Finding Fagan

Smoke rose from Wolfgang's glowing horns as he scanned the dishevelled living room.

“Fagan, where the Hell are ya?” he bellowed. His ears strained but failed to detect anything above the storm's din.

Wolfgang stomped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Ornaments shook.

“You can't hide from me!”

He continued stomping along the corridor, ripping closet doors off their hinges and cursing bitterly. Finally he reached the basement door. It had been locked and fastened securely.

“A pitiful deterrent, to be sure,” he scoffed.

Wolfgang kicked the door open and descended awkwardly to the bottom of the rickety staircase.

His bloodshot eyes illuminated in the darkness. He could just make out a slight movement coming from the far left corner of the basement. One by one his claws extended.

He let out a ferocious roar and hastened towards a large oak cabinet, which he picked up and discarded as though it was made of cardboard.

Pinned hard against the wall, Fagan grinned impishly.

“Got you!” cried Wolfgang affectionately scratching his cousin.

“Well played,” affirmed Fagan. “You can be IT next time.”

“There's a graveyard across the street with a hiding place you'll never find.”

“We’ll see.”