I watched from my hiding place, deep in the shadows of the wooden beams in the ceiling and I smiled.
That was the third time they’d walked past me. I could hear a slight panic in the father’s voice as he told his young son they’d soon be out of the tunnels and on their way home. By the time he passes beneath me for the fifth time or maybe the sixth panic will be taking a firm hold.
An hour from now the child will be crying and the father as well. Then the lights will dim. Hardly noticeable at first until slowly, one by one they go out altogether.
Their screams and shouts for help will bounce off the walls and mingle with those of other lost souls trapped down here. They may even be successful in finding one another and for a brief moment believe there is a chance they will be rescued. They won’t be.
They’ll notice the cold as the temperature drops. Before long their breath will begin to feather on their lips and they’ll start to tremble and one by one drop to the floor.
Then it will be time for me to feast.
A 200-word story for Sunday Photo Fiction.
Photo courtesy of Susan Spaulding.