Roses and Dreams: A Collection of Short Fantasy Stories

My Guardian Angel

William Wallace woke up to the nose-curling scent of smoke.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering if his wretched maid had burned something in the kitchen again. It wouldn't be the first time. It would certainly be her last. Her recent string of mishaps – flooding the scullery, leaving an iron mark on his best shirt, smashing a plate – had guaranteed her expulsion if she put another toe out of line. It seemed Emily had done it yet again.

He contemplated ignoring it and going back to bed, and giving the girl a good thrashing in the morning, when something caught his eye. He sat up, his night shirt rustling as he thrust his bedsheets away. Orange light flickered outside his window. He frowned. Perhaps someone had come to visit him? What uneducated, uncouth idiot would trouble the mayor of town during this godforsaken hour?

He swung his legs out of bed and his bare feet hit the wooden floorboards as he stood, thinking of the phrases he would use to ensure that man gets a full earful. He would fine him, William decided. Disturbing the mayor at an unsociable hour was a crime. He grimaced as he made his way down the stairs. The man might beg, grovel, give some pathetic excuse about his sickly wife and four starving children. William snorted to himself, imagining the man's face once William let him say his excuses before brandishing them all aside.

A strange crackling, like a thousand dry twigs being snapped in some warped orchestral symphony, reached his ears as he descended the sweeping staircase into his entrance hall. He froze. The crackling and popping came from all directions. An orange glow bathed the far wall. The paintings of the renowned Wallaces that decorated the wall bubbled, the paint erupting in blisters before popping. The solemn faces of his ancestors melted away. Frowning, William made to move closer before one of the doors to the left on the ground floor exploded into shards. Hot air shot through the hole, flames dancing along the top and licking the ceiling. He shielded his face, the heat making his eyes water. The room swam, like some vague otherworldly being was swooping over him.

The acrid stench of melted paint, incinerated processed animal skin, and the toxic stink of petrol-fuelled smoke filled his nostrils, making him gag and his throat close. He buried his nose in the crook of his arm, stumbling up the steps, his heart ramming against his ribcage. Gasping for breath – and finding nothing but more smoke that seared the inside of his throat and hot air that made him feel shorter of breath than ever – he crawled onto all fours, eyes streaming, the heat scorching his skin through his thin nightshirt.

Blisters erupt all over his skin. He scrabbled across the wooden floorboards, which burned his hands and feet before crumbling away, desperate for an escape. Downstairs was entirely swallowed by the fiery blazes of hell. Choking and running on pure adrenaline and primal instinct, William managed to cling to the walls. Thick black smoke smothered his eyes like a curtain of death. He managed to get back into his bedroom at the furthest end of the house, where the smoke still hung heavy in the air, but at least he had a few seconds of relief.

With the last of his strength, he threw open the window, sucking in delicious, sweet fresh air. The cold flow calmed his senses, bringing his mind back to life. The black curtain parted, showing dark smoke floating into the night sky.

It was then the voices reached his ears.

"Death to Wallace! Death to Wallace!"

The whole village stood before him, hatred blazing as hot as the fire torches in their hands. Even as he watched, they poured gasoline over the side of his house and threw down the torches; the wrath of fiery hell ravaged his walls, extending their tendrils towards him. With a sickening crack, the floorboards gave way and William plummeted to the stomach of the inferno.

****

People. He'd seen them come and go.

For three hundred years, there had been tributes, gatherings, festivities, parties, and tours done at the Wallace manor. He'd heard his story told multiple times of how the greedy, selfish mayor drained the village dry of its resources, had his devilish way with the village girls, and abused the villagers to the point where, one night, a lynch mob sought him and incinerated his house to the ground. The wicked mayor was trapped inside, crushed beneath the expensive fortress he thought would keep him safe. Ghost stories were told of how the people he'd locked in the cellars would moan and walk the stairs, drifting in their never-ending afterlife in vengeance for their monstrous employer.