The Cinder Path

I’ve always loved the sting of cold air on my face during a ride. Most folks prefer the gym, but give me a bike and a winding trail any day. My usual loop was a 4km stretch through the pines, with a dam that mirrored the sky like a black glass. But that afternoon, with the sun already bleeding into the horizon, I decided to take the other fork. It was a shortcut, I told myself. It would still loop back, just shorter, and I’d beat the dark.

The path started familiar enough, gravel crunching under my tires, but soon it narrowed, and the trees pressed closer. The air grew thick, smelling of damp earth and something else—a burnt, sweet odor like smoldering leaves. I glanced at my watch: 5:14 PM. The light was fading fast, and I pushed harder on the pedals.

Then came the sharp turn. I knew it from my usual loop—a treacherous hairpin that required just the right speed. I leaned in, my heart hammering, and as I rounded the bend, the world tilted. Instead of the familiar mahogany trees opening onto that long uphill, I found a straight stretch lined with what looked like blackened, skeletal trees. Their bark was charred, and the ground was covered in ash that muffled my wheels like snow.

I slowed, confused. This wasn’t right. The shortcut should have rejoined the main path by now. I stopped and looked back, but the trail behind me was gone. Where the sharp turn should have been, there was only a wall of mist, thick and impenetrable.

A sound broke the silence—a low, rhythmic scraping, like metal on stone. It came from ahead, beyond a rise. I walked my bike, my legs trembling, and as I crested the hill, I saw a figure at the bottom. It was tall, humanoid, but its limbs were too long, and its head was cocked at an unnatural angle. It was dragging a long, rusted blade behind it, and as it moved, it left a glowing trail of embers in the ash.

My breath caught. I wanted to run, but my legs were rooted. The figure stopped, and slowly, it turned its head. Its face was a blank, smooth surface, like a porcelain mask, with no features. But I could feel its gaze boring into me.

Then it spoke. Its voice was like gravel grinding, and it said, ‘You’re late.’ It pointed its blade at the sky. The stars, which should have been appearing, were instead dimming, as if being snuffed out one by one. The darkness was not natural; it was a thick, living thing that crept along the ground, swallowing the light.

I turned and pedaled as fast as I could, my muscles burning. But the path kept changing, the trees twisting and re-forming into impossible shapes. I crashed into a barrier of thorns, and my bike fell. I scrambled on foot, but the darkness caught me. It wrapped around my ankles, cold and heavy, and I started to feel my body numbing.

Just as I was about to give in, I saw a light ahead—a small, flickering lantern hanging from a post. I crawled towards it, and the darkness recoiled. I reached the lantern and clung to it, gasping.

The figure stood at the edge of the light, watching. It tilted its head, and I heard a whisper, not from it, but from all around: ‘You can’t leave. The cinder path remembers you now.’

I looked at the lantern, and in its flame, I saw faces—other riders, their eyes hollow, their mouths open in silent screams. They were trapped, their bikes rusted and overgrown with vines. They were part of the path now.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, clutching that lantern. Time didn’t seem to pass. Eventually, I heard a distant sound—a bike bell. It was coming from behind me, and the figure vanished. The mist parted, and I saw the familiar dam, the mahogany trees, the clear trail. I stumbled back to my bike, and I rode out, never looking back.

Now, I ride at noon, when the sun is high and the shadows are short. But sometimes, when I’m on that same trail, I see a patch of ash off to the side, and I hear a faint scraping. And I know, if I ever get too close, the cinder path will remember me again.