Smokey's Revenge

Dreams.

  He had a restless sleep. Anxiety, despair, and an overall sense of uneasiness: these were all overwhelming feelings he was aware of during his sleep. He dreamt of a figure standing behind him, staring down with white pinprick for eyes that seemed to float endlessly inside the deep black silhouette. The boy could hear the breathing. It was heavy, labored, hungry even. He could hear with each exhale a low, feral growl. The silhouette had a shiny fluid dripping out from where the boy assumed his mouth was. It had started as only a slow dribbled, but quickly escalated into a stream pouring and gushing out of the figure's mouth as its eyes bore deep into the boy's skull, penetrating every inch of his conscious and subconscious.
  He felt the liquid pooling over his feet. He saw the figure pull out a match and strike it against its own arm. And he saw the figure drop the match, growling and panting ferociously. The boy's gaze never left the silhouette's, even as the painful flames roared up around him, bursting into life and lapping at his ankles and his thighs and his waist until he was drowning in the flames.
  There were so many flames; there was so much fire. It burned excruciatingly hot, and the pain was real. He wanted to scream or to run, but he couldn't move. He couldn't look away from the figure. It stared back, growling never ceasing as more of the liquid poured out of its mouth, until finally the boy woke up.