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 neared our destination, my mind spiraled into overdrive:

"Would I ever see my three sassy fur-meowsters again? Were they currently digging their claws into the front door, wondering where their humans had disappeared to?"

"Would I ever be able to do the Macarena again?"

"Would I ever walk the speckled sands of a beach and look out at the horizon, wondering if my soulmate had died or if I even had a soul?"

Inner Lauren is very dramatic.

We shuffled into the dining room of the House of Goblins—a name my brother and I whispered to each other with the kind of reverence reserved for haunted mansions. The family of goblins sat stiffly around the table, their faces carved from stone. The silence was so loud it threatened to shatter the walls, like a nuclear bomb waiting for ignition. I’m stunned I wasn’t blown to oblivion on the spot.

Five red and green dishes were spread across the table, their contents unidentifiable and unsettlingly still. We picked at the food cautiously while a low growl rumbled intermittently. It was guttural and unyielding, the sort of sound you’d expect from a caged lion. It wasn’t coming from me or my brother, so I’ll let you be the judge.

At half-past ten, the wagon of death returned us to the safety of our building. I almost kissed the ground when I stepped out of the car. I didn’t think I’d see it again! My brother and I thanked our aunt and uncle for a ‘lovely dinner’ and climbed the stairs two at a time. Now, you may chide me by saying, "How dare you compare your aunt and uncle to goblins when they so lovingly had you over for dinner?"

Well, if you were me, you’d know. 😉