The Burning Man

Max struggled to sit up out of the tightly wound nest of sheets and blankets; he was asthmatic and fearednot being able to catch his breath. Cold night air struck his shoulders. It was strange to stare into the room with wide-open eyes and feel the darkness yielding only the smallest bit, as if it were pressing back against his efforts to penetrate it. Something had happened, he was sure, while he was asleep. He didn’t know what it was but the strong dread it had left behind didn’t subside with the confusion of waking. Then he recalled that this thing had happened in his dream.

He had dreamed something horrible, and yet so plausible that it was vividly present as soon as he remembered it. It didn’t occur to him then that he was the author of his own dreams and must have conjured this nightmare from the raw elements of daily life. It seemed so completely a found thing, alien and invasive, coming from outside him against his will. He dreamed of Jenna, again imprinted in the darkness in front of his eyes, clinging to his thoughts.

He was almost awake when he heard the soft, tentative knock on the door. So uncertain was the knock, it was as though whoever it was hoped you would not answer. The knock came again, and this time seemed more certain of itself. Then furiously, the knocking continued, rising in volume as if to tell Max he must wake up to something in his life he'd rather keep his eyes closed to. With great fear and trepidation, Max got up and opened the door to peer outside. It was then he noticed a creepy voodoo doll someone had left for him in a bag hanging on his door handle. He immediately took it inside and threw it in the garbage, all the while shuddering in fright at who was conspiring against him. Overcome by anger at the threat and curious to who may have left the ill omen, Max fastened the deadbolts on the door more tightly. He felt the heat like a wet band in his chest, crackling over the furnace of his rage. His eyes flashed in anger, yet his face went pale.

Who would leave him a cursed voodoo doll at 4AM?! Dammit! Why couldn't everyone leave him alone in peace, or hell, or wherever he chose to be!? Grieving should be something he could do in his own damned fashion, and more than anything he wanted to do it alone.Max had not been out of the apartment in days, weeks, or months, so it seemed. How long had it been? He had lost count and complete touch with the outside world, and it mattered to him not. He ran his hand through his unkempt brown hair, hardly noticing it needed a wash and lay back down on the bed in the silent darkness, feeling his guilt-ridden memories oppressively nearby. She was dead and it still didn't seem real although it had been 2 years since the accident that eventually claimed her life.
Max had said his final goodbyes to Jenna in the silence that followed as the nurses wheeled away the array of machines that had kept her breathing for the past six months. Jenna had lain in a coma for 6 months and it almost killed him to see her this way--brain dead, with no hope of recovery. The doctors told him time and time again there was no more they could do; she would never recover, and he needed to make a decision--to keep her alive as a vegetable or let her go. When Max agreed to sign the papers to have her taken off life support, he felt that he had killed her once again.

Max had been the one driving that night and intoxicated. They were on their way back from a party when he had fallen asleep at the wheel, swerving across 3 lanes of traffic, spinning into a ditch and colliding headlong into a utility pole and a highway median on the passenger side where Jenna sat. Max had escaped with superficial bumps and bruises, lost his license for 6 months and received a fine. That was the extent of his punishment. He wished he had been more severely penalized for what he'd done; that someone would make him pay for his crime. He wished they had put him in prison for what amounted to vehicular manslaughter or murder. As far as he was concerned, Jenna never stood a chance of survival. He could never escape the guilt he felt over what he'd done to his wife and wallowed in it. Sometimes he thought his remorse would drive him to madness or suicide. Jenna's family would never forgive him either; he didn't expect them to and didn't believe they ever should.

Max was never a religious man but often bargained with God during the months Jenna lay in a coma, praying that the Lord take him instead. The fact this never happened only convinced him further that there was no higher power and, therefore, no one who could offer you something that didn't exist. Miracles and the afterlife were fairy tales. He had no hope of hearing from his dead wife from beyond the grave either. His sister, a believer in psychic phenomena and all that after-life crap and fakery, had tried to convince Max to see a medium to make contact with his dead wife. She thought that might bring him some comfort and closure. But Jenna was gone and wasn't coming back, and certainly not through some medium taking advantage of someone at his most vulnerable to make a buck!

It was a faithless, empty existence and Max remained a disbeliever, with a firm mistrust in the supposed will of God others spoke so highly of. He balked at the notion that "it was her time to die." Surely his family and friends could not possibly think for one moment this would give him solace! Their false sense of surety and security in the belief of a higher power did nothing but intensify the meaningless chaos and confusion that his life had become . Daily routines of life ceased to exist with his wife's passing. He could not move on with his life while he held onto his self-hatred. Since Jenna’s accident, his entire life had become one of paradoxical disarray, like stars flung coldly into space and expected to be radiant. Naturally, he was bitter, cruel and withdrawn, and conducted himself in such an unprofessional manner, how he hung onto his job was a mystery to everyone.

Max Shnell was once one of the most likable and kind teachers at Cragnam College, but the accident turned him into the monster he was today. He was a history teacher, and his classes were so boring and dry now he would look up from his lectures to catch some of his students nodding off, and others yawning and fidgeting in their seats looking for any chance to escape they could find. When Max was certain a student was drifting off and not paying attention in class, he would ask them a question he knew they had no answer to and ridicule their response. The ‘sadist’, as the students referred to him, could hear the whispers behind his back, but cared little what anyone thought. He wasn't like this before the accident. Instead, he’d been quite likable and kind, but now he delighted in making others suffer. It almost seemed easier to bear his cross if he got to play God for a change and dish out whatever fate to his students, he felt necessary at the time. He became an especially hard grader and often handed out 'F's' when assignments warranted 'A's and 'B's. He took great delight in humiliating his students and most of them began to avoid his classes at all costs or went so far as to transfer to another class, or even drop out completely. Max knew his teaching days were numbered as there were many complaints leveled against him. Max used to be one of the best teachers at Cragnam and the Dean had faith that he would return to his old self--given time. Instead of reprimanding him, the Dean believed that giving Max some time off would help heal the grief. He was a widower and knew exactly how Max must feel. He also suggested Max get some counseling.

During his hiatus from teaching, Max began working on the novel he'd been writing for a year and a half, entitled, "Love and Death." It was only a couple of chapters away from being completed when he'd given up on it, entirely too unmotivated to finish. There was something strangely symbolic in the act; he did not know where his life was headed, so how could he possibly give his novel a proper ending? Quite simply, Max felt like a 45-year-old loser with no spark left in him, burnt out like a bad fuse, existing in a most passive physical state, barely conscious of life around him.

Tomorrow was the anniversary of Jenna's death, and he would go visit her grave. That night Max had anotherdisturbing dream. He dreamt that he was kneeling at his wife's grave, clawing at the dirt as if to unearth her body below. He desperately tried to dig her out from the grave, and his tears mingled with the dampness of the mud as he cried. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean this to happen. I really didn't.... I love you. Please forgive me?!" He leaned his head against Jenna's tombstone and as his tears streamed down it, they turned to blood. "I'm sorry," he sobbed again and again in the hopes that the more he uttered those words, the better he would feel, but his anguish remained and the blood on the tombstone covered his hands and face until he could see nothing at all.

Max was so distraught that he didn't feel the icy chill of a shadow that laid its hand on his shoulder, then the cold touch of dead lips on his cheek. He heard her voice hissing with venom and hatred in his ear, "I’ll never forgive you, Max." How he dreaded to hear these words!

Then he caught a glint of silver in the grass and reached down, clutching Jenna's silver chain in his hands, the one with the delicate crucifix he had given her so many years ago as a gift. He kissed the necklace and placed it around her neck. "Soon we will be together. Wait for me," he said. Then he kissed her pale lips and looked upon the tear-stained tomb, relieved to find it was no longer covered in blood. He rose to his feet, wiping the tears from his eyes and walked towards the exit of the cemetery.

Max turned around to catch a glimpse of his wife once more, and could see Jenna slowly sinking into the earth. As she sank further down into her grave, she was whispering softly. He strained to hear Jenna's silvery voice, so like a song, and was taken aback by the spiteful tone as she whispered, "But I don't love you, Max....And I don't forgive you.” Her image began to fade, and she spat out a warning, "And there are those that will see you pay for what you have done."

Max awoke in fright, covered in perspiration. He was as tormented as ever.

This was not the only dream he had of his dead wife, but it was the most deeply troubling. It seemed so unfair that he could take no comfort in it at all! He knew her death would haunt him, knew he would never be allowed to forget what he'd done, or be free of the pain. It was clear to him from the nightmare that his conscience was still troubling him deeply and it was nothing but guilt that caused him to imagine Jenna saying such horrible things. Rationalizing his fears somehowmade it easier to fall back asleep, but he still felt vaguely uneasy and afraid. Max also feared the fact Jenna could not forget. She could not let go. He could only prepare for the worst. Time passed from one horrid dream for Max to the next, like days slipping by that he was not even aware of in his delirium.

In one such dream, Max remembered standing over Jenna's grave overlooking a freeway. Light pulsated below him and he felt a fiery glow pass across his skin like hot oil. Leaping off the freeway, he felt pain but wasn’t too badly affected. All around the hellscape, he saw black tendrils that grew up as freeways and into people. They appeared to go into people’s limbs, chest and head, their eyes opening in pain and terror….

“Make your statement, face your fear.” Max could hear Jenna whisper deep in his innermost being. His face contorted in fright. Surely, there was something sinister underfoot; a malevolent being who seemingly wielded the power to enslave his soul. There was no denying this was an enemy force, but nothing made sense for Max with these haunting dreams that visited him nightly.

Max remembered the nightmare he had the night before and that, combined with the fact he was not looking forward to visiting Jenna's grave, only confirmed her death and the guilt he bore every time he went. He felt fear and trepidation. He knew if he did not go, his extreme guilt would be worse than a death sentence. He was shaky and nervous, as though he did not know what he'd find when he got to her grave. He'd been a few times before and did not understand why this time was more difficult than any other. There were posted maps near the entrance and after walking around for a few minutes, Max instinctively knew what direction to take. Jenna had been buried in a beautiful cemetery plot on the hill of Wood Glen Cemetery. The cemetery was beautifully kept, and so serene that it was difficult to imagine the horrors those that died so young and tragically had seen.

He stood before the white marble tombstone, hoping to gaze upon the elegant inscription he’d ordered chiseled, but he saw something else instead. His eyes widened in horror at the sight before him. There had to be some mistake...this could not be his wife's grave! Max stared in disbelief at the strange symbols drawn in blood across the tombstone, and the skeletal chicken foot hanging there. This was the most sinister sight he had ever seen! Then, he noticed a silver chalice sitting atop a wooden box in front of the tombstone, next to a half-drunk bottle of rum. He dropped to the ground in fear, knocking over the chalice as he reached for the wooden box to open it, his heart beating so loudly it seemed to echo throughout the cemetery. Inside the box was a burnt human hand.

He tossed the box aside and began to run as fast as he could back to the cemetery

entrance. Max didn't know how he made it back to his car as he was so afraid that he could not think straight. Scrambling inside the small BMW, he fumbled for his car keys, barely able to catch his breath. A multitude of thoughts ran chaotically through his mind like sharp knives. Years before, Max had been an anthropology student who took a keen interest in the esoteric lore of various cultures. He knew this was not only black magic, but much worse. The work of the devil to be sure! He'd been a history teacher long enough to recognize the strange rituals and magic practiced by other faiths. He knew he had been in the presence of pure evil. He felt it in the blood and marrow of his bones. This was certainly not Wicca—this was Santeria stuff. Such dark forces were powerful enough to possess a person's soul and enslave them. He knew what the burnt hand symbolized and that it was meant for him.

Max felt in grave danger. He knew no one who had it in for him personally, although he had been treating everyone around him with utter contempt for months, but was aware of Santeria, an Afro-Cuban religion, and he had some knowledge to a certain degree of the mysteries of the spirits that roamed among the human race. Max knew he was under spiritual attack and now the dreams began to make some sense. His greatest fears were becoming his reality. He was in the grips of a spiritual battle by a Santeros tribe or someone with a sinister plot against him to gain absolute power through their forbidden knowledge. Although he did not believe in curses, it took little convincing now due to nightmarish elements of death, destruction and horror becoming a distinct reality in broad daylight, and as a result of those diabolical dreams he suffered through at night. On his fevered brow, he knew he must protect himself at all costs, but he was at a total loss as to how to do this. Max knew of no ceremonies to safeguard his soul nor of any powerful voodoo priest who would help him.

Over the next couple weeks, Max’s bad dreams about Jenna filled him with an all-consuming horror and his health began to severely decline. His breathing became labored, producing a rattle, and he suspected he had fluid in his lungs which caused him to wheeze and have full-blown asthma attacks. He also seemed to be on the verge of a fever and his blood pressure was abnormally high. He lost his appetite for food altogether and began to lose a significant amount of weight. Max was so thin that the bones in his knees stuck out and you could almost see right through him. He had oozing sores and blisters on his body; his eyes were lusterless, and his hair was limp and falling out in clumps. He was weak and frail and in an excruciating amount of pain; a shivering, bleeding, bag of bones and he was so terribly afraid. He also fell victim to paranoid delusions, and suffered wild hallucinations where he could not discern fantasy from reality.

Max ducked his head under his blanket, drifting into limbo between memory and hallucination. "I was waiting, waiting, waiting, but nobody came. Crying, crying, crying, but nobody heard. Needing, needing, needing, but nobody cared." A giant loomed over Max's bed, dust and spider webs falling on his face.

“What’s all that racket?" Jenna said applying her hairspray like glue. "You’re a bad, bad, bad, bad boy." Death and insanity leapt about Max's psyche – he was nearing total collapse. He needed help and knew he had to get to the hospital fast. Jenna not only appeared to him in dreams but now she taunted him in his waking hours as a phantom only he could see and hear. Jenna was always there, always behind him, whispering nasty things and caressing him with her cold dead hands.

Max just wanted desperately to be cured and have another shot at life. He was almost overcome with a newfound sense of freedom that could take him to where he needed to be despite his ongoing hallucinatory nature and dreams, and despite Jenna haunting and taunting him in his waking hours. Max had begun to develop a belief in the afterlife – how could he not with literal curses plaguing him? The dead were not silent, there was no peace to be found on the other side of life. He did not want to die, and he would do anything to live again… despite Jenna possessing his soul. She haunted Max's nightmares, his mind, his body, taking him over in sinister ways bit by bit. As Max's soul was drawn inexorably into a cold darkness, he tried to find hope to reclaim his life from the evil dead.

With lightning speed, Max put his trembling foot on the gas pedal and gunned his engine to make it to Mercy General Hospital as he felt he was within seconds of his life. He was admitted into the intensive care unit at once. He was given a “get it over with procedure” by some doctors and nurses in scrubs, and then Max admitted himself voluntarily into the psyche ward. He still felt ghastly ill, and his anxiety was off the charts, along with his paranoid delusions and auditory hallucinations. At which point, something inhuman began to claw its way into existence. Max could feel his throat constrict and he knew this evil had a name and every intention of doing away with him. He knew he was in grave danger.

He was seen in the intensive care unit by a hotshot young doctor, Dr. Bernard, who arrived and made it his mission to “save” Max. However, Dr. Bernard had shown a disconcerting ability to decode the deepest fears of others and turn these fears against them. Max Shnell knew then and there he was doomed. Due to his paranoid mental state and the constant hallucinations, he wasn’t sure who he could trust. His mind caved in again and he knew he must look elsewhere to receive treatment.

Max checked himself out of Mercy Hospital, knowing that if he remained there, he was in the cruel hands of fate. He knew that he needed to get to another hospital. Dr. Bernard gave him the heebie-jeebies and worsened his mental state. Once outside the hospital, Max got into his car and started the motor, his hands shaking at the wheel. It was now or never. He was on the razor's edge, and it was hard to not go over. He could not ignore the warning signals. Ghosts of the past would haunt him until they were dealt with. Max knew he must deal with his own demons, but he wondered if he could do it before it was too late.

It was rumored someone had put a curse on Max causing deteriorating health, hallucinations and hauntings. That terror alone should have been enough to cause Max to meet his dreadful end. However, on the way to another hospital to seek treatment, he
was in a fatal car crash on the freeway. There was one eyewitness at the crash site when his car suddenly burst into flames, effectively trapping him inside. An outstretched hand appeared in the fire he wished to believe was an angel of mercy, but it only waved goodbye. The burning man could hear the woman's laughter bubbling on his skin like hot oil as he rose higher and higher in the flames. The very last words Max heard before he perished were those of Jenna, his dearly deceased wife, in a flash of righteous anger, "Even in death may you dream of life. Here is your curse for taking what was not yours, where the land meets the sky. From hell's heart, I curse at you; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at you. May there be a hell for you. I only hope...that someday you will also find what it's been like to exist like this. I hope it brings you as much pain...as it has me...By my blood and my death, I cursssse you! "

In the accursed night, the vengeful spirit stole all the light from the sky, and it never came back again. Max awaited his true bride in the pale moonlight.

THE END

Bio: Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; home to dreams and nightmares. Besides having rare mystical experiences she hopes are not just short circuits in the brain, she offers Tarot Readings and writes poetry and fiction, starving in the garret with her muse. A starving child is a frightful sight. A starving vampire is even worse. Please donate non-perishable food items and B-negative blood (and make it a double!).
Alexis’ poetry and fiction has been featured in numerous online and print publications. Her debut collection of horror poetry, Devil in the Clock, is available on Amazon, followed by Singing the Bones (Cyberwit Publishing, 2022). Her third collection of poetry, Exquisite Corpse, is coming soon. You have been warned...

E-mail: Alexis Child

Website: Alexis Child's Website

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