Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller (5 page)

The question she wanted to ask traveled through her as strong as the waves of nausea. Just like the vomit, it erupted from her mouth in fits and coughs.

“Bobby … did you … did you just … set that truck on fire? What the hell you thinking?”

She turned to him, only to find his attention gone from her and now focused back on the blaze, while his hand continued stroking her back on autopilot.

“Bobby,” she screamed, punching his arm, trying to bring him back to her. “You could have got yourself killed. I don’t understand.”

He didn’t answer, just kept focusing on the flames, gleefully dancing about the truck. Normally a bonfire meant marshmallows, friends and family, and fun.
This
wasn’t fun. This was alien and crazy, and there could be no explanation for any of it. No reasonable one, anyway.

She waited for him to answer, watching his face, now dappled from the orange glow of the fire. Rivulets of sweat ran down his cheeks, and she saw something else, too.

Weariness. As though they’d had this conversation before and the simple thought of repeating it was too exhausting. His shoulders slumped as though they’d carried too much weight for too long, and now he could finally stop and put down the load.

“What is it, Bobby? Tell me.”

If he’d shown embarrassment at being discovered or anger she’d followed him or even worry she’d almost been killed, she could understand. This sad, tired look—it made her want to cry.

Bobby pushed himself up from the ground and stood, his gaze never leaving the fire. He bent slightly, patting her head before walking toward the truck. Then, as though he’d reached an invisible wall, he turned and walked back.

Like a sneaking shadow the word snuck into her mind.

Cancer
.

It hit her in the gut.

He was sick. It made perfect, horrible sense. This was obviously his way of working through his anger. He could have become moody or irate but, instead, he chose this. Instantly she saw the symbolism.

Destroy the cancer. Burn it out of his system.

A ferocious wave of overwhelming emotions soared through her, as a future without him displayed itself in frightening vivid images.

“You’re sick, Bobby, aren’t you? That’s it.” Then, in a smaller voice, which was all she could manage between her parched, ragged throat and her churning emotions, “I love you no matter what.”

At her words he stopped, staring at her as he rubbed his flattened palm up and down his arm as if he were trying to warm cold skin.

Finally he answered in a weary voice she didn’t recognize. “I’m not sick, love.” Then he half-laughed. “I wish.”

Emily opened her mouth to ask
then what?
Bobby raised his hand, staying her question.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he sighed. “Should have done sooner. I thought you’d leave me or think I was crazy and take the kids away.”

He reached down and gestured for Emily to take his hand. His grip was the first firm comfort she’d felt all night. As she rose Emily felt the strength rush back into her body as the concept of him dying, which had so quickly wrapped itself around her heart, flowed out with his words.

Slowly, as if aiming a gun, he pointed toward the fire, which was now popping and crackling as the intense heat from the blaze twisted the truck’s metal frame.

Emily brought her hand up to shield her face. It occurred to her burning to death must be one of the most hideous and cruel ways to die; your skin melting into your clothes, your face dissolving as though it were plastic and not a living thing.

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.