Spooky Jungle Safari
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Deep within the emerald shadows of the Blackroot Jungle—a place locals whispered was alive with vengeful spirits—a boy named Jamie crouched beside his older friend Aron, fingers digging into rain-softened earth. "Tell me about the bones," he demanded, ignoring the way Aron’s knuckles whitened around his hunting knife. "The ones under the old shrine." Aron’s laugh came out jagged, forced. "You think this is a fireside tale? Go home." But when dawn cracked the sky blood-orange, Jamie was already wading through serpent vines, his boots sinking into mud that bubbled like a wound. The jungle breathed around him—a chorus of clicking mandibles, the reek of rotting orchids, a child’s laughter echoing where no child could be. By midday, he found the shrine… or what remained. Shattered obsidian idols stared with hollow eyes, their mouths crammed with yellowed teeth. Something warm trickled down Jamie’s neck. Not sweat. When he turned, the trees had shifted. The path was gone. And the laughter—closer now, harmonizing with a new sound: the dry rasp of something being dragged through dead leaves.
