Snuff the Flame

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The fierce glow of the light through the now cracked window was obscured by a tangle of web and dust, though from miles down the hill at this late hour, it caught the attention of an old man walking his dog down old country roads. He had taken this path many times before and neglected to give the old cabin more than a moments notice, perhaps due to a youth spent hearing tall tales of the rickety old shack.

The old man had grown up in this small countryside town and had subsequently fallen victim to the repetitive nature of old woodland horror stories. Everyone was familiar with the old abandoned cabin, the old lady who went mad and ate her children, the escaped lunatic who buried bodies under the floor boards etc. Though countless brave journeys up there with groups of friends, exploring the area as you do in your youth, resulted in the findings of nothing more than amateur graffiti on rotting wood.

As the old man reminisced on his childhood adventures, he nearly missed that his dog, being off lead, was several paces behind him, stood perfectly still staring at the twisting country road ahead. Unusual behaviour for an otherwise playful and curious dog. This was fear, a relenting sense of alertness, but of what? The misty air was still and silent as it always is after the sun sets. The town is asleep, save for himself. The dark in the country was usually a comfort to the old man but now he felt a sense of dread, a chill down his spine. Was it the light of the candle? Surely it was just a new generation of adventurous children breaking curfew for the sake of a fruitless ghost hunt. Right?

A large branch fell from a tree merely a stones throw from where the old man was standing, breaking the silence with a tremendous cracking thump as it hit the ground, launching clouds of dry dirt into the air and further obscuring the way forward. As startled as he was curious, the old man inspected the branch, concluding in his mind that it was merely nature taking its course, branches growing faster than the roots. Though it alarmed him how close he came to finding himself under this very branch when it fell were it not for his dogs strange behaviour. Man's best friend proves himself again, though as the old man turns to face his dog he finds he is not there.

Beyond the creaking of the branch settling into place on the ground before him, the old man can hear a faint rustling in the distance. Presuming it was his dog chasing through the woods to the side of the road, the old man followed the sound. Although not as spritely as he had once been, the old man traipsed through thick foliage and clusters of towering trees before eventually catching up to the dog who sat at the base of a large tree. It was peculiar, it seemed to have been stripped of its bark and set alight seeing as it was blackened at the top with streaks of ash and charcoal running down to the ground. A single lonely branch extruded from the tree trunk about 3 metres up, from it hangs a dead squirrel, flayed of most of its skin.

Both the old man and his dog simply stared at the tree trunk, confused and concerned. Surely this too is the work of children, perhaps more sadistic than he was used to but the world was changing. Perhaps this was acceptable now? The old man did not make a habit of keeping up to date on modern trends, instead electing to maintain his peaceful life in the country. In fact this was the first time in adulthood that the old man had veered from the country roads.

Sensing he was way out of his depth, the old man attached a leash to his dog and began leading him back down the hill, through the tangle of nettles before collapsing, twisting his ankle, in what seemed to be a shallow grave. The old man lay in this hole for a moment though grew panicked when he heard the crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs begin to surround him. His dog whimpered and retreated into the shallow grave with the old man. Footsteps on the forest floor surrounded him now, though he could not see a single figure. Was this children too? Maybe foxes? Perhaps he was going mad and there were no sounds at all. The old man could not decide which conclusion scared him more.

As he clambered around searching for any sign of, well, anything, the old man caught glimpse of the cabin, candle still lit in the window though clearer now. There was a figure stood in the warm glow of the naked flame, staring in his direction though not at him. Despite the glare of the candlelight against the old glass window, he could make out enough of the figures face to recognise who it was. His sister, whom had killed herself decades prior. He had almost forgotten, had the years been that cruel to his memory? Admittedly he was just a boy but she was his hero, being eleven years his senior, she was the old mans guiding star until her light was extinguished in these very woods. It haunted him for years to the point where ghosts no longer scared him. Campfire stories were merely petty attempts at capturing the true horror that exists in the world, especially when you veer off the path.

He didn't understand, he wasn't going to even begin to try to, he just wanted to speak to her. To apologise for forgetting, for letting her memory slip and allowing himself peace in a world she did not occupy. The old man got to his feet and climbed out of the shallow grave. The footsteps around hem receded but he didn't care either way, he had to get to the cabin. He had to see his sister.

The closer the old man got to the cabin the brighter the light of the candle became. His dog whimpered at voices whispering behind him but the old man walked forward, holding tight to the dogs leash. The candlelight grew, almost blinding now, the old man could even feel the heat of the flame and it seemed his dog could too, as he choked against the leash trying to get away from the cabin. It didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered, the old man was at the door to the cabin.

Reaching out to the rusted handle of the dilapidated wooden door, the flame grew to the point it reached through a hole in the collapsed roof of the cabin. The moment the old mans finger made contact with the door handle the entire cabin burst out in flames. His sister was still in there but the door wouldn't budge. The handle was useless, the wood was rotten through but sturdy. He had to get inside, he had to save his sister. He let go of the leash and his dog sprinted into the dark, leaving the old man a lone silhouette against the cabin ablaze. He threw his weight against the door and heard a slight creak, again and wood snapped. Again. Again. Until finally the door collapsed inwards, the old man on top of it within the inferno. The cabin was empty save for old magazines and rotting furniture. Creaking above his head, voices in the dark behind him, crackling of violent flames and his skin blistering from the heat. He was alone in the cabin. Alone when he fell to his knees unable to breath, skin melting from his bones. He saw nothing but light, smelt only his own burning hair. The voices grew louder and louder until he was deafened by the white noise.

All was white until it was black. White noise until silence. The stench of his own death until nothing. Nothing.

It wasn't until the morning that the old mans dog was found stray in the countryside town. It was a short time later that they found the old mans body. It seems a heavy branch had landed on him during a late night walk. He bled out over several hours on the side of the road, alone. An unexceptional death, though no one would know what he experienced in his final moments. No one would know the smell of searing flesh or the whisper of disembodied voices. That belonged to the old man, unshared, and it would remain that way. Forever.