The Cinder Man

I wrote this to my cousin Lena, because we both see things that other people can’t. Our grandmother called it ‘the sight,’ but I think it’s more of a curse. After all the things we’ve witnessed in my house and her apartment, I’ve compiled a list. We need to understand what’s happening, because the things I’ve seen are getting worse.

At my house, you know about the Cinder Man. He appears in the hallway, his skin like cracked charcoal, glowing embers in his eyes. He doesn’t move much, just stands there, watching. I’ve seen him more since we talked about that doll we found in the attic. The one with the button eyes. Sometimes I hear him scratching at the walls, like he’s trying to get in. Last week, I found soot footprints leading from my bedroom door to the closet, then they just stopped.

Remember the pale shape you saw in my kitchen? It’s not like the Cinder Man. It’s almost translucent, like a heat shimmer, but it’s cold when it’s near. It hovers in the corners of my vision, always watching. I think it’s been following me to work. I work at the old mill, and the other day, I saw it reflected in the glass of the office door, standing right behind me. When I turned, there was nothing, but the temperature dropped so fast I could see my breath.

There’s also the woman with the long black hair who stands at the foot of my bed. She doesn’t say anything, just stares with hollow eyes. She’s been showing up more often, and she’s started following me to the grocery store, waiting outside the produce section. Esther, my coworker, saw her once and asked who she was. I said she was a friend, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The woman’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. I think she was trying to tell me something.

And you know about the man with the red face. He’s been appearing in my bathroom mirror, just behind me, his reflection a split second delayed. He never blinks. I found a handprint on the mirror that wasn’t mine, and the water in the sink turned a rusty brown for an hour. I think he’s the one who moved your keys that day you couldn’t find them, and I’m sure he’s the reason I tripped on the stairs, though nothing was there.

But the worst is the visitor I call ‘The Woman in the Grey Coat.’ She’s not part of the usual crew. She showed up after you told me about your dream, the one where you were sinking in a black ocean. She stands in my closet, her coat dripping wet, and she leaves puddles that evaporate without a trace. Last night, she came out and stood by my bed, and I could smell salt and rot. Her lips were blue, and she whispered my name, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Lena, I’m scared. I’ve tried everything: sage, salt lines, even that old prayer book from Grandma. Nothing works. The Cinder Man just laughs, a dry crackling sound, and the pale shape gets closer every day. I think they’re waiting for something. Maybe they’re waiting for us to acknowledge them completely. Or maybe they’re waiting for us to join them.

We need to figure out what ties them together. The woman in the grey coat, the red-faced man, the pale shape, the black-haired girl—they all seem to be drawn to moments when we’re vulnerable. And this list, it’s like a map of their appearances. The last thing I saw before I wrote this, I saw the Cinder Man outside my window, and he was holding a piece of paper that looked like a list. He was checking off names.

I hope you recognize some of these patterns. I’m sending this with a copy of the layout of my house, in case you want to do a ritual. But be careful. Last time we tried that, we woke up with scratches on our arms that spelled ‘CINDER.’ I don’t want to be his next mark.