I’m standing in a shower, warm water sluicing over my hair, with no idea of how I got here.

I touch the glass door of the shower. A white towel lies folded on the metal rail on the outside of the door. Three rectangular glass bottles hang in a rack on the door, one for shampoo, one for conditioner, and one for body wash, all made by a designer named H.A. Wilcox for the Innsmouth Hotel.

I bend over to pick up a green and yellow squeeze bottle called Dagon’s Swimmer Shampoo that promises to remove chlorine from my hair. I must be a swimmer. I glance down at my body, which does seem toned.

I dredge up vague memories of salt water stinging my eyes, and my arms cutting through waves. Yes, I must swim. I cling to that, pressing my fingers into the pristine grout between the grey tiles of the shower wall.

I have never heard of the Innsmouth Hotel. I’m not certain who I am. I should scream or cry or pound on the grey walls on three sides of me.

Instead, my hands reach for the metal shower knobs facing me. I spin the one on the right, and the water cools. I frown and twist the one on the left, cutting the stream to a few slow drips on top of my head, swiftly fading to nothing.

“Hello?” I call softly, securing the towel around me. I don’t want anyone to answer if I’m naked, and there are no clothes in the bathroom. I must have walked in here unclothed or in a towel, for reasons I no longer know or understand.

I wait for palpitations and panic. Instead, water drops roll out of my hair, onto my back. The ceiling fan drones, and my brain settles into a similar dull hum that I struggle to resist.

I step onto the white cotton mat in front of the shower stall, scanning the misted mirror and the countertop for clues. The side mirror’s built-in ring light already gleams, geared up for me to examine my pores.

I bend for the bath mat. I’ll wipe down the mirror to take a good look at my own face. That should teach me who I am.

I lift the mat, careful not to lose the towel wrapped around me, or to hit the two toothbrushes standing on the countertop.

Two toothbrushes. I glance from one to the other, both expensive electric models, one with a red plastic ring and one with yellow.

Who else checked into the Innsmouth hotel with me?

Outside the bathroom door, a phone begins to ring.

Author’s note: Thanks for checking out the prologue for this blood-congealing, Lovecraftian thriller, Killing Me Sloth-LY.

Soon Dr. Hope Sze may succumb to the deadly sin of sloth while surrounded by killers.

But wait! There’s more. Dive into art and poems that make you shudder in Cthulhu’s Cheerleader. 

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