The Cold Ones

The familiar sounds outside the house soothed me as I lay uncomfortable on the rigid frame of my bed. The crackling flames drifted through the air like the voice of a close friend, a lullaby of comfort and security that assured me of another safe nights sleep. The accompanying footsteps of my father reinforced this sensation as he patrolled outside. He was a sentinel, forever watchful over the barrier that separated us and what lay beyond the flames. He would be relieved part way through the night by Jacob's father, the knowledge of which disturbed my peaceful thoughts.

Throughout the harsh, gruelling struggle that was life, Jacob had become my closest friend. We had grown up together and resided within the same dishevelled shack almost our entire lives. He was a boy I could depend on, a pillar of strength for me to lean on and a ray of humour in an otherwise bleak and lifeless void. However, I bore no similar feelings to his father, William. Whereas my own was an example of strength, resilience and courage, Jacob's father was unreliable, his mental capacity almost diminished through severe trauma. Our groups numbers had begun to dwindle and so every last man and woman had been forced to pull their weight, but since the loss of Jacob's mother, William had become naught but a shadow of his former self.

He attempted to continue, to push through the pain but it was clear the light inside of him had extinguished. He had become careless, unfocused and jealous of my parents. I knew in my heart that he would bring no malice upon us, but any weakness could prove to be the downfall of us all. The flames which surrounded our dwellings had to be constantly tended throughout the night, protected so it could protect us from the Cold One's.

I had never seen one, but my father said they come at night. Horrifying nightmares from the deepest pits of the abyss, they watch us from the edge of the light. They bring with them the chill of death, their only purpose was to feed off the warmth of the living. During the day they hid themselves, shying away from the dim light of the sun that struggled through the ashen clouds above us. My father said that we may be the last ones left alive, that the Cold Ones had already feasted upon the other survivors and that is why they watch us so fervently, waiting for their chance.

I spent many a night peering through the window out into the darkness of the forest, straining to see beyond the crimson light of the flames to discern the form of those who would observe us, of those who would prey upon us if given the opportunity. No matter how many hours I watched, no creature betrayed its location. I often contemplated whether the Cold Ones truly existed, that was until Jacob's mother went missing.

She had an illness, occasionally her mind was not her own and she would suffer terrible fits. Her personality would change in an instant, becoming an entirely different person. Both personalities were pleasant and harmless, but her alternative persona would often perform acts a sane person would not contemplate. One such episode caused her to leave the safety of our settlement as the sun began to set. Unknown to us, she had left the safety of the shack to collect mushrooms from the forest, seemingly unaware of the impending danger the night would bring. By the time William had noticed she was missing, it was already too late.

My father had to restrain William from leaving the campsite in pursuit. He was locked inside the barn with the hogs, tied to a heavy wooden post for his own safety. Nobody slept that night, my father tended the flames alone and William screamed, he screamed through the whole night, his agony immeasurable. My mother covered my ears but the wails of William pierced through the darkness like a blade. Come morning he was hoarse and weak, my father aided him in a search of the nearby woods. Both men, tired and worn out scoured the area from dawn until dusk.

Upon their return, William had transformed from the jovial, bright and endearing man he once was to a shell, a vacant vessel where a man once lived. In his hands he held a piece of simple material. It was the fabric of his wife's shirt, blue and chequered with a disconcerting red stain blazoned upon its surface. My father lit the fires and William slept. He slept for three days. Since then he had become hollow, performing tasks with no energy. My father and mother had tended the barriers between them but William had insisted they allow him to help. My father tentatively agreed and for the first few weeks they had watched the walls together.