointed with the same bemused air that had haunted him earlier and all eyes turned to see a stuffed stag's head hanging aristocratically on the wall. Its dead glazed eyes glared back at them despite the regal position it had been mounted in - head held high, the king of the herd, the first to be slaughtered.

A random thought struck Peter hard, as if an exterior force had pushed the image into his head and he had to close his eyes to concentrate on his mind's impulse - the leader always goes first, the leader always dies first. It was a poetic, spontaneous thought, but nevertheless it made Peter glance at Mike in a worried, wary almost poignant manner. He couldn't help but worry for his friend.

The music had quieted down, now just a soft echo and Davy searched avidly for where it had come from. He was a rational guy; no superstitious element to be found and the possibility of someone lurking in the hotel had grasped his mind, dislodging the concept that the hotel itself might be creating such anarchy.

He found the source in an old music box, which sat discarded at the bar, a little angel danced round and round. Immediately his hand stretched out to close the lid but as his fingers came closer he felt an almighty pain, like an electric shock, pulse through them and he instinctively drew back.

The music played on and on, now just repeating the same endless bar over and over, the angel dancing round and round and Davy felt paralyzed, hypnotized, useless. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought him back to consciousness and he found Mike pushing him out of the way, nearly sending him crashing to the floor in his eagerness.

"It's not yours!" The Texan spat, shoving Davy harder, "Leave it alone, it's mine!"

Davy was about to warn Mike of the shock he had received but it was too late.

There was a bright flash of white light as the angel exploded into thousand upon thousands of shards of glass. Davy was dragged down to the ground by the force of the explosion and he gasped as glass cut him all over, sending red rivers running down his cheeks like tears. His head turned in slow motion and he saw Micky lying nearby, his head sheltered in his arms, Peter lying not far away beneath a table. The power kept surging, pinning them to the ground for what felt like hours until, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped abruptly and all was silent.

Davy lay on the floor for a while, trying to catch his breath. As he slowly sat up, glass tumbled from his hair and dug into his arms. Micky, too, was getting up, slowly moving over to see if Peter was ok. There were tears streaming down the drummer's face, but his expression looked determined, like a plane crash survivor, trying desperately to carry on with what he had left.

How could so much agony come from such a little thing?

Davy didn't want to look in the direction of the music box, but he knew he had to, something in his brain told him he had to. Gently, so as not to aggravate any more glass in his skin, he looked to where Mike had stood when he had touched the box.

Davy couldn't look for long as he knew he would throw up.

All the bottles that had hung empty at the bar had smashed, as well as the mirrors that gave such a cosy effect when the place was full. The bar seemed to be varnished in a thick crimson, thick as paint, which covered the surface and ran down the sides of the bar, pooling at the bottom on the cold tile floor. In the blood pool at the bottom was Mike.

To watch was agony, but at that point, there was nothing else Davy could do, he was too paralyzed with fear. The guitarist was seemed to be struggling with something, or someone and he writhed on the ground, clutching at his head, pulling tufts of his hair out, kicking and stamping before almighty screams of agony began to pass through him. He was clothed in blood from head to toe and for a moment Davy thought he was having an epileptic fit. Mike's hands grabbed and tore at himself, trying to rip his own throat out; trying to kill whatever he believed was inside. His head shook, his eyes wild, searching. One moment he looked like a killer, the next moment he looked like a victim.

Davy wanted to do something, anything, but there was nothing. At that point, he realized, he would have killed Mike if he could, just to put him out of his misery. The pained screams continued for a few more minutes until finally Mike stopped and lay motionless in a continually flowing river if blood.

He's dead, Davy thought, but as he warily shuffled over, he found Mike's wild eyes staring back at him, his ragged breath whistling past his lips, his hands shaking feverishly by his side. By now Micky had joined him, and they both looked down at their fallen leader, who could merely bleed silently in bewilderment.

Something grasped Micky's mind and he realized that Mike looked different, like a memory of the past. The horrid power hungry look that had captured him for months, even before they had come to the hotel, was gone and was replaced by the honest, placid look that had once been a characteristic when they had first met, barely older then teenagers. The old Mike had returned, at least for now.

"Micky…" Mike croaked and promptly coughed up a mouthful of blood.

"Shhh, don't…"

"No, I gotta tell ya. You gotta run, go, leave. All of you. If you don't leave it'll kill you, I'll kill you!"

Davy was shaking his head but Micky knew the truth. Something was using Mike to get them - he didn't know why or how, but it was and he had no doubt that it would try again. Before Mike could speak again, a loud guttural groan sounded beside them and all eyes turned back to Peter.

One of his hands was stretched out in a pointing gesture; the other was over his mouth, probably stopping him from being sick. His eyes were wide and flooded with tears and for the four of them, time suddenly stopped.

The other three looked in the directly that Peter was gaping at and all stalled in shock. Davy felt a pain pound at his temples as he looked upon the scene and he suddenly felt extremely weary. What else could happen?

Mayday's head had replaced that of the Stag's, and now she hung there, staring right at them, blood seeping from her nostrils and eyes, her mouth hanging open to a callous grin. A gift horse.

Davy uttered a small wail, emotional agony ripping at him, making his stomach churn with nausea.

"See." Mike moaned, "It's getting stronger and it's going to get you." Mike seemed to be addressing Micky directly now, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, welled up with intense guilt and sorrow.

"How? The snow mobile…"

"I hid the fuel," Mike grasped Micky's arm earnestly, "It's behind the…" But before he could finish, the lights went out and Micky felt Mike's grip loosen.

Micky felt his heart pound. Harder, harder, harder. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.