Excerpt: Attack at the Cottage

Tom and Steve came to a stone bridge that went over the rushing stream. The bridge had no railing but was wide enough for the boys to walk side by side.

Beyond it was a rough, stone pathway, leading down a steep hill to an opening in the trees several hundred yards away. In the middle of the clearing was a tidy stone house, with smoke coming from a chimney. As Tom and Steve approached, the oak door opened and the delicious smell of roasted meat reached their noses. Then a boy about their age emerged, wearing brown and green. He waved them forward excitedly, not saying a word.

Having no other options, Tom and Steve looked at each other, nodded in unison, and began jogging down the hill toward the cottage. They were hungry!

As the boys trotted down the hill, the ground began leveling out, and they caught a clear view of the house. The figure in the door walked a couple of steps toward Tom and Steve, waving frantically, indicating they should run the final distance. Why? What was the hurry?

Then they heard a blood-curdling roar, behind and above them. The boys suddenly found themselves sprinting faster than they ever had run in a baseball game. But Tom’s foot struck a stone, and he nearly went down. Somehow, out ahead of him, from the corner of his eye, Steve saw his friend stumble, turned back and grabbed him by the right arm, and kept him going. Behind them they felt the air being disturbed by a great force, the temperature rising. An ominous sound of Whump! Whump! greeted their ears.

A few feet ahead now, the boy commanded in a strange accent, “Get in the house!” He took them by the hands, yanked them inside with a strength that belied his age, and closed the heavy door, quickly but quietly.

“Pull down the shades!” he ordered. It was too late. There was another roar, closer now, and a whoosh of heat swept down from above, setting the roof instantly on fire.

“Quickly!” the boy in brown and green commanded his stunned guests. “Into the tunnel!” He kicked aside a large couch that had already caught fire. Beneath it was a heavy wooden trapdoor. The boy yanked the attached chain with both hands, revealing an opening with steep stairs leading downward into the darkness.

Before they could plunge in, a head popped up. Tom and Steve stopped, more shocked by what they saw than by anything else they had yet encountered. “Hi, losers,” its owner said. “Long time no see.”

It was Robby Garcia, wearing his baseball uniform.

(c) 2026 by Stan Guthrie. All rights reserved.

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