Fireside by Emily Chadwick

The fire had all but died.

The boy peered out from his tight cocoon, his eyes reflecting the waning red gleam of the cinders. A few lumps of wood still smouldered in the grate, faded jewels dusted with ash. Faint warmth still emanated from the embers, but the boy shivered and pulled his ragged blanket tighter around himself. It was a cold night, a cursed night, and the dying fire was not enough.

He wished he were brave enough to get up and stoke the fire, to feed the flames with fresh wood, but his mother had forbidden it. The winter was long, she said, and there was not enough fuel to keep a blaze burning all night long. They were lucky to have a fire at all, she said.

The boy didn’t understand. If there wasn’t enough fuel, why didn’t his father just cut down some more trees? Wood came from trees, didn’t it? He had mentioned it to his mother, but she’d just muttered something about money. Surely you didn’t need to pay the trees to use their wood, though? Grown-ups were very stupid sometimes.

Besides, everyone knew that monsters could only come out in the dark.

The boy hid his face as the wind whistled through the chimney. The windows rattled in their frames, as though something was scrabbling to get in. A low moan stirred the curtains. The boy whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“I’m not here,” he whispered, as if saying the words would make them true. “It’s not dark yet.”

There came a tapping on the windowpane. The hairs stood up on the back of the boy’s neck. He could almost imagine long bony fingers unfastening the latch, even though his mother would tell him it was only the wind in the trees.

“I’m not here.”

The fire went out.