Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller

by Susan May

  Bobby’s voice brought her back from her morbid thoughts.

  “See there, Em? Behind the truck … behind the fire? Can you see it? That black thing? It’s almost gone, but you can still see it. The flames have almost killed it … or whatever happens to it. There’s a shadow for a while.”

  Emily looked toward where his hand pointed, but saw only gold and red flames leaping and playing among the blackened shell; green and black smoke shrouded it as it blew, thankfully, away from them.

  “Bobby, I don’t see anything, except a burning truck. What am I looking for?”

  “A shimmer—like the sun reflecting on frost. Narrow your eyes like you’re squinting at something small.”

  He motioned to her to stay silent, leaving only the sound of the cracking and popping of the fire.

  “There. See there. It’s brighter near the hood of the truck. Still a little blue, too.”

  Emily fixed her gaze on the truck, squinting for all she was worth.

  Shimmer? What was he saying? Was this a hallucination? Maybe a brain tumor not cancer?

  “Bobby I don’t see—” she began, and then stopped.

  Wait a minute. There was something.

  She took several steps forward, angling her head to the side.

  What was that? It changed and morphed depending on the angle you looked at it.

  Suddenly, a blinding bright, blue-white flash exploded from it. For a moment, everything disappeared into a multi-colored blur. As her vision returned, she saw it. He was right. It was a dark-blue blended with the blackness of the night behind the truck. When he’d said “blue” she’d thought of a pale-blue summer sky. This was dark and mottled like a tie-dyed shirt.

  “You see it, Em, don’t you?” She felt him watching her, his eyes willing her to see what he saw.

  She nodded slowly in reply.

  “I see something. Not sure what I’m seeing? Is it something from the heat? Chemical reaction, maybe?”

  Then the dark-blue patch bulged toward them as though something swelled it forward like it was blown from a child’s bubble wand. Emily stumbled back, her heart leaping from her chest.

  Was that a face? Not a full face, but the eyes and mouth of something huge and horrible; a creature from a horror movie.

  The head floated in the air, detached from the wispy outline of a body below. A long knotted arm reached out toward her, stretching and clawing at the air between them. She ducked, even though its grasp fell short. Every nerve in Emily’s body fired with shock.

  The mouth on the thing yawned wider. When she looked deep into the gaping hole all she saw was a black so dark it sucked in every particle of surrounding light, despite the vivid glow created by the flames around it. Over the roar of the flames she heard a crab-like clicking of the tapered, bony fingers as they clenched and unclenched, struggling, it seemed, for purchase.

  The flames had a rhythm, as though the mouth were breathing in the fire’s energy—if that’s what it was doing, breathing. With each breath, the things face and stretching arm appeared to fade infinitesimally.

  It couldn’t reach her or Bobby, she saw that now. The fire created some kind of barrier. This monster, if it didn’t exist just in her mind—and she was still uncertain of the reality—must come from hell or somewhere pretty close. She wondered what would happen if the thing made it through and reached her and Bobby. Would they end up in hell or a crazy ward?

  It was disappearing now, fading, fading, until only the smallest shadow remained. The whole experience must have lasted only minutes, but she knew the image would haunt her until the day she died.

  She felt Bobby’s presence beside her.

  “Bobby, I don’t understand. What the—?” Her words trailed away when she saw he wasn’t moving. He stood there silently, staring at the truck, with his arms crossed, and his feet firmly planted.

  Something different now replaced the weariness. His eyes seemed brighter, more intense, as though the fire and the fading creature were a great achievement.

  It struck her then.

  He had meant to do this. He had meant to be here.

  This was planned, and he knew what was coming. This realization frightened her the most. For she understood, this was not the first time he’d encountered this thing. She realized at this moment how little she understood him.

  Following his gaze back to the flames, Emily saw they had settled. Only moments before they had danced energetically about the truck, but as the fuel was all but consumed, the fire, like the creature, was dying. At least she hoped that’s what had happened.

  All that remained of the creature was a pale shadow, glinting gray behind the flames like the lingering impression created behind your eyes after staring at a light. With each passing second the shadow faded. Finally, the face dissolved to a blur and then was gone. The only evidence left behind was Emily’s racing heart; the only proof she’d seen anything other than a burning truck.

  Then her mind did what minds do when confronted by the incomprehensible; it began creating its own version of the events. Not a face. Oil in the flames; trees casting shadows; the smoke inhalation had affected her brain. All three, perhaps, or anything else that made more sense than a creature from hell.

  Her mind had already raced ahead. What to do next? What to believe? Now, Emily the mother, caretaker of the family kicked in and began making decisions. She would drag Bobby home. They’d get some sleep. She’d kiss her children, and be grateful her husband was still alive; that she was still alive. Tomorrow she’d work out what to do.

  She hadn’t been to church in more than twenty years. Still, for the first time in a long while, Emily began to pray. Seriously pray.

  Chapter 5

  For most of the silent drive back into town Emily gazed out the window watching the landscape flash by, but taking none of it in. The silence was one of those where everything hung unsaid. Bobby driving on autopilot stared at the road ahead. They’d left the bike out there, so Bobby could come back in the car with her. He’d told her he wanted to talk. But he wasn’t talking.

  Emily picked at her nails, a nervous habit of hers. If she asked all the questions, if he gave her all the answers, she would become part of this. She wasn’t sure yet what this was. Collective insanity?

  He’d told her something was there, had pointed to it with such conviction her mind could have put something there. She’d almost passed out from the smoke. The chemicals and lack of oxygen could certainly have affected her brain.

  Bobby’s conviction might have convinced her there was something where there was nothing. Hypnotists could make people think they were chickens and have them cluck around onstage. Maybe Bobby had created a hypnotic suggestion.

  She was already so worked up after looking for him all over town, following him out to the middle of nowhere, and then trekking through the undergrowth. Was it such a stretch with the stress of this night she would imagine things?

  When it came to stress, they were both already on the edge with the kids. They loved their children, but parenting was all-consuming sometimes, to the point where you felt yourself barely hanging on to the you that didn’t lose it just because your child spilled milk.

  She needed quiet and the night to think. So many thoughts rattled around in her head, she felt like her mind would shake loose. Tomorrow she would make a plan.

  Her instinct was to get Bobby to a doctor. Rule out illness. She wouldn’t be telling a doctor or anyone what she thought she’d seen—they’d both end up in a crazy house. Maybe she could get some drug or something to calm everything down. Half her friends took Prozac for postnatal depression. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

  Emily glanced at her husband. His hands clenched the steering wheel like he was holding a lifeline. He shifted in his seat several times and then, as if the silence was too heavy for him, inhaled deeply, his shoulders lifting. Slowly he exhaled. Then the words came.

  “I’m sorry, Em. I am so sorry. If anything had happened to you—
” He stopped, as though he couldn’t bear to vocalize the thought. “I know you’re angry. I don’t blame you. Just, I didn’t know how to tell you. What to say? These things … well, it’s been a long time. I just wanted to protect you and the kids. Thought I could stop them, and you’d never have to know.”

  Then he paused, as if he struggled with something.

  “Knowing about them is even harder than fighting them.”

  As he talked, he swiveled his head back and forth between her and the road. She wanted to reach over and clutch his hand like she always did when they drove together. But, that might encourage him—buy into his fantasy.

  Instead she silently stared ahead at the white dashes running up the middle of the road. She had this urgent desire to get home, to be on familiar ground, to hug her children, and convince herself this would all be okay one day.

  Although Bobby wasn’t usually a talker, he kept speaking and pleading until they pulled up outside the house. Emily had offered nothing other than an occasional “Okay” and “Uh-huh.” She wasn’t about to make a commitment to something she didn’t understand or, in reality, wasn’t sure she believed.

  When he stopped the car, she couldn’t get out fast enough; she half-ran to the door. Inside she was greeted by the sound of the television in the lounge. Propped up by cushions, her neighbor, Marianne, was asleep, her head drooped back and mouth hung open. By the time Bobby came inside, she’d awoken Marianne and was navigating her toward the front door. Bobby passed them as he headed to the kitchen, obviously anticipating they would talk it out in there.

  After closing the door on her neighbor, though, she instead made her way to the bedroom. Fatigue dogged every step she took and once in the room she fell into the bed, without bothering to take off her clothes.

  The whole ride home she’d anticipated the comfort of taking the first step into the house and arriving back into normal. Now she was here, nothing felt right. Her stomach still churned, and the grittiness in her eyes and the ache in her shoulders only reminded her this had not been a normal night.

  She needed to be left alone. Bobby could sleep on the couch tonight. She wanted to be with her own thoughts. She didn’t want him telling her what to think or what to believe because she didn’t really understand any of it. That he seemed to think he knew exactly what was going on worried her the most.

  Call it woman’s intuition, but something told her a difficult road lay ahead, and they were a long way from the end of it, prayer or no prayer.

  Chapter 6

  Emily faced the prosecutor, her stare matching his. He circled like a shark preparing to attack at full speed. He looked back at the spectators, then over at the jury, exuding confidence with every movement.

  After telling only a small part of the story, she could see by the look on his face he didn’t believe her. When she first described the black things, she’d caught him rolling his eyes.

  A murmur arose from the courtroom when she’d finished. At that moment the spectators, jury, attorneys, and even the judge seemed to lean forward, breathing as one, a collective sample of humanity sensing an imminent contest between Emily and this man.

  She figured the prosecutor expected to employ clever cross-examination to get at the truth. What he didn’t realize was she was telling the truth.

  Emily felt tempted to look toward Bobby, to meet his eyes, assure him it would all be okay. He’d probably mouth to her to stop. Then her resolve might evaporate, and she didn’t want that.

  Bobby had begun this, but she would finish it. Now she would defend them. He’d spent six months out there on his own fighting those things, risking his life and sanity for them, for everyone. The least she could do was fight this last round in the remaining time they had. She would make them understand how much they owed Bobby. They wanted to brand him a criminal.

  He was a hero.

  “So,” said Smarty Pants as he turned toward the jury, and looked up and down the two tiers of their supposed peers. “You ask us to believe your husband was fighting off some sort of creature from hell who had decided to invade mankind from the outskirts of our humble town? Is that right, Mrs. Jessup?”

  Heat rose in Emily’s chest. “I didn’t say it was from hell, did I? All I said was it was a face, and maybe it came from hell.”

  “Not creatures from hell then. Merely a face!”

  Again he turned to the jurors. He seemed to have only one response to her answers: a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Of course, he had all the answers even before he asked the questions.

  He didn’t understand anything. He was too damn busy casting them as crazy or evil or whatever they were today according to the newspapers.

  Emily lifted her chin in an attempt to hide her feelings, but she couldn’t help spitting her words at him, “Whether they’re from hell or not doesn’t make an iota of difference.”

  “Oh and why is that, Mrs. Jessup?”

  His tone made her blood boil.

  “Wherever they come from isn’t important. It’s where they’re going that’s the problem … the very big problem.”

  Chapter 7

  “We have a problem,” said Emily.

  She hadn’t spoken to Bobby since the night before when she’d bolted into the house, her head pounding and her throat so tight it felt as though she was sucking air through a straw.

  She’d grabbed Bobby’s pillow and a blanket from the closet and thrown them into the hall, locking the bedroom door. He’d tried the door once and called her name through the crack, but she didn’t answer. Then he left, and she was alone, feeling as though she now teetered on the edge of a nightmare.

  She needed to think, to cry and, most of all, she needed time to piece together how the man of whom she’d been so certain, and the father of her children had become somebody she didn’t know.

  When had reality left the building? While she was ensuring the kids were bathed and fed and loved until he arrived home each night from work? In the meantime, he’d been enjoying his new pastime.

  A slide show of the past few months ran through her mind. She studied it, running it back and forth, looking for any clue to understanding this.

  The bed felt too big without Bobby. She tossed and turned, pushing down the tears welling up each time the image of Bobby staring into the fire played again. She willed sleep to take her, if only to rest her racing mind for a few hours. The last time she looked the bedside clock glowed 4.33.

  Then it was seven in the morning and Timothy was at the door begging for breakfast and asking why the door was locked. Peace was hers for a few short seconds as she slipped on her dressing gown and slippers, before the nightmare and decisions needing to be made began their tug again.

  Bobby was at the kitchen counter buttering toast. Emily walked in carrying two-year-old Casey perched on her hip. Casey’s little head snuggled warmly into Emily’s shoulder.

  Her precious little kindergartener, Timothy, dropped his hand from her grasp the minute he saw his father. He ran toward Bobby, crying, “Dadddeee.”

  Bobby picked up the boy and half threw him, squealing, into the air before setting him down on the counter and handing him a piece of toast.

  Everything looked and felt so normal.

  Emily held her tongue until the children wolfed down their breakfast and moved to the lounge where the clatter of played-with-toys drifted into the kitchen. On a regular day, she would stand, coffee cup in hand, counting her blessings as she listened to their joyful sounds.

  They were good kids and that’s what killed her. They deserved a good family with a father who would be there to cheer them on at baseball games, cook the Sunday barbecue, and teach them to be good human beings. They didn’t need some maniac who lied to his wife and set vehicles on fire and whatever else he had done or was planning to do.

  Finally she turned to Bobby. He gave her his puppy-dog eyes. Normally that look would melt her anger and flush the annoyance from her voice. It was a rare time when she could resist.

/>   Now those same eyes seemed hollow, sunken and dark. Deep lines she hadn’t noticed before crisscrossed beneath them. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then the wrinkles surrounding them must be the roadmap of all the soul had endured.

  Bobby seemed to have aged overnight.

  She stared at him, hands on her hips, rolling her lips between her teeth—a nervous twitch of hers she’d been trying to quit. How to begin this conversation?

  Words weren’t necessary. They’d lived together long enough to decipher each other’s moods and thoughts.

  Bobby held up his palms toward her. “Em, before you start—I can explain.”

  “Really, Bobby? Really? What could possibly explain last night?”

  At the thought of the past evening, Emily’s hands began to shake. She pressed them down on the cool kitchen bench to stop the tremors. So far, just one sentence had left his mouth and she was already losing it.

  “You have to listen to me, Em. Don’t judge. Just listen. I wouldn’t be running around setting all these fires if I didn’t have good reason? You know me, Em. You know me.”

  He took a step toward her. Now it was her turn to put up her hands. They still shook.

  “Bobby Jessup, did you say, ‘all these fires’? Are you telling me there’s been more than this one? What the hell are you thinking? You’ll get yourself or someone else killed.”

  In that moment, he grabbed her and, before she could stop him, had cupped her face between his hands. Something in his eyes stopped her from pushing him away. She bunched her fists and held her arms rigid and flattened against her sides. She wanted to stay angry with him.

  “Em, listen to me. It’s not about whether or not I’m killed or even in danger. This is for you and the kids and, well, everyone. If I didn’t do this and continue to do this, then my death is the least of our worries.”

  She didn’t want to look at him. He was trying to make sense out of something illogical, and she wanted no part of it.