Like a house on fire

The fireplace had breathed its last in the wee hours of that morning. Powdery grey ash now lounged where hot flames had sprung to life only hours before. It was Sam's job to clean it out every morning, and he hated doing it. But Jill had said he didn't do enough around the house, and she had been really angry about that this time.

To pacify her, he had agreed that the fireplace and tending the fire, were now entirely within his realm. It wasn't his only task, but the one he dreaded most. He hated how the white ash snowed down, blanketing his clothes and holding him temporarily in a plume of foul grey smoke..

Sam realized he had to placate Jill big time this time. Her complaints about the hours he spent at the office or playing golf were valid, he knew, but it had taken a huge blow-up to convince him he really should be doing more. To smooth over the fracas that had rung through the house, he'd taken a few days off work, and busied himself judiciously with house-related jobs that had been awaiting his attention for months. That had seemed to calm her sufficiently, for the time being anyway.

Sam's mood was no better than it had been the night before. Already grousing about his disdain for all things fireplace, he'd thrown a few more maple logs into the sputtering flames, then poked the wood about to maximize its intensity.

"God, I hate being stuck here," he'd thought, wishing he'd had the nerve to beg off doing the jobs Jill had lined up for him that day. Bob had called to remind him about the game they planned to watch that afternoon with some friends. Sam felt particularly henpecked when he'd had to tell Bob he'd be a no-show.

As he gave the logs a final poke, he stepped back from the fireplace. "Man I hate doing this. I wish we'd decided on central heating instead of this pain in the ass. I hate you," Sam hissed at the flames, adding, "I hate living in this bloody house."

They'd moved in a few months earlier. The house sat on two acres of property, on a small elevation overlooking a side road. Pricewise it had been a fantastic bargain. The idyllic setting was a bonus, especially this past summer. The kids could play outside with no worry about traffic, and Jill appreciated the newly-renovated kitchen that opened onto a patio boasting a firepit and plenty of room for entertaining.

"I hate you," he sneered again, looking directly into the fire. As he did, a lone spark seemed to spit itself from the ashes, and land on his front of his hoodie. He quickly swatted it off and hoped it wouldn’t leave a mark. Then another spark sprung out and landed directly on his hand, still holding the poker.

"Shit!" he said. "You fucking bastard," he said directly at the flames, with all the angry frustration of a spoiled two-year-old, if children were fluent in profanity at such a young age.

As he did, the flames suddenly swelled, creating a fire nearly twice as large and considerably hotter. The heat poured into the room, pulling him into its open arms, then squeezing until it was nearly unbearable..

“Stop it,” he yelled at the fire, his tone terrified. He tried to run to the kitchen to get the fire extinguisher, but the fire beat him to the door and blocked his path; as it swirled around him spitting out scorching embers directly into his face.

Sam tried to think of something that could douse the flames. He grabbed the blanket off the couch and threw it onto the flames where it disappeared immediately into what sounded like a rhythmic chant. He’d have to run through the roaring flames to the door if he were to escape,

and tried to remember what to do in such a situation. But no one could be prepared for entrapment within a fire.

The heat threatening to engulf him, Sam gasped for as much air as he could capture in his lungs, closed his eyes and was about to run towards the kitchen door, when a voice that sounded like an old record album skipping loudly on the turntable seemed to come from the fireplace. The needle seemed to be lost inside a groove then, mustering its forces, blast directly into Sam’s ears.

He looked to see where the noise was coming from and was horrified to be looking into the blistering maw of a face twisted by the heat of the fire. Sam suddenly realized that the flames were not growing and encompassing him, but were flickering and raging threateningly. He squinted his eyes to see through the inferno and was met with the burning face of a child in the midst of the fireplace.

Sam was too shocked and appalled to think. Then a voice, clear and resonant, rose from the conflagration. “Now you’re here, don’t ever leave me,” it said menacingly. Shocked, Sam turned and tried to run through the flames, but they pushed him back, and began to toss him around in the loose circle they had formed. And the voice kept up its plaint, “Now you’re here, don’t ever leave me. Now you’re here, don’t ever leave me.”

Not knowing what else to do, Sam screamed, “OK. I’ll never leave you.” I promise I’ll never leave you.”

“Never forget,” a chorus of children’s voices repeated over and over. “Never forget. Never forget.”

Sam had no choice but to agree. “I won’t. I won’t forget,” he shouted.

With that, the flames suddenly subsided, growing smaller until they were sucked back into the fireplace, that was now blazing cheerily, as it normally did.

What to do? Without a second thought, Sam ran to the kitchen door, flung it open and raced through the kitchen, calling “Jill. Jill. Where are you?” When he got no response, he headed for the patio door and was about to slide it open when his hands got suddenly hot and flames shot out of his fingers. His entire hands were ablaze! The fire began spreading up his arms. Instinctively, he jumped backwards. When he did, the fire suddenly disappeared and he was standing a few feet from the patio door. He reached out to grab the handle and pull the door open but, as soon as he did, the flames began spouting through his fingertips again.

“Jesus!” he screamed. Then again. “Jesus!” Sam wasn’t a religious man, but he began to pray rapidly and fervently. “Make it stop. Let me out,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The sound of the old 33 1/3 album skipping began blasting into the kitchen, many decibels stronger, followed by the voice. “Never forget. Don’t ever leave me.”

He was afraid to move. He was afraid to speak. He was afraid to breathe, but his body tugged at him to step backwards away from the door. As he did, the fire from his fingers and arms grew smaller, then abated entirely.

Though he couldn’t think clearly to devise a plan of escape, he ran to the front door and undid the latch. As he did, the wooden door sprang alive, regurgitating fire that now completely engulfed him.

This had to be a dream. This had to be a dream. This was a dream, he told himself as he tried to wake himself up. Begged himself to wake up. To no avail.

It felt like a nightmare. Nothing more, Sam tried to convince himself. “I feel like I do just as I’m waking, not yet completely conscious,” he realized, “like I’m suspended somewhere between horror and escape.”

A memory struck him. He saw himself standing by the fireplace, poker in hand, saying that he hated living in this house. He needed to escape. The fire hadn’t taken kindly to abandonment and lack of appreciation for its warmth and soft light. But it couldn’t be real,” he thought. It certainly made no sense.

Sam willed himself to wake and escape from the nightmare he had created in his head, but felt himself being tugged, as if from one world back and forth to another…between the dream world and reality.

It was dawn when Sam finally felt himself wake up. He was on the couch in front of the fireplace, the blanket pulled up to his neck. He couldn’t wait to get out of the house and away from the nightmare that had overtaken his subconscious mind.

He was afraid to look at the fireplace, and hoped it had burned itself out.

Sam made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water. He was parched, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He shook his head in recollection of the dream that had terrified him. Now, he definitely needed to escape. Chores be damned – he was going to do exactly what he wanted today. He needed that to erase the dream from his memory.

But it would never be erased. And it wasn’t a dream.