Cold-Blooded Kin

Fallon and Thompson were sweating, out of breath, and utterly creeped out by the time they reached the clearing. Sinister in daylight, the place was nothing less than the scene of a nightmare in the darkness. Their torch beams did little to penetrate the all-consuming gloom.

‘I wanna go on record and say that spinning around was the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had,’ Fallon said.


‘Which way are we going?’

‘Shh,’ Thompson repeated. He listened intently. The strange sounds he had heard seemed to have stopped. ‘Thought I heard something. Guess I imagined it.’

‘I sure as hell hope s— Fuck!’

Thompson looked down to see Fallon on the floor, nursing his ankle.

His cry had been more one of shock than of pain, but he realised it was time to admit what they had long been trying to deny; they were lost.

‘How’s your ankle?’

‘Can’t really put my weight on it. You do realise we’re fucking hopelessly lost, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘We should never have come out here. Every fucker else is probably sat at home with a beer while we trudge through this fucking hellh—’


‘What?’ Fallon whispered.

‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘Shh. Don’t you see?’

Fallon followed Thompson’s pointing finger and saw what looked like two orange fireflies.

‘Oh yeah. What are they?’

‘Eyes. They’ve been watching us for a while now’…


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