The holes in the ancient, stained boulder—marking the site of an infamous witch burning—were like empty eye sockets, beckoning and beguiling.
Against protocol, I let Andy, our junior historian, take a peek.
He pressed his face to the rough stone, then howled, fell back, clutching his eye.
Amy, the first-aider, rushed to his side as screams erupted.
Eyes, pupils dilated with madness, filled most of the cursed hollows in the blackened rock.
I recognised one—a pale rim of ice-blue iris. Andy’s!
An empty cavity awaited.
I drew close, feet fighting a compulsion.
Then I lowered my head…
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