Of course, unlucky as she was, Lara Binks, reporter for the "Sunnydale News, got caught in a rainstorm.
And, since getting stuck in a rainstorm wasn't bad enough, it also happened when she was stuck on a rather revolting public bus, which had lint and dead bugs littering the stained carpet and torn chairs.
If that wasn't bad enough, she and the odd-looking passengers were travelling across a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.
Worse yet, Lara had to get a story into the office in three days, and there was no longer any way this was possible, since the bus driver had announced they were stopping at a nearby town. Lara tossed her brown ponytail over her shoulder as a deerfly buzzed by. The stench must have attracted these bloodsucking insects, au perhaps it was the chakula the people brought on. One muddy man was eating some disgusting slop messily, spilling it on the floor. Yes, that must have been what attracted them.

Lara gazed forlornly out the flimsy glass windows at the sheets of rain that engulfed the bleak gray hills that stretched to the foggy horizon. She sighed. Her boss, Mr. Timothy, would not accept the rain as an excuse for having no story. She'd have to beg to keep her job, unless she could find an interesting thing to ripoti on.

Her pale finger twitched as a cockroach scuttled across the seat. Not hesitating, she flicked it off as the bus driver halted the bus.

"Here we are in Polisville!" He cried. "Time to get off the bus! No time to waste!" The bus driver, a squat and red-faced man, then opened the doors. Lara didn't blame him for wanting to get off, it was hard to breathe and extremely odorous in there. And that man was spilling zaidi disgusting slop on the carpet each second.

Lara slung her backpack over one shoulder and bolted out the door. The outside air was cool and fresh, but the sensation of getting out of the dungeon-bus was dampened quite literally kwa the heavy downpour. The raindrops fell like hail, piercing the skin like miniature swords. Lara knew at once it would be a bad three days. Bushe would never have guessed that the rainstorm wouldn't be the terrible part of it. Worse things were on their way.




-2-





Lara snuggled into the cold kitanda in the inn as rain thundered on the nearby window. She pulled the blankets closer to herself, but it was no use, she was still freezing. Lara was exhausted as well as cold, yet she couldn't sleep. It was twelve o clock and her eyes were frozen open, staring blankly at the window, the raindrops relfected in their glassy depths.
Many times, these teary tired eyes tried to close, but ended up being wrenched back open. It was tantalizing, agonizing, even torturous. She couldn't sleep. All she could do was stare out the window, wishing for sleep to come.
But it didn't, and it was now two dakika after midnight.
Lara rubbed her eyes, and then pulled her eyelids down and tried to force them shut. Neither worked. She tried counting sheep, and when that didn't work, whe forced her eyes to close kwa scrunching them tightly. But it was no use. She opened her eyes and stared out the window.


The man who peered in had curly dark and wet hair. His eyes were wide and curious like that of a newborn child, and his face was freckled and expressionless. His head was cocked to one side, gazing at her. Lara leapt up. The man vanished.





-3-
It was the inayofuata day. She had just two days to find a story. But Lara tried not to think about this au her strange dream (yes, it must have been a dream, she told herself) as she ate a fine breakafast of french toast with powdered sugar at a restaurant in the town. The restaurant was a small, tidy place with wide round tables with blue and white checkered tablecloths. Four chairs were set around each table, and only three were occupied-Lara's and the two men from a meza, jedwali some way down. It was a rather pleasant place!

Next, she took a walk around the looping labrynth of streets. The walk was tiring, but she managed to buy a vanilla frosted donut from a friendly mitaani, mtaa vendor. The taste was sweet and sugary, and it exploded in her mouth. It was perfect!

But now it was getting dark, and she couldn't find her way back. The clock struck nine as she headed down an asphalt road. She reached a cul-de-sac and headed the other way. The clock struck ten, then eleven, and soon it was eleven-fifty. Lara was tired and panicky. All she had was her backpack which contained her notepad, uandishi material, and a pitiful amount of money. She ducked into a narrow brick alley and crouched down.


Rusted garbage cans vomited moldy matunda and clumps of mold across the stones, attracting flies and mosquitoes which Lara batted away. The clock struck twelve.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lara saw something at the end of the alley move. It was a man, au a group of men, racing by, silohetted against the misty waters of a dark river.

"Time to investigate," she murmered, slipping her notepad under her shoulder and slinging her pack over her arm.


-4-
She ran, breathing hard, her moyo nearly bursting from the strain of running both swiftly and silently after the shadows half a block ahead. The cobblestone mitaani, mtaa made this difficult. Once, she stumbled and the shadows looked back. She remained rigid and still, and they appeared not to notice her. Thank goodness it was a new moon!
Almost accidentally turning into a dark alley which ended in a dead end, She followed the group into a dark hotel. The atrium was also the meeting place, it appeared, so she stayed out of the dim candlelight. Dust swirled around it and the other old antique chairs and wooden floor.
It seemed like most of the village was there; she saw the vendor who sold her the donut in the crowd of one hundred people. Lara could also see the face of the restaurant owner and others she'd seen in the street. She scratched all this down.

An old man stood up and began to speak.
"Long," he wheezed, "has our secret been kept salama from mortal eyes."
The donut man nodded.
"Immortality of us villagers depends on the tribute we give once a month!" He cried, "And it is time once again. Who among wewe will volunteer?"

Silence. Then, a gruff voice spoke:
"Surely, the lady who followed us here should step mbele into the candlelight?"
And suddenly, all eyes were on her. Lara saw the cold black beady pupils and only needed a sekunde to whirl around and shove the door open. The old man had a devilish look in his eyes. "After her!" He screeched madly. The group of villagers dashed mbele at once, and the wind blew out the waning candle.

Lara dashed into the alley, her feet tapping against the stone and her moyo thundering as the villagers followed. It was a dead end. She felt around at the bricks, and attempted to climb. They were getting closer. Suddenly, she leapt upward and grabbed a low window sill. Her black sneakers easily got traction on the rough ukuta as she scuttled up to the awning. The moth-eaten fabric almost fell underneath her.
The building was three stories high, she needed to climb two zaidi stories, and the villagers were directly beneath her, a wave of angry faces reaching up and attempting to drag her downwards to make HER a human sacrifice. She had to find a way up and fast. Then, she saw a drainpipe. At first, she was hestitant to jump. but then a hand grapped her shoe.She wriggled her foot out of it and leapt.

The metal slowly slipped under her hands as she summoned all her strength and forced her exhausted arms to lift her slowly upwards. She tried to go as fast as possible, but her arms were getting weaker kwa the second. She felt her lungs would burst. Suddenly, she was on the rooftop, gasping for breath.

But Lara was not alone. She suddenly realized she couldn't escape and dashed to the roof's edge. She scratched something down on her notepad, stuffed it in her waterproof backpack, and tossed it over the roof's edge.
It fell slowly, like a parachute, into the whirling shallow section of the river and was whisked away. The backpack slid across the river, carried kwa the strong force. It left the town, and in days was in a calm shallow section of a wood creek, where a group of people were telling campfire stories and roasting marshmellows;one was on fire. The person suddenly noticed the stick was aflame and tossed it in the creek. They curiously crept to the edge and leaned over the steep muddy sides, and pulled a backpack out of the reeds. They carefully unzipped it, expecting to find something horrid like a shrunken head, but found only a few dollars and a notepad.
The word got out of the story and the reporter's disappearance, but no one believed the ridiculous tales of the little town with a dark secret. That was all stuff of fiction......right?