He awoke to the giggles outside. In his neighbour’s yard stood three young women, their fair skin glowing even in the dim moonlight.
Villagers called them the daughters of the rotisserie man. The meat they dug out of the ground was large; it took them a few tries to secure it over the fire pit.
Flames illuminated the yard, the fragrance of grease filling the air. He imagines the crisply burnt skin and his stomach twisted.
Scampering under his bed, he closed his eyes and convinced himself he had not seen the long-dead women with their father on the spit.