He lurched forward as the stranger kicked the door. Lucas scrambled to his feet to fight against the invasion, twisting the deadbolt. Across the hall, black smoke wafted along the ceiling.
Lucas asked himself what he feared more.
Fire—he feared fire.
He shouldn't be afraid of old men—even if their eyes glowed blue.
He sprinted to the kitchen to discover the whole counter ablaze. Flames from the upturned pan on the yellow linoleum licked the ceiling. Biting his lip, Lucas moaned, unable to pitch together a plan to save his house from being devoured by the ravenous blaze.
The old extinguisher—it wasted away in the utility closet behind him. He flung open the small door and scanned the room, pulling out more fodder for the fire as he desperately attempted to unearth the relic of his cautious days.
The crackling of laminate cabinets joined the roaring fire's beat.
"Got it!" he exclaimed, prying the extinguisher from its entrapment. When he grabbed it, the red tank slipped from his fingers as he clamped sweaty hands over decades of collected dust. He fixed his grip and spun around to address the fire when he nearly collided into the old man with the eyes that pierced the night.
Lucas checked—the door was still locked.
Shadows from the rioting flames and the man's beaming, blue eyes criss-crossed the grim, expressionless face. He grabbed Lucas' wrist again. With the same, fierce hold as before, he stepped backward, dragging Lucas into the heat.
Inhuman strength forced poor Lucas into the kitchen. He tried to rip and gnaw the fingers off his arm as he screamed for help, but the stone clasp was relentless. When they entered the center of the inferno, Lucas had no strength left. His lungs were clogged with smoke.
Without a twitch or shift in his face, the old man entered the flame. Lucas sank to the floor and turned away from the visage of the man as the fire latched onto his pale skin. It fed on his sagging flesh until it ate his arms, chest, and neck. The last image Lucas witnessed before closing his eyes and succumbing to the searing pain of his cooking flesh, was the blue eyes, unblinking, watching him through the flames.
***
In the sullen morning with miserable gray clouds drooping overhead, Detective Laszlo crouched on her haunches to consider the two blackened corpses.
Both victims burned to death within the home. Nothing remained but crispy meat and two perfectly preserved sets of vibrant blue eyes. Without lids, the eyes sank in their charcoal sockets and watched the gray clouds drag their weight around the sky.
"Mind sharing with the class, Detective?" one of the local cops questioned after an uncomfortable silence.
"Nothing new." She fiddled with the loose tip of the latex glove on her little finger. "Same em-oh from the last six."
YOU ARE READING
The Fright Train
Short StoryThe Fright Train has pulled into the station, do you dare to board? In this brand new Fright feature, we will start you off with a short story prompt. We will then ask for you, our readers, to add to the story bit by bit. As the horror builds up, we...
