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Fireside © Brady Szuhaj
A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Walter didn't know which way was up. The fire before him crackled in a hedonistic way, dancing with a passion that only the forces of nature could posses. It cast a strange orange glow on the clearing around him, giving way to the unnatural shadows of looming, large trees that guarded the forest ring. The log beneath him was old and worn, imprinted with the weight of many long nights of fireside contemplation. He was going insane, that much was sure. He'd left the house in a hurry, crying hysterically, tears spilling down his cheeks. The blood was still warm on his hands. He shuddered. The fire had always been his security blanket. Coming here at odd hours of the night with all of his problems and professing them into the flames would calm his nerves in an instant. It never occurred to him that the fire was always burning when he arrived; the inferno somehow kept alive while its tender was gone. Walter's mind swirled in a daze as it tried to bring itself about. He couldn't wrap his brain around what had just happened. The butcher knife he had used lay only a few feet away from the log, glinting viciously in the light of the fire. Its matte black handle blended seamlessly into the dusk-bruised twilight. He held his head in his hands, rough calloused fingers brushing against the soft skin of his face. Some of the blood had been smudged beneath his eye, and a gruesome wine-red tear rolled down his cheek. It splattered on the ground. Alone in the world now, Walter began to think of the fire as his last family member. It still moved with life. The other ones didn't. Not anymore at least… * * * The clearing was completely dark now, the fire keeping the little woodland sanctuary lit. Walter had been here for hours, and he was still in a vegetative state. He couldn't believe what had happened. Still couldn't. It was downright unreal. Walter looked up now, into the gleaming fire. He could smell the unpleasant frying scent of burning hair, and realized that the front of his head had been singed pretty badly. His stupor had prevented him from feeling any pain. Ironic, he thought, MY pain is lessened.
He didn't know why he did what he did. He was unsure of how it all went down. Confusion blurred the memories, remorse tinted them. He didn't know. The end was soon though. He knew that. * * * The fire swirled upward as Walter added a new branch of dried wood to the pyre. The flames snapped and popped their thanks, giving him a rush of pride. The fire was his child now. He was a father again. Memory was starting to flow back to him. Tiny inklings of the past were seeping into Walter's vision, branching down and taking quick snaps at his consciousness. They'd overpower his senses, welling up and throwing him into momentary flashbacks of his decisions. You're kidding right you have to be kidding that isn't real- Has to be real can't be real of course it's real- Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy- Somewhere in Walter's head, something cracked. Reality started to bend, and all the evil things that lived in that deranged mind began to leak out. Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy- NO NO NO NO PLEASE STOP NO STOP DADDY- STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP- STOP. * * * He yelled again, and got no response: only that maddening copy cat of his motions. It was taunting him, he was sure. Making fun of his inability to stand up and strangle it into submission. To a shadow, words do little good. It had shown up about an hour ago, emerging lithely from the depths of the fire pit with a predatorial grace that was supernatural. The shadow sat opposite him, peering at him sideways. It did not move. Things were starting to get very, very bad. He wasn't quite sure if it was real or not. It was very possible he was imagining things; given the circumstances, it was very possible. The shadow sure as hell looked real though. Physical, having a depth to it. Not your average on-the-ground shadow. Walter sat facing the other side of the log, his back pointed toward the shadow. In his fist, he held the knife. Blood dribbled down his hand in great rivets as he took extreme care at sawing the pads of his fingertips off. Using the tip of the cleaver, he slowly pried off each nail. Tears dripped from his eyes. STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP The wind blew past Walter's face, ruffling his hair. His bleeding hand felt like he had reached into the fire, but he didn't care. He was too overcome with fear. The shadow was behind him. He could hear its whispers as the wind slid through the leaves of the trees. It wanted him. And it was going to get him. “Not real, not real, not real, not real, you're not real…” Walter sang to himself softly. The wind blew on. There was silence in the clearing. Behind him, the fire purred. Walter scanned the tree-line, looking for any more monsters that might be hiding there. In his deep voice, he started to chant: “Twas brillig and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All mimsy were the borogoves…” He started to rock slightly, back and forth on the log. It was colder now. A hand was on his shoulder. A cold hand. * * *
Surely a shadow could not touch you. Surely. * * * Walter's nightmare was behind him. The wind had stopped in the clearing when the deathly silence settled in. The light from the fire had shrunk away from where he sat, as if it were almost afraid of the presence that now stood there. The flames bent sideways, edging backwards toward the trees. “And mome raths outgrabe,” the voice behind him hissed. Chills shot through Walter. They were deep and cold, terror-filled, making the marrow of his bones contract painfully. The silence still sat heavy in the field; no creature dared make a sound. Walter could see his breath, puffing out in front of him in cool clouds. It hung, dead in the air, slowly dissipating. He could hear a faint sniffing sound behind him. “You're guilty,” spoke the shadow. Its voice was thin, comprised of ashes and crushed leaves; a snake as it whispered over the ground in autumn. Walter nodded dumbly. There was nothing else to do. “Guilty,” the shadow affirmed. Invisible claws dug into his shoulder as the shadow turned him around to face it. The fire was quiet and dying now, throwing up pitiful bursts of sparks as it slowly suffocated. * * * It was transparent, and hard to make out at times. Shapes shifted with the confines of the specter, morphing and billowing as soot and other particles drifted through its body. The fire behind the shadow gave it a hellish backlight. Walter recoiled explosively as his nightmare bent forward, looking him directly in the eyes. Its mouth was a vacuum of screams, twisted and contorted, the faces of the dead peering out at the world of the living. “Why?” spoke the voice of his daughter. “Why daddy? Why did you do this?” A shriek ripped through the forest. * * * Walter was on the ground. He'd fallen off the log, and lay sputtering in the dirt near the pit. The shadow stood over him. It stooped down, edging closer to his face. Walter's waist started to rise as the phantom began to pick him up. Suddenly, the fire flickered and went out. Walter dropped back to the ground. The shadow screamed and writhed, momentarily disembodied. After a moment of darkness, a log in the fire shifted, and the inferno roared once more. The shadow reassembled, and growled in an unearthly monotone. It sounded like the eye of a tornado. Walter had managed to crawl away a few feet in the time that the shadow had disappeared. He noticed how the body of the beast rippled in time with the flames of the pyre. A plan began to form in that insane mind. * * * The dirt wouldn't touch, not even make it flicker. He was digging now, deep; getting down to the wet, soft mud. The soil was embedding itself in his fingernails, making them black and gnarled. The fire cackled on. “That won't do much,” the shadow said from behind him. Whenever it spoke, the specter's loosely attached facial features swam within the confines of its face. “Die,” Walter whispered. He kept throwing mud, on the verge of hysterical tears. In all reality, he'd been crying for awhile now; a virtue of the insane is the ability to keep their insanity hidden from themselves. The shadow laughed. “I can't die, daddy. I'm not real…” It reached out and pushed him, knocking the man clear off his knees and sprawling to the ground. He cried out. “OF COURSE YOU'RE REAL!” The shadows' body contorted, and slowly morphed into the outline of a little girl. “Not in the least,” replied his daughter. * * * He reeled as those invisible talons raked over the skin of his face. A searing pain raced through his body as a ragged chunk of his earlobe tore off with the swipe. Walter started to army crawl away from the fire, the wet dew that was clinging to the grass mixed with his fresh cut. The raw and exposed nerves chorused in a song of agony. A great weight came down on his back as the shadow planted its foot, barring any half-hearted escape for the terrified man. The foot had no matter, but its strength was staggering. The shadow cooed again. “Not real, not real, not real, not real…you're not rea-” The fire cut once more, plunging the clearing into darkness. Above the tree-line, to the east, a small sliver of the sun was coming up. Beautiful tendrils of cosmic gasses spread out over the horizon; a solemn and dangerous reminder of Walters' coming fate. Should the sun rise before the shadow was completely destroyed, the light source would allow it to roam unhindered. DADDYDADDYDADDY WHY DID YOU DO THIS WHY DID YOU DO THIS WHY DID YOU DO THIS * * * Walter was sprinting. He'd made it to the ring of the clearing before the fire shot up with life once more. Somewhere behind him, the shadow let out its scream. Walter burst through the underbrush, and started hopping between tree trunks. He almost slipped on an outcropping of rocks covered with moss, but righted himself on an over-hanging limb. He tumbled through more brambles and found an old, worn dirt path. Walter followed it. The sun was coming up. * * * It was in the trees. He saw the shadow, slipping from tree to tree as it pursued him. Crouching, almost cat-like. Sometimes it looked like his little girl, other times his wife. Walter's mind was starting its final burn; slowly pulling apart the last threads of the entire fiber of his being. He didn't know where this path lead, or if he'd even survive the next few minutes. He didn't know. The end was soon though. He knew that. * * * DADDYDADDYDADDY WHY DID YOU DO THIS WHY DID YOU DO THIS WHY DID YOU DO THIS WHY? * * * There was a shed up ahead. The sun was up. Shadow- * * * He was at the door. Walter threw it open, and stepped inside the cool recesses of the tiny shed. With all of his remaining strength, the dying man threw his weight against the door. He found the deadbolt, and slid it home. * * * -DID YOU DO THIS * * * They were in there, waiting for him. His beautiful wife, and his beautiful little girl. Right there, waiting for him. Neither of them had any trace of malevolence or hate in their eyes. Their bodies were intact, whole, and welcoming. They loved him. The shadow slammed against the door. Walter blinked, and his ghostly family left. On the walls of the shed, in deep scratch marks bore into the wood, a message was scrawled: WHY DID YOU DO THIS DADDY? * * * In the center of the shed, a noose had appeared. It hung from a long rope, the end of which disappeared somewhere far up in the dark ceiling. Positioned under was a stool. Walter stepped forward. * * * He could feel the course fibers of the rope chafe his skin, and a pleasure rocked his body. He was going home. * * * The door blasted open, sending a shower of wood splinters into Walter. Sunlight streaming in behind it, the shadow stood. His little girl spoke. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS DADDY?” Walter looked up from his feet, into the eyes of the demon. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “I love you,” he said. The stool toppled over. * * * “WHY?” He didn't know.
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