Goblin Dinner
Image Credits: Freepik It was half past eight, the air cemetery-still, and the darkness of the sky hung above us like the blade of a guillotine. The wagon of death had arrived to pick up my brother and me. Our destination: a dinner at the House of Goblins. To the man and woman who had come to take us away, we must have seemed ecstatic—grinning ear to ear as we stepped into this vehicle of doom. Of course, we couldn’t let them sense our dread; they’d sink their fangs into our necks if they did. As if the atmosphere wasn’t ominous enough, a torrential downpour began, straight out of a Friday the 13th movie. Sheets of rain slammed against the windows, blurring the world outside into watery streaks of shadow and light. But I had to make it out alive—and so did my brother. We exchanged glances in the backseat, silent prayers flitting between us like moths. If any supreme being happened to be watching, now would be a fine time to intervene. As we neare...