The Cinder Man

I had another true story to tell, this one from the old farmhouse my family rented when I was twelve—the one with the rusted windmill and the field that always smelled of burnt sugar. The nearest neighbor was a retired railroad worker named Mr. Ellery, whose house sat a quarter mile down the gravel road, its porch light always burning like a single yellow eye. That night, the wind had died, and the only sound was the creak of the house settling, as if it were an old ship testing its ropes.

I’d just finished my bedtime ritual—checking the locks on the warped back door, pulling the curtains tight over the windows that overlooked the soybean fields, and wedging a chair under my bedroom doorknob because the latch was broken. I lay in bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a map of a country I’d never visited. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was thin and restless.

Then a voice, muffled but unmistakable, came from the corner of my room where my dresser stood, its mirror reflecting the pale light from the window. ‘Get up,’ it said, flat and dry, like a page turning. I told myself it was the wind, or the house, or my own mind playing tricks. But then the voice returned, louder, pressed right against my ear, so close I felt the warmth of breath that shouldn’t exist. ‘GO TO THE BATHROOM. LOOK OUT THE WINDOW. NOW.’ My body obeyed before my mind could argue, jerking me upright with a gasp.

My heart hammered as I swung my legs over the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold pine floor. I shuffled to the door, my hand shaking as I pushed the chair away. The hallway stretched before me, black as tar, and I felt my way along the wall, counting the doorframes until I reached the bathroom. The air in there was colder, and the mirror above the sink was fogged, though no steam rose from the pipes. I stepped to the window, my breath catching, and peered out.

At first, I saw only the dark shapes of the cornfield and the distant silhouette of Mr. Ellery’s house, its porch light a tiny beacon. But then I noticed something else: a figure standing at the edge of the field, right where the property line met the gravel road. It was too tall to be a man, and its limbs seemed to bend at odd angles, like a scarecrow made of sticks. It wasn’t moving, but its head was tilted up, as if staring directly at my window. My blood turned to ice when I realized it was holding something—a small, glowing object, like a coal from a fire, pulsing with a sickly orange light.

I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the bathmat. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed. I heard the voice again, but this time it was softer, almost a whisper: ‘He’s here for the cinders. Don’t let him find you.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I had to hide. I dove into the bathtub, pulling the shower curtain closed, and lay there, shivering, listening to the silence. Minutes passed like hours.

Then I heard it: the slow, deliberate creak of the front door opening downstairs. Footsteps, heavy and uneven, began climbing the stairs. Each step was a thud, then a pause, then another thud, as if the thing was testing each board before committing its weight. I clutched my knees, praying to every god I knew. The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door. I could hear breathing—wet, ragged, like a dog with a lung infection. The door knob turned, slowly, and I whimpered.

But then, from outside, came the sound of a train whistle—long and mournful—followed by the rumble of wheels on tracks that ran a mile away. The breathing stopped. The door knob became still. I heard the heavy steps retreating down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. The porch light flickered, and when I dared to peek through the curtain, the figure was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. When dawn broke, I told my parents I thought I saw a coyote. They dismissed it as a nightmare. But I knew better. Later that week, I found out that Mr. Ellery had died that same night—heart attack, they said, at around 11 p.m. The funeral was two days later. And on my windowsill, I found a single, round, black stone that was still warm to the touch, like it had just been pulled from a fire. I threw it into the field, but for years after, I’d sometimes catch a whiff of burnt sugar on the wind, and I knew the Cinder Man was still out there, waiting for the next soul who lingered too long in the dark.