The Disturbed

Leo settled himself at the kitchen table with a chicken and onion sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee. The staff was, as always, useless when it came to catering to the needs of the guests, and Leo had only found that the storm had compounded how inept they were. He'd spent nearly three hours searching the halls for someone in uniform, his stomach grumbling, until he gave up and headed down to the kitchen to make his own meal. A storm should be no excuse for lax behavior, Leo thought grumpily as he bit into his dry sandwich. Yes, the staff was lucky indeed that Leo hadn't found them, for he would have words with them. And by words, Leo mostly meant murder.

Actually, Leo was quite proud of himself for not slipping up this entire time, for not getting rid of some of the less than likeable guests. He had wanted to do it several times, and it would have been so easy too, with all the confusion, the townies and the vacationers mixing while the storm raged. Nobody would be the wiser. The storm would cover his tracks. They never investigated how people died when there was a natural disaster. All Leo would have to do was kill someone in a way that was consistent with a storm and he would get away with it. He always got away with it.