Lights Out

We Call Him the Fire Man

No one really knows what he looks like. Anyone who has been visited by the Fire Man doesn't survive, so the truth dies with them. But people still like to talk, so the stories range from a man who tattooed flames on himself and goes around scaring small children to a literal blazing inferno in the shape of a man. The first one is mostly told to little kids who didn't want to go to bed. Personally, the last is a little far fetched.

Or, rather, it sounded far fetched. I believed it couldn't be true, told my own children that it just wasn't possible. The Fire Man was an old wives tale that couldn't hurt anyone, but you may lose sleep over it. That was, until, I saw the Fire Man for myself. And somehow, I lived to tell the tale.

My youngest son had just turned fifteen. His siblings had already flown the coop and he was more than ready to follow in their footsteps, become a man his father could be proud of. I went to work that morning unable to wake him for school, so I called the administrator and told her he was sick and wouldn't be in. I left a list of chores on the kitchen table, as well. If he wasn't going to school, he would clean house.

It felt like an average morning at the office, but when closing time came around my chest felt heavy and something was telling me to call my son. I would be home in a couple of hours, but my gut told me to call him right now. So, I did and heard the vacuum idling in the background. Things were just fine, he said. Stop worrying and he would see me soon. I still felt off and decided to call the neighbor, an older lady who waved hello every morning, and asked her to watch the house. If something happened, call me immediately. It helped, for a moment, but ultimately I left work early.

The front door was cracked open, a black garbage bag propped in the corner. Chris must have been bringing the garbage out but why was the bag still there? I rushed in the door and immediately the bag fell over and red sauce and vacuum droppings landed on my shoes. Not caring, I kept going until I was standing in my son's room. Chris was on the bed staring into his closet, a low orange glow behind the door.

"Chris? Did you turn on a light in there or something?"

He didn't answer. His hands were fisted in his blankets, knuckles glaring white, and kept staring at the orange light under his door. I touched his shoulder and Chris spun around so fast the shock knocked me back a few inches. His eyes were solid orange, Halloween pumpkin orange, and crackled like a driftwood fire. His mouth dropped open, his bottom jaw nearly to his chest, and let out a scream. It was the single worst thing I had ever heard in my life and as he screamed, the glow under the door burned brighter. It took on a reddish hue as the door began to open.

"Chris! Chris, it's your father. Wake up son, don't let it in." It sounded stupid coming out of my mouth but all I could think in that moment was the Fire Man stole my Chris. In the wake of my horror my brain reverted to childish nightmares, but in this case, I don't think I was wrong.

Inside his closet was the figure of a man shrouded in hot flames. The room suddenly felt like a sauna as this thing slowly came out of the room. The fire ebbed and roared, the tips of the flames licking at the ceiling. The paint began to peel where it touched and little flutters rained down and burned up into nothing. It was a macabre scene that engulfed my son, my world, and it was terrifying and beautiful in the same breath.

The Fire Man hugged my son, the flames igniting Chris's clothes and hair, and Chris became nothing but a pyre. His screams echoed in the room, pushing me back to the door, and I watched as my son became Fire Man. The whole bedroom smelled of burnt hair and flesh, the acrid odor of burning paint, the carpet scorched with two sets of footprints. It was over as it began and Chris vanished like a fire caught in a thunderstorm. Fire Man was gone as well, but I doubted they were separate entities anymore.

I crawled along the floor, touching my son's smaller prints before grabbing the stuffed bear he's had since he was born. It was the same weight as Chris when he was a newborn, and I hugged it to my chest. I cried over this little matted bear and wished it was my son.

So, is the Fire Man real? I can't say for sure the whole experience wasn't a mental breakdown of epic proportions, but I also can't say Chris didn't become a blazing funeral pyre inches from me. It takes children, naughty children who won't sleep when told or eat their greens, but that day the Fire Man took my Chris. Chris became the Fire Man, and perhaps that's why it needs children. To continue on with it's life, starting over as young as it can.

But my question for anyone still listening to my story? Are you up past your bedtime?