Ashes

Clara placed her coffee on the dining table. She reached her fingertips across the mahogany surface and pulled the pink ashtray towards her. Placing the hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth, she took out her vintage lighter.

Inhaling, allowing the warmth to fill her lungs before exhaling her first drag. She placed the lighter down and leaned back in the forest green dining chair, flicking ash into the tray, and with the other hand, brought the mug to her lips. Clara blew at the dark, bitter liquid, impatient to drink; she burnt her tongue as she sipped. Placing the mug back on the table, cigarette smoke swirled around her head as she took another drag. Elbow resting on the table, the knit of her cardigan pulled. As she readjusted herself, the room she sat in became hazier. Clara wished she had been able to stay asleep. Unfortunately, her mind wouldn’t get quiet, and so after waking for the third time, she had gotten up to make coffee. Yesterday’s newspaper lay across from her, and only the sound of her grandfather’s cuckoo clock ticked.

Clara sat in the dark; the only light was cast from the faint stove light she had turned on while making coffee. Placing the cigarette between her lips, she began to inhale, but paused as what sounded like a light tapping from behind her at the back door broke the silence. Her eyebrows furrowed as she leaned against the table’s smooth surface, turning her head in the direction of the noise. The tapping stopped almost as quickly as it had started, and Clara thought it must be the wind knocking something against the screen door.

Turning back, she placed the half-smoked cigarette in the tray and picked up her mug with both hands. The warmth spread through her palms, and she hummed in contentment. With the now-warm coffee poised to her lips, the tapping came from the door, only now it was louder–full knocking.

An image of Clara’s frail mother sitting at this table just a couple of weeks ago flashed in her mind. A cold sweat broke across the back of her neck as she placed the mug on the table, thinking of her mother answering the door in the middle of the night.

The knocking stopped, but Clara had already gotten to her feet. The cigarette still smoking on the tray, Clara walked to the back door. Standing at the back door, Clara waited, pulling at the lapels of her cardigan, she wrapped it tighter, the itchy wool against her skin.

Silence ballooned. Behind her, the old empty house loomed, the energy in the air expanding as she stood with baited breath. Banging at the door, making Clara jump as she watched the thunderous pounding shake the door in front of her. Reaching over, she flipped the back porch light switch, and as the overhead light flicked on, the banging came to an abrupt stop.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was shaky, throat dry. She heard no reply and called out again, steadying her voice to sound firmer. Nothing. What was she to do? She walked to the door and tried to peer out of the frosted glass, but was unable to make out anything; her eyes darted to the lock, but the deadbolt was fastened. The porch light began to flicker; she could hear the filament struggling even from where she stood, and then the bulb burnt out. Clara tried to convince herself it was just a coincidence; the bulb hadn’t been changed in a while. Stepping back from the door, she said, “Go away! I don’t know who you are or what you want, but please leave before I call the cops.”

She was unrewarded with silence, and so she stepped further back from the door. She thought maybe they had left, whoever it had been. Turning towards the rest of the empty, dark house, she was definitely not going to bed any time soon, and now her coffee was cold. Walking over to the dining table, Clara picked up her coffee mug and walked to the kitchen sink to pour out the coffee so she could make a fresh cup. As she poured coffee from the French press, she thought about her mom. She had never mentioned having any issues at night with anyone, although her mother hadn’t told her a lot, it seemed. Sighing, she took the mug back to the dining room table where her cigarette had burnt out. Smoking had been a bad habit she had picked up from her mother, and since her nerves were now shot, she needed another one. Opening the small wooden box her mother kept them in, she plucked one out and placed it between her lips as she took a seat.

Once her new cigarette was lit, she took a drag, letting her eyes wander in the dark out across the living room. As she looked across the room, pulling the cigarette from her mouth, her eyes stopped on something in the darkest corner of the room. Without her glasses, she wasn’t sure, but there in the corner, she thought she saw…a reflective glow as the faint light from the stove behind her bounced off a pair of…eyes? She couldn’t be seeing that right. Clara squinted, but it was too dark to see much that deep in the living room from where she sat. Heart pounding, she knew it must be her mind playing tricks on her after the knocking at the door. Still, she felt unnerved at…wait…did it just blink? Shakily taking one final drag from the cigarette, she put it out in the pink ashtray, slowly coming to her feet. Taking a few steps back from the table, eyes never leaving whatever it was she was seeing, as her hand reached behind her, feeling for the light switch. Her fingertips felt the wall, and she groped around until she found what she needed, and the dining room light turned on. The pair of eyes disappeared, and despite the only light being from the dining room now, she could see more clearly into the living room. Nothing. No eyes, no boogeyman. Clara exhaled the breath she was unknowingly holding, but no sooner than she had, a knocking came from the front door.

Clara backed into the kitchen as the knocking continued until she reached where the phone was hanging on the wall. Taking the phone off the cradle, as her fingers touched the keypad, the knocking turned into banging, so she dialed quickly. Clara waited as the phone rang, a soft click picking up on the other end, but no one answered.

“Hello?” She whispered. “I need help.”

A laugh on the other end, crackly and deep. The voice mocked her with its chortle. Clara pulled the phone away from her ear, and she stared at it in confusion. Slamming the phone back in its cradle, she rubbed her face with both hands. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and charged toward the front door, hesitating only momentarily before unlocking it and swinging it open. A small gust of the cool night air blew her hair, and the arid smell of the desert filled her nose. Clara stared ahead into the dark, the front light only illuminating a couple of feet in front of her.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing, but I already called the cops!” She called out into the still night, only the sound of her breath. It couldn’t be kids; her nearest neighbor was a couple of miles away.

The cuckoo clock in the dining room sprang to life, causing Clara to practically jump out of her skin as it told her it was three a.m. She rubbed her chest, closed the front door, bolted the lock, and began walking around, turning the lights on. She no longer wanted to be in the dark, her old childhood fear creeping around her subconscious. The last light was in her mother's bedroom. She rubbed her sweaty hands on her cardigan. Grasping the doorknob, she stepped into the dark as she crossed the room for the light switch. She only made a couple of steps when she had to stop. In the corner of her mother’s room, next to the armchair that faced the large window, was a dark figure. Clara stepped back, her bare feet sweaty against the hardwood floor. The figure didn’t move; it was shaped like a person but far taller than anyone Clara had ever known. It stood just out of reach of the light from the hallway that cast into the room. How had it gotten in? Had it been here the whole time? Clara reached the doorway, obstructing some of the light from the hallway.

“W-who are you?”

It just stood there, unmoving, unanswering.

“What do you w-want?”

It raised a long, spindly arm slowly, a finger pointed in the direction of her mother’s dresser. She stared at this thing's arm, afraid to take her eyes off it, but eventually she allowed her eyes to see what it was pointing at. There was a picture of her mother on the dresser, one that was taken before Clara had even been born. Her eyes shot back to this thing whose arm had dropped back to its side.

“That’s my mom. I don’t understand. She’s not here.”

The thing's head tilted as if confused. A foul smell began to fill the air, reeking of rotten eggs and dirt. The fear coursing through Clara was unlike anything she had ever felt before.

“I…I’ve called the cops. They should be here any minute.”

It began laughing, that deep laugh she’d heard on the phone. It knew she was lying; it was calling her bluff. She took one final step out of the doorway, slamming the door closed behind her, and she ran to the front door, deciding to get the hell out of the house. Her keys were gone. Where were the car keys? Sparing a glance at the door she had closed, she tried to remember what she had done with them. Running to the kitchen, she frantically looked around before she finally spotted them on top of the mail she had checked the previous day. Turning to run out of the kitchen, her heart skipped a beat as she realized the lights were turning out one by one, leaving just the one in the living room on. The dark figure appeared in the entryway of the living room. Clara went to the back door, throwing the lock and running into the night. She ran around the house, desperate not to look back as she fumbled the car keys. Thankfully, her car was already unlocked, and she got in, struggling to get the key in the ignition. Turning it over, Clara looked up to the mirror and screamed. The dark, ungodly figure sat in the back seat. Its face was clearer to her now. An unimaginable face, contorted in a horrific smile.

“She made a deal.” Its voice was grave, sending Clara to reach for the handle of the door, but it locked.

Looking out through the windshield, too terrified to look, a tear was falling down her cheek. “What do you mean?”

She felt the thing lean forward until it was just beside her face, only concealed by the curtain of her hair, although she could smell it.

“She made a deal.”

Clara shook her head, tears streaming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please.”

The thing was gone. The foul smell lingered, but as Clara allowed herself to look in the rearview mirror, she realized she was alone. Taking the opportunity, she drove like a bat out of hell into town.

She never stayed in her mother’s house again after that. When the movers she hired to pack the house called her at the hotel she was staying at in town, she sat on the edge of the bed, the cold grip of a hand on her shoulder. They told her they looked, but her mother's ashes were nowhere to be seen. The grip loosened, and she hung up the phone. She sat there alone in her hotel room, eyes wet. A light knocking on the bathroom door behind her.