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I have no idea how long he was sitting there.
“The mail hasn’t come yet.”
I jumped. My skin itched, a million invisible spiders suddenly living within it. But I glanced at the mailbox bolted to the wall next to my front door all the same. It was empty. The man was right.
Then I remembered the proverbial spiders.
I clawed at the storm door, still in mid-slow-close whoosh.
The man rocked back and forth, back and forth. The old wooden chair had been unceremoniously shoved into the far corner of the porch. “Didn’t say it wasn’t coming. Just isn’t here yet.”
“I don’t know what you want, but you can’t sit there.”
The man frowned. He was old, probably older than the chair — and that chair had been my grandfather’s. The wood was split and cracked and so was his skin. He didn’t strike me as the sort who spent real money on hand lotion.
“Lot of ice on the road, you know,” he continued. “Dangerous out there. But you know what they say: Rain, sleet, snow.” He paused, furrowed his impossibly wrinkled brow. “Is it hail?”
“You need to leave,” I repeated, reaching for my phone. I was hesitant to take my eyes off him, even for the few seconds it would take to dial three numbers.
He nodded, resuming his slow rock. He wasn’t dressed like a man who was worried about icy conditions. Baseball cap, ripped jeans, sandals. His t-shirt said: “Do your part.” But there was no logo or anything. I wasn’t sure what “part” I should feel compelled to do.
He made me feel cold. Or, I guess it was the weather. I wrapped my arms around myself, missing the hot cup of coffee on the windowsill just inside, wishing I’d grabbed a coat before stepping out into February.
“This view hasn’t changed, you know?” He smiled. “There was always a brick missing from that corner. You see it?” He pointed a flabby arm at the Mollivan’s house across the street. Andy took great pride in his meticulously maintained property. I was offended on his behalf.
“It’s all there,” I said. “It’s alright.” I waved my hand as though to conjure the delinquent brick, eyes still locked on the man. The tattoos on his arm made me nervous: some faded, black symbols I didn’t recognize. But whatever muscle might have been was all wiggle and flab now. And I’d been going to the gym.
“It’s alright,” the man agreed. “Been standing a long time.” A chuckle.
My fingers were slowly, carefully, painfully dialing 9-1-
He turned suddenly, eyes intent. “I used to live here, you know.”
“Oh?”
I could barely hear the phone ringing in my pocket. They’d answer, hear that I was engaged in some befuddling conversation and send help — I was sure of it.
Then I did some math. “Seventy years ago?”
Another chuckle. “Doesn’t feel that long.”
“Right,” I said, not knowing what else to say. We’d bought the house after a full rehab ten years ago. The place had sat dormant for sixty, burned out and hollowed. I hadn’t done any further research.
“Your wife’s getting the kids?”
The spiders were back. “I don’t know who you are but” — I was hoping I was speaking loud enough to get the attention of the confused voice in my pocket-bound-phone — “you need to get off my property.”
“Do you believe in the supernatural, Evan?”
“I believe in my rights as a —”
“I mean, I’m not a ghost or any such thing.” Another soft chuckle. He stood up — or, tried to. His first attempt found him back in the rocking chair. His second was more successful though less graceful. “I’m a survivor,” he said, answering a question I hadn’t asked.
I hadn’t seen the cane propped up next to the chair. He was leaning heavily on it now, making his way toward me. I could hear the sirens in the distance, like the battle cry of a distant army. But would they arrive in time?
“And now you will be, too.” He smiled, patted my arm. I was concerned by how unthreatening the moment felt. Then: “They don’t tell you about the fire demon in the basement. The inspectors don’t catch it. But once every seventy years — boom!” He blew air out of his mouth, moving his left hand as though he was throwing confetti. “Supernatural,” he continued. “And now you know.”
He moved past me, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he climbed down my own brick stairs. “What?” I follow him onto the front yard, away from the whooshing door and still-rocking chair.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter if you believe it or not. But that’s the answer when they ask: the fire demon in the basement.” He shrugged. “Can’t be helped.” He looked past me, into the hallway that my still-open storm door revealed. “A real shame.”
Then he winked and shambled off. And I stood there on my patch of grass, my mouth agape — enough for the spiders to crawl out — and my phone still in my pocket and the cold wind whistling all around and the spiders still in my skin despite the kindness of my mouth hanging open. And then I smelled smoke.
Then: the explosion. I could hear it — feel it — in the very foundations of the house. And the whole thing went up in absolute, all-encompassing flames.
Still I stood there as the sounds of sirens grew louder, more urgent and the firefighters rushed all around me and my home burned to the ground.
I’m lucky that I wasn’t inside, they tell me. Lucky there was already a fire truck on the way. Lucky your family wasn’t home.
“I’m a survivor,” I find myself muttering.
I wonder how long that fire demon plans on living in the remnants of my basement. And I wonder if I’ll still be around to do my part if it stays.
Eric A. Clayton is the award-winning author of "Cannonball Moments." He writes spiritual nonfiction and speculative fiction. Follow his writing at ericclaytonwrites.com.
Image credit: Maxim Tajer