The Cinder Path

In the autumn of 1994, when I was fourteen, my family moved to a crumbling farmhouse on the edge of a town called Ashford Hollow. The house was nestled at the end of a long, gravel driveway that wound through a dense thicket of pines, and at the end of that drive, where it met the old county road, there was a rusted gate that never quite closed. My chores included taking the trash cans to the road every Monday night, a job I dreaded because the darkness always seemed to swallow the beam of my flashlight.

One night in late October, I was dragging the heavy cans down the drive, the gravel crunching under my boots. The moon was obscured by heavy clouds, and the only light came from my weak flashlight, which flickered with each bump. As I neared the gate, I noticed something odd: a faint, orange glow emanating from beyond the treeline, just past where our property ended. It wasn’t a steady light, but a pulsing, like a heartbeat, and it was accompanied by a low hum that vibrated through the soles of my shoes.

I should have turned back, but curiosity got the better of me. I set the cans down and pushed through the undergrowth, following the glow. The trees gave way to a clearing, and there I saw a circle of stones, about ten feet across, with a fire burning in the center. The flames were not normal; they were a deep, crimson color, and they cast no shadows. Around the fire stood three figures in long, black cloaks, their faces hidden. They were chanting in a language I didn’t recognize, and as I watched, one of them reached into the fire and pulled out a small, glowing object.

The object was a key, but it wasn’t made of metal; it was made of what looked like solidified light. The figure held it up, and the chanting stopped. Then, as if sensing my presence, all three turned to face me. Their eyes were like voids, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I stumbled backward, but my feet were rooted to the ground. One of them spoke, in a voice that sounded like a thousand whispers, ‘The cinder path awaits.’

I finally broke free and ran back to the house, my heart pounding. I didn’t tell my parents; they would have thought I was crazy. But I couldn’t sleep that night, and I kept seeing that key in my mind. The next morning, I went back to the clearing, but it was empty. The stones were still there, but the fire was gone, and there was no trace of the figures. I thought maybe I had imagined it, until I noticed a small patch of blackened earth in the center of the circle, and in that earth, there was a tiny, glowing ember.

I took the ember, thinking I could study it, but as soon as I touched it, it burned my skin. I dropped it, and it sizzled on the ground, leaving a small scar. From that day on, things began to change around me. I would find strange symbols scratched into the walls of my bedroom, and I would hear that low hum at night, growing louder. I began to see the cloaked figures in my peripheral vision, always watching, always waiting.

One night, a month later, I woke to find the ember in my room, glowing brighter than ever, and on the floor beneath it, there was a line of ash leading out the door and down the driveway. The gate was open, and the road beyond was bathed in an eerie, crimson light. I knew I had to follow it, but I was terrified. As I stepped onto the road, I saw that the entire road was covered in a thin layer of ash, and it stretched out into the darkness like a path. I walked for what felt like hours, the hum growing louder, until I came to the edge of a town I did not recognize.

The town was empty, but the buildings were glowing from within, as if lit by that same crimson fire. I heard the chanting again, and I saw the three figures standing in the town square, next to a well. They were holding the key, and as I approached, they turned and gestured for me to come closer. ‘You have been chosen,’ they said, ‘to guard the key.’ And they placed it in my hand. It was warm, and it pulsed with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, the key clutched in my hand. I have no idea what happened after that, but I know that the key is not a simple object. It is a responsibility, a burden, and I am afraid of what it will ask of me next. The cinder path is not a road; it is a connection to something ancient and malevolent, and I am now its keeper, whether I like it or not. I have not slept well since, and every night, I hear that hum, beckoning me to walk the path again.