Fireblind

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. When the warm light flickers against the lead-paned window the woods howl a warning in response – branches creak and groan in protest of the whipping winds, and storm clouds seethe overhead, releasing torrents of icy rain that soak the ground in seconds.

But the in the clearing where the cabin is, the wind is still, and the woods are silent. No insects buzz. No birds cry. Even the rain falls in a gentle patter instead of in lashing sheets.

Everything fled in fear. Even the wind and the storm are scared to linger.

Something dark dwells in the cabin. Darker than the deepest shadow beneath the tallest tree in the most secret thickets of the woods. An evil so old it has no name and no form. An evil that can only be felt in the tight squeeze in your chest before you scream, and can only be heard in the stuttering space between panicked heartbeats.

The evil is trapped in the cabin, but that does not stop it from testing the limits of its prison. It is always pushing at the gaps, reaching tendrils through the smallest openings, grasping for anything it can touch. The evil can’t go outside the cabin, but it can lure the outside in.

When nightmares prowl the woods the wind will howl and shriek its warning, and the animals will run for shelter. But the calmest place to be in the woods, the one that promises refuge against the cold, dark night, is more dangerous than you could ever imagine. And the warm, flickering glow of a candle burning bravely against the night is the wriggling worm on a hook you can never escape from.

This was not the first time the candle was lit.

The evil has been around for longer than the stories we tell, huddled around a flickering fire to keep the shadows away. It lives in stories. In our deepest, most primal memories. It is the witch that eats the poor lost child. The monster that punishes the foolhardy. It is the fear that grips you in that space between dreaming and waking. The one that does not let you move to flee or to scream.

Sometimes the cabin changes. Sometimes the woods do. But the evil remains the same through it all. And it has always wanted to feast. To consume. To devour. There are stories about the cabin, too. That it only appears when there is a vulnerable soul nearby to take. That it moves itself on monstrous legs.

That it is not one cabin, but many, with many evils like twisted compasses that point to the true north of our darkest fears.

When it gets out.

This is not the last time the candle will be lit.

It will take any prey. A deer. A bird. A lost hiker. But its favourite was children. Particularly those that were lost. Lonely. Scared. Cold. And above all, disobedient. A child that had wandered off the path in the forest, or stayed out too late, or skipped out on chores to play instead. Those are the best kind.

Every time the evil reels in new prey it grows stronger and more dangerous. And every time it grows more dangerous, it gets closer and closer to breaking free of the cabin. And then there will be nothing that can stop it.

There is nobody who can tell you what keeps the evil in the cabin. And there is no one alive who will remember how to put it back if it gets out.

A long time ago there was much for it to feast on, and it glutted itself on its hapless victims. And everyone feared to go in the woods. And it came close, oh so close, to getting free. It only needed a few victims more. Perhaps a hundred. Perhaps a handful.

Perhaps only one.

But times changed, and we built new cities and lit them with bulbs instead of candles. And we carved away at the woods until they were fragmented patches of once impassable wilderness. And we grew too. We grew braver and more forgetful.

And we started going back into the woods.

And we started building fires again.

Just. Like. This. One.

The candle is lit right now.

Remember, this is no wolf or bear or beast that flinches from a fires glow. The flames are lit, and they call to the evil like a beacon. They lull you into a trap. They blind you against the darkness.

So, when you hear the wind howling and the trees groaning it is a warning. It is coming. And you must run.

But when the wind dies. And the night is still once more. And all you hear is the thudding of your own pulse as you see a glimmering spark of hope in the distance. Then it is too late.

And then the candle will go out.