"The Fire Children" by Jim Donohue

The Fire Children

by Jim Donohue

I come to, lying on the cold grass of a lawn I don’t recognize, covered in blood.

My clothes are stiff with it, my hands red up to the wrists.

The sun just making its appearance, the air damp and thick, and I can hear the soft scrape of wind chimes somewhere nearby.

I sit up slowly, dazed.

There’s a ring of houses around me.

An American flag flaps lazily in the breeze.

A town.

Not the road I was driving on last night.

Not anywhere I remember

My heart skips.

I pat myself down, searching for wounds. Nothing. Not a scratch.

The blood isn’t mine.

I stagger to my feet as a door opens from one of the nearest houses. A woman steps out, a middle-aged lady with a gentle face and hair pinned back neatly.

She doesn’t scream when she sees me.

She just looks at my blood-soaked clothes with a soft, resigned expression, like she’s watching a familiar scene.

“Oh,” she murmurs, voice almost tender. “You woke up early today.”

“What happened?” My voice cracks, raw in my throat. “Where am I?”

“Concord Hollow.” She says it like I should know the name. “Come inside. You must be cold.”

Inside her house, everything is warm and older than it should be. Floral wallpaper. Yellowed curtains. A cuckoo clock ticking too loudly.

She motions for me to sit.

I don’t.

“Last night,” I say. “What happened to me?”

She presses her lips together. “Nights are… difficult here.”

“What does that mean?”

Before she can answer, a man appears in the doorway. Tall and gaunt, his expression hardens when he sees me.

“Marjorie,” he says to the woman, ignoring me completely. “He shouldn’t be in here.”

“He woke up early,” she insists again.

“That’s not our problem.”

The man turns to me. “You need to leave. The council will decide what to do with you.”

“Council?” I laugh, but it sounds more like a choke. “Listen, I need answers. Where am I? Where did all this blood come from?”

The man’s eyes flicker.

Not with confusion.

With pity.

And fear.

“Don’t make us say it,” he murmurs. “Not before the council hears.”

My stomach coils. “Make you say what?”

But they’re already ushering me out. They walk me down the street like a child being led somewhere he doesn’t want to go.

People watch from windows.

From porches.

From behind cracked doors.

They all wear the same expression.

Recognition.

The town hall is an old schoolhouse, blackened on one side from a fire so long ago the scorch marks have become part of the structure. The roof sags in the middle. Boards cover the windows.

We go inside.

A group of townspeople waits in a semicircle of folding chairs. They stare at me as I’m pushed into the center.

The oldest of them, a man with white eyebrows and shaky hands, clears his throat.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

I shake my head.

“Do you know what you did last night?”

I shake my head harder.

Whispers ripple through the group.

The old man sighs. “Then it’s true. You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Being the Host.”

My anger, or frustration, comes through. “The… Host? The host of what? A friggin’ game show?? What the hell is going on??”

A woman in the front row speaks. “Every ten years, the spirits of the fire children choose someone. Someone who isn’t from here. Someone passing through.”

“Spirits? Fire children??”

“The school burned,” she says softly. “Over a hundred years ago. The children were trapped inside. They never left.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline.

“Mister,” she continues, “you woke up on the lawn of the old schoolyard. Covered in blood. Same as all the Hosts. Every ten years.”

“This is insane,” I whisper.

“Maybe,” the old man admits. “But it’s also true.”

His words brought a chill.

“The children need a body,” another man says. “A vessel to carry their rage. Through violence. Through screams.”

I recoil. “Wait! You think I killed someone?”

They look down. No one answers.

The old man wipes his eyes. “We don’t blame you. You had no choice.”

A cold wave passes through me.

“Where’s the victim?” I whisper. “If you think I—if I—show me.”

His expression crumples. “We didn’t find a victim.”

Relief washes over me.

Then dread returns when he adds:

“Not yet.”

Marjorie brings me a blanket. Someone else brings food. I try the door. Locked.

Every window, nailed shut. I can’t leave?

I wander the old schoolhouse until I find the burned wing. Never cleaned, doorways charred. One hundred years??

Something cold brushes my neck.

I turn.

The hallway is empty.

But I hear footsteps.

Small ones.

Dozens of them.

A child’s whisper threads through the dark:

Let us out.

My blood freezes.

I stumble backward and fall into the main room where the council waits. They look at me with a grief so deep it feels like a physical force.

“It’s begun,” the old man whispers.

“What has?” My voice cracks.

But I already know.

The whispers rise behind me.

He’s the one.

Our Host.

Tonight.

Marjorie starts to cry.

The old man stands with difficulty and points to the door.

“You have until sundown,” he says. “If you can leave, do so, but I fear they won’t let you.”

The whispers swell.

We’re burning. We’re screaming.

Give us what we need!

I turn and run.

Past the houses.

Past the trees.

Past the last trembling shadows of Concord Hollow.

I don’t stop.

And I don’t look back.

Not until the sun starts to set.

Not until I hear the first child’s voice, right behind me, sweet and faint:

Time to wake up.

I come to, lying on the cold grass of a lawn I don’t recognize, covered in blood.