Free, Like the Flames

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

The candle’s flame undulated, its glowing essence cast a ghoulish look to Owen’s face. He placed the smoking match on the windowsill and slipped the matchbook into his pocket, reveling in the lingering sulfurous smell.

The cabin held an air of permanence, untouched for what felt like ages. Layers of dust outlined where furniture used to sit. The only other evidence that the place was ever inhabited were sheet-covered boxes placed along the far wall like sentinels, a squat end table, and a wicker chair near a stone fireplace.

Owen stared intensely at the burning wick and took a deep breath. The flame wavered from the disturbance, its hypnotic movements bringing a sense of calm that Owen desperately needed.

“Who knows about this place?” the Flame whispered. Its voice sounded like an old man, though whenever Owen listened closely he could hear the hiss of a crackling fire underneath.

"Just my family," Owen replied softly. "It was my grandpa’s place, but no one comes here anymore.”

“Good… good,” the Flame murmured pensively.

Owen couldn’t remember the Flame sounding so contemplative. Normally, he couldn’t stop whispering to Owen. Their relationship wasn’t complicated, the Flame encouraged Owen to light fires and he happily obliged. Their most recent conflagration, at the apartment complex, was still burning. Had been burning for hours. Owen could still picture the inferno towering over him. His eyes were filled with tears, not only from the smoke, but just the sheer beauty of seeing his creation take on a life of its own. The Flame had cackled in his mind as he stood there in awe, the proud laughter reaching a crescendo to match the roar of the blaze.

Owen blinked, returning to the gloomy present. That glorious moment, crystallized in his memory, was over too soon.

Reality had set in.

Recovered security cameras had caught him in the act. The local news aired a video of him basking in that beautiful orange glow on repeat.

They called it a massacre.

With a sigh Owen walked away from the window. Even now, he felt the urge, that tiny niggling desire to strike the match, to bring fire to life and feel its warmth again.

“I know this wasn’t what we planned, but after tonight we’ll be free,” the Flame whispered.

Owen made his way to the fireplace. He pulled a sheet from the stacks of boxes and tossed it into the well of the hearth sending dust and ash swirling into the air. He broke the legs off of the end table and kneeled. As he stacked the table legs over the makeshift kindling, the nostalgia of his first campfire tickled in the back of his mind. He remembered the wavering flames resembling tiny fingers reaching up to the heavens. How transfixed he was, sitting there for hours while his friends got drunk and joked around. It was the first time he had heard the Flame whisper to him.

“What is ‘free’ for us?” Owen pondered.

“You know what freedom feels like, we’ve tasted it,” the Flame responded, “every time we burn and the fire gets stronger, there’s nothing like it.”

“Free to leave this place and be our true selves,” Owen murmured, pulling out the matches and striking one. The flare of light banished the darkness, revealing Owen’s rictus grin. The match's flame danced along the fabric until the fire was accepted. Owen waited patiently, watching the fledgling flame grow as it steadily consumed its meal.

The Flame was always so wise, it said things that just made sense. The tiny worries in his mind weren’t important. There was no need to fear being caught. All that mattered was the next opportunity to light the flame. To give it life and watch it grow.

“Ahh, that feels good,” the Flame said, echoing Owen’s soul. They sat in silence, only interrupted only by the staccato of minute crackles in the fireplace.

Suddenly, the door to the cabin swung open, shattering Owen’s thoughts. He spun around to see the two familiar faces of his parents.

“Mom, dad!” Owen jumped to his feet in surprise. The Flame giggled as sparks popped in the fireplace, filling the momentary quiet.

His mother gasped, “oh god, what have you done Owen?” Her hand raised to cover her mouth.

“Son, you need to come with us.” His father pleaded, “we can go to the station and explain that this was all an accident.”

Owen’s mother’s eyes darted to his father, disbelieving, “how can you call what he’s done an accident?” She wrung her hands, looking into Owen’s eyes. Misery reflected in the growing firelight.

“We need to tell them something is wrong with you, you didn’t mean it,” his father said, ignoring her question. Pain and shame struggled for domination on his face.

Owen’s gaze shifted between his parents. Their pained faces tinted with the orange glow of the fireplace. He felt nothing.

“I can’t go with you,” he mumbled coldly. “I need to be free.”

“What?!” His father shouted, “Owen, people have died because of you!”

“Forty seven, actually,” the Flame blurted, then paused, “no wait… make that fifty three and counting!”

Owen cocked his head. “How can you tell?” he whispered.

“Everything the fire consumes makes me stronger, it’s all connected,” the Flame exclaimed matter-of-factly.

His father took a cautious step forward, “Owen, who are you talking to?”

“You don’t control what happens once the fire is free,” the Flame continued. “They’ll never understand.”

“You can’t understand, we’re meant to be free!” Owen echoed defiantly.

“He’s not right in the head,” Owen’s mother whimpered. She grasped at Owen’s father in an effort to hold him back, but he pulled away and stepped closer to Owen.

Sparks flew out as another pop sounded from the fireplace, the embers arced onto the remaining sheets behind Owen. With a slight hiss, they immediately caught aflame, eating the fabric greedily.

“Owen, you need help, please let us help…” his father glanced past Owen, noticing the fire that was steadily growing. “God! Put it out!” he shouted as he ran over to boxes, yanking off the sheets and stomping on them.

“Stop him!” roared the Flame.

Flinching from its outburst, Owen darted to his father and pulled him away as smoke began to rise. Flames ran across the sheets, along the floor, and up the walls. The smoke quickly layered the ceiling, filling the air with an acrid scent.

“Did you pour gasoline in here Owen?” his father shouted, enraged, “you want to burn down grandpa’s cabin too?”

The Flame laughed as a wave of fire washed across the ceiling above their heads. Owen covered his ears and cringed as its voice reached a shrill maniacal pitch.

“We have to get out!” Owen’s mother screamed. She ran over and grabbed Owen’s arm, trying to pull him towards the door. She tugged, barely moving him, grunting from the effort. She let go, reaching for his father for support.

Owen’s eyes roved over the cabin, entranced by the beautiful flames. The sound of the Flame’s cackling grew louder, matching the roar of the fire spreading around them. Then the Flame suddenly fell silent.

“It’s done,” it hissed.

“Owen, snap out of it!” His dad screamed, reaching out to him. Smoke filled the room, enveloping the family.

“BURN!” the Flame roared.

Fire came down from the ceiling, sweeping over Owen’s head. Even in the haze he could clearly see the flames form two enormous orange and red claws. He watched in shock as each claw surrounded his mother and father, their pain-filled screams joined the cacophony. The claws swirled into an inferno around them both like living pillars of fire and death.

“No!” Owen screamed. He reached out but the intense heat pushed him back.

All he could do was watch in horror as the fire shredded their bodies, turning their clothing into ash, and their skin into bubbling liquid. He stood there frozen, until they were nothing but charred human shapes on the floor.

Owen dropped to his knees as the fire coated the walls of the cabin. The smoke was blinding and he could barely breathe. He collapsed, his body numb. He stared up at the fire as it billowed along the ceiling.

“Tell me, do you still love fire, Owen?” the Flame whispered.

Owen whimpered as a tear spilled from the corner of his eye, it traced a line in the soot on his face.

He didn’t ask for this.

He just wanted to be free, like the flames.

“Yes,” he whispered back.

The smoke swirling around the room rushed down in a vortex, funneling directly into Owen’s mouth and nose. The searing fire soon followed. He accepted the flames.

*********************************

The smoky cabin was silent as Fezriel picked himself up off the floor. He casually stepped over the charred bodies, mentally savoring the lingering taste of their souls. Delicious idiots.

Every soul consumed by Owen’s fires had made Fezriel stronger.

Strong enough to finally influence the flames directly.

Strong enough to inhabit a body.

From the other plane he would wait and watch through the fire. Always looking for the ones that stared too closely at the flames. This wasn't the first time he had ensnared someone through a campfire, and it wouldn't be his last. All he had to do was nurture the mental connection, nudge them, bend their minds to his will. Young humans were so malleable.

It was almost too easy.

Fezriel walked past the window where the candle sat, melted down to the base. He put his finger on the remains of the wick, relighting it with a touch. As he opened the door to leave, he brushed his hand against the cabin wall, smoldering the wood and starting a new, cleansing fire, to burn the cabin to ash. This body was slowly incinerating from the inside out - they never lasted long - but he would make the most of it, he had so much to do now that he was free.