Forest Secrets by David Laing

I suppose we’d better have a look around.’
    I thought so too. I couldn’t see any embers waiting to burst into flame, and after looking at the starless sky and feeling damp air against my face, I thought Blowhard’s camp was safe enough, for now anyway. ‘You’re right, it looks pretty good but maybe we should have one last check before we head back.’ I held out my hand. ‘It might even rain; if it does Blowhard’ll be okay for the night, that’s for sure.’
    I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Chapter 21
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    I t was seven-thirty, nearly dark, and Reginald Blowhard could hardly wait to curl up in his annex. He’d set it up earlier with a camp stretcher, blow-up mattress, sleeping bag, three fluffy pillows and a bed-side table for munchies and other essential night-time goodies. He even had a bedside lamp that was powered from an outside generator. He rubbed his hands together and beamed. Yes, he thought to himself, I’ve done a good job. I’ll be nice and snug tonight.
    After changing into his favourite pyjamas, the ones decorated with tiny brown bears, he turned on his iPod and hopped into bed. He attached his earplugs and lay back, listening to an old song, one of his favourites from the 1950s called The Purple People Eater. Outside, it wasn’t totally dark but his body felt tired. And no wonder, he told himself. Those pesky kids have been interfering in my plans all day … constantly trying to make me out as some sort of idiot. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll go out tomorrow and take the best, the most fantastic photos that anyone’s ever seen. He smiled as he imagined himself walking onto the stage in front of a cheering crowd to accept the winning prize. That, he told himself, would be most appropriate.
    Feeling better now, he took off his earplugs and reached for a chocolate bar that he had placed on the table earlier. Munching away, he then reached over and picked up a can of Fanta. Taking a sip, he picked up his newest book, a horror fantasy called, The Curse of the Mummy, from the side of the bed.
    He’d just got into the story when he heard a sound, a dull, muffling noise coming from outside.
    â€˜It’s those kids again!’
    They’re nosing around outside, he told himself – the cheek of it. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll pretend they’re not there and maybe they’ll go away. He adjusted his pillow, broke off another chocolate square, took a sip of his drink and once again turned to his book.
    It was about an hour later – the Mummy was just about to creep into some poor soul’s bedroom to lay his curse – when he heard another noise. It was a scraping, scratchy sound coming from outside – near the back of the annex. Laying the book down next to him and propping himself up on his elbows, he looked around … nothing. ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ he whispered, as he turned to look at the canvas wall behind him. No answer. Then, in a slightly louder voice he called, ‘Have you kids come back?’
    A drawn-out guttural sound like someone choking, answered him. ‘Arghhh! … Arghhh!’
    He bolted to an upright position. His book and empty Fanta can flew across the room. ‘Wh-what? Wh-what’s that?’ he stammered.
    The throaty, rasping sound came again. ‘Arghhh! … Arghhh!’ Eyes popping like periwinkles on a rock, he turned and stared at the tent’s canvas behind him. He gasped. There was someone outside, creeping around the tent, trying to find a way in; he could see his shadow. He could also see that he was big, with very large ears. ‘It’s Mamu,’ he heard himself saying, his voice shaking. ‘He’s come to get me.’
    Unzipping the sleeping bag, he sprang from his bed, and like a charging bull, he raced through the flaps of the annex out into the night. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the guy