Ann Aguirre - Hell Fire

“Corine,” Jesse said. I knew he had to be suffering too, and I felt awful for putting him through this. “You don’t have to do this. We probably can’t learn anything here, not after all this time.”

“ You can’t.” Chance’s voice sounded tight and fierce, as if he wanted desperately to protect me from myself. He also knew I wouldn’t let him.

Butch popped up from my handbag and yapped twice in agreement. He sank tiny teeth into the fabric of my shirt, as if he’d forcibly prevent me from doing so. I gently disengaged him and handed the dog to Shannon. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t take his advice. I couldn’t opt out. We had to know.

Comprehension dawned in Jesse’s bitter chocolate eyes. I could see he wanted to argue against the wisdom of it. If a necklace imbued with the pain of my mother’s death killed me, what would the house where she died do? Maybe this time there would be no bringing me back.

I’d never attempted anything on this scale before, but it was an inanimate object, right? The principle should remain the same, and I needed its secrets. The tingle in my left palm became a steady pulse of heat, and following some instinct I hadn’t known I possessed, I sank down amid old ashes and sealed my hand against the foundation.

Pain scoured my nerves like wildfire consuming a dry forest. For interminable moments, I knew nothing but agony that spread in a black-red wash across my field of vision. I ceased to hear my own breathing, my own heartbeat. I might be dying again, but I couldn’t break the connection. The house wanted to own me in a complete and terrible way. I tried to fight—

It took me.

Heavy. Broken. Lost.

Stones crumbled; burnt wood fell to splinters and dust. I registered each tiny, disparate piece that made up the entirety of this ruin to which I’d joined myself. We sat, silent and untended. Nights ran into days; the seasons turned. Rain poured into my broken shell. I shivered at the cold and the solitude. Then the sun baked me until I felt dry and parched, thirsty unto death.

After eons of waiting, suffering, I remembered I wasn’t a rock or a roof tile. I was a woman, or I had been, a million years ago. Impressions came then, quick and fleeting. I didn’t want years of observations. I only wanted the one night.

The house didn’t want to yield to me. It wanted to suborn me and make me part of it for good. I’d never known an object to have a malign will, but this ruin did.

I imprinted myself on it—pure focus from years of training myself not to read objects with a casual touch. I will know what you know , I told it. Show me the night you died. For it perished, just as my mother did; the burning of the pretty little house where we used to live had given birth to this thing that squatted in its place.

My head rang with the force of its dissent. It didn’t want to share; didn’t want to help. It wanted to take and devour, as the flames had done.

For an eternity, we struggled—fought.

I didn’t know if I could win.

Pain became a constant, and then—

The images I sought came pouring through me. The house gave me back my own uncertainty and terror; it gave me my mother’s anger and determination. She hadn’t been afraid. The now-broken windows of our house became my eyes. I watched as they came from the woods; twelve, in dark robes, hoods pulled forward to mask their faces.

They mounted the stairs and did not knock. A woman opened the door for them, then slammed it in their faces. They argued on the porch, brands raised. The tallest of them shook his head, and then they took the door down with their shoulders.

My mother was dead when they reached her. But I’d already known that. I’d lived her death, where she gave everything she was to me in a final working. It wasn’t her fault that I was broken.

I watched with the house’s peculiar detachment as they carried out a ritual around her body, a circle of twelve in dark robes, lighting candles. I could not hear their chants, but I felt the dark energy curling through the walls, twisting what had been good. I tried to moan, but walls had no mouths.

The twelve poured something from a red can—gas perhaps—and then set the place alight, after they completed their night’s work. Nobody stayed to watch the fire. They melted into the woods while my body curled and blackened, killing heat exploding my windows outward. Agony.

Death. Vengeance. A house could crave such things until it achieved something like sentience. It had me, and it did not mean to let me go. Helpless, I twisted, immolated like one condemned to hell.

I’d assumed too much. This was more than I could manage, and I wasn’t coming out. Satisfied with my torment, the house showed me the scene again and again while I burnt. It craved suffering, and I served.

No escape , it told me. Mine.

No. Weak defiance. I couldn’t feel myself anymore, only what the monster gave. But I could only take so much. Blackness threatened to flood my mind’s eye, giving me nothing in place of agony. At this point I welcomed oblivion.

There was something wet on my cheek, sloppy, small, and insistent. Though I wanted desperately to drop down the dark hole, the tiny thing wouldn’t let me. It yapped insistently and tugged on my hair. Such devotion touched me and it kept me tethered, despite the pain and nausea.

Then I heard voices from far away. It sounded like a quarrel, but I couldn’t make out the words. I sailed down the dark tunnel, expecting to find those I’d lost, and emerged on the other side. The sky was heavy, overcast. Did it rain in hell?

Jesse’s taut face flickered into sight. I tried to sit up, and the full anguish of my maimed hand hit me like a fist in the stomach. I vomited into the damp leaves where I lay, retching so hard that I felt as if I were turning inside out. Someone held my head and murmured. Wracked with dry heaves, I moaned. I couldn’t keep my eyes open; it was too much. Without lifting a hand to save myself, I sank.

I surfaced to an argument. Someone’s arms were around me. I recognized his scent before I opened my eyes.

“We should get her the fuck out of Kilmer,” Jesse was saying. “She’s been out for three hours, and that burn on her palm needs medical attention.”

I was lying on the mattress I’d surrendered to Shannon, and I felt as though I’d been hit by a truck. That was ameliorated slightly by feeling Chance beside me.

“If you touch her, I’ll kill you,” Chance said conversationally. “The doctors won’t know what to do with her. They’ll run tests, stick her with needles, pump her full of drugs, and then say she’s a medical mystery.” He took a breath, as if trying to rein back his protective instincts. “You don’t understand how much she hates hospitals. Just give her time, all right? Corine is strong. If I didn’t think she could do it, I’d have tried to talk her out of it. Trust her to know her own limits.”

Joy came streaming through me like sunlight. Trust her. Stupid as it might seem, that elated me. We were making progress. I wanted to hug him, but at first, my eyelids refused to lift. I could feel my body again, but that wasn’t a good thing. If I ever considered reading a whole house again, I hoped someone would shoot me.

“I’m okay,” I tried to mumble. It came out unintelligible, but the sign of life rendered both men speechless, I assumed with relief.

Eventually I got my eyes open. Everything looked strange and distant, as if I peered through a gauzy veil. My hand throbbed like a son of a bitch.

Chance’s arms tightened around me, and I didn’t try to get away. “Shannon, get the salve I left in the living room.”