The Phoenix

The Phoenix

By Brian Salkowski

Part 1

The late afternoon sun, filtered through the grime of a forgotten corner of Central Park, cast long shadows across Brenda's trembling hands. Her phone, clutched so tightly her knuckles were white, displayed the generic lock screen – a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. As she sat and pondered her existence, a blue jay flew over from a near by bird bath. The bird was blue and orange. It set up shop on the arm rest of the bench where she sat.

Three weeks. Three weeks since a night that fractured her world, leaving behind a gaping hole where logic and safety used to reside. The details were fragmented, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, the acrid tang of cheap beer, and a suffocating darkness. The man – or whatever it was – remained an enigma, his face obscured by shadows, his voice a guttural rasp that sent chills down her spine even in the sterile light of this desolate park bench.

Brenda wasn't naive. She wasn't a fresh-faced college student stumbling through the city at 3 am. She was a seasoned attorney, a shark in the courtroom, respected and feared in equal measure. Yet, here she was, the carefully constructed facade crumbling around her. The police report sat heavy in her purse, a clinical account that did nothing to explain the unexplainable – the inhuman strength that had pinned her down, the unnatural chill that had seeped into her bones despite the summer heat.

The rhythmic chirping of a cricket was the only sound that dared pierce the oppressive silence. Brenda closed her eyes, willing herself back to that night, searching for a detail, a clue that might unravel the horrifying puzzle. A memory flickered – a glint of something metallic catching the dim light, something strapped to the creature's wrist. But what it was, remained frustratingly out of reach.

With a defeated sigh, Brenda opened her eyes. The park was deserted, the remnants of a recent picnic scattered haphazardly across the grass – a half-eaten hot dog, a crumpled napkin, a child's forgotten mitten. A pang of normalcy pierced through her despair. Maybe, just maybe, life could return to…

The thought died in her throat as a movement at the edge of her vision caught her eye. A figure, cloaked in shadow, emerged from behind a weeping willow, its form impossibly tall and gaunt. Panic flooded Brenda’s veins, a primal scream trapped in her constricted throat. The figure took a halting step forward, and as it did, the afternoon sun dipped below the tree line, bathing the clearing in an eerie twilight. The metallic glint on its wrist flashed once, catching the fading light.

It wasn't a bracelet. It was a cage. And inside it, a single, glowing ember pulsed with an unnatural light. The figure tilted its head, and for a horrifying instant, Brenda swore its shadowed eyes met hers, filled with an ancient hunger that sent a wave of nausea crashing over her. Then, with a speed that defied its skeletal frame, the figure was upon her, its cold, skeletal hand clamped over her mouth.

The world dissolved into a vortex of terror. Brenda thrashed against the inhuman grip, the metallic tang of fear flooding her mouth. But it was no use. She was a fly caught in a spider's web, the unseen threads of her reality unraveling around her. The glowing ember pulsed faster, bathing the clearing in an otherworldly light. A whisper, cold and raspy, slithered into Brenda's ear.

"Finally," it rasped. "The Phoenix has returned."