Читать книгу Hobgoblin and the Seven Stinkers of Rancidia - Kyle Sullivan - Страница 28

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blossoms, Hobgoblin dropped the tuba, tripped on it, tumbled over the short fence, and splattered into the muck. Panicked, the flies scattered into the air.

Sitting on his butt in the muck, Hobgoblin tried to figure out how he got there. Then something in the forest caught his eye. Returning to Hobgoblin’s head, the flies saw it, too—it was almost as if a shadow had slipped behind a tree.

Hobgoblin’s heart raced and he sniffed the air. He was concerned he might pick up the scent of some-thing scary, like a troll or a forest hyena or a perfumist.

Sure enough, Hobgoblin picked up a scent, but it wasn’t anything he’d ever smelled before. It was strong and mysterious, with a slight trace of cinnamon.

Hobgoblin shivered. There was a weird smell creeping through the air, and for once he wasn’t to blame.

The flies also smelled it. They knew Hobgoblin could be skittish at times, but in this case, they understood his fear. They didn’t know what lurked in the forest. But they knew it smelled unfamiliar. It smelled disturbing. It smelled like danger.

“Hmm,” said Hobgoblin. “On second thought,