The Copper Ash

The night was a deep, wet cold that seeped through the cracks of our old farmhouse on the outskirts of Foxglove, a town that clung to the Canadian Shield like a limpet. It was late autumn, 2016, I think, and the wood stove in the living room was our only defense against the dark freeze outside. I had just finished replacing the old cast-iron beast with a modern, EPA-approved insert, all gleaming steel and ceramic glass, because the county had passed a by-law against smoky chimneys. The fine was steep, but more than that, the new unit was supposed to be safer, more efficient. It was also quieter.

The night was typical: my wife, Lena, had gone to bed around ten, and our old lab, Rusty, had followed her, his nails clicking on the hardwood before fading up the stairs. I was alone in the living room, a mug of cold tea by my side, watching a documentary about the migration of monarch butterflies on my laptop. The fire crackled behind the new glass, a neat, controlled dance of flames. I had loaded it with seasoned maple, the kind that splits clean and burns hot. The temperature outside had dropped to minus fourteen Celsius, and the wind was picking up, rattling the windows in their frames.

At about eleven, the fire made a sound I had never heard before. It was a low, resonant hum, not unlike a chanting, but deeper, more percussive. It seemed to come from the stove itself, or perhaps from the chimney. I paused the video and listened. The humming continued, a steady thrum that vibrated through the floorboards. I walked over to the stove and pressed my hand against the side. It was warm, but not hot—the normal operating temperature. The hum grew slightly louder, then subsided into a series of clicks and pops that sounded almost like speech. I tapped the glass. The sound stopped. I felt foolish, but also unsettled. I told myself it was the settling of the metal, or the wind playing tricks on the flue.

An hour later, the fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals. I was about to add another log when I noticed something odd: the ashes in the tray were not the usual grey and white. They were a deep copper color, like rust, and they seemed to glint in the firelight. I had burned maple in that stove for years, and the ashes had always been pale. I knelt down and looked closer. The copper ash formed shapes, more deliberate than random. I saw a spiral, then what looked like a set of spiraling horns, then a face with elongated eyes and a wide, lipless mouth. The face seemed to be looking right at me from the tray. I blinked, and the pattern broke apart into nothing but ash. But my skin crawled.

I decided I needed air. I pulled on my heavy coat and boots and stepped outside into the biting wind. The night was clear, and the stars were a thick, icy blanket. The chimney of our farmhouse rose against the sky, and I saw something that made my breath catch. A thin, dark smoke was rising from the chimney, even though the fire was almost out. That smoke was not going straight up; it was spiraling, and it formed a shape that mirrored the one in the ash—a pair of antlers, a leering face. It hung there for a moment, then dissipated into the wind. I stood there, shivering, and I felt a presence, as if I was being watched from the dark woods at the edge of our property. I hurried back inside.

I went to the stove and opened the door to stir the coals. The coals were not red or orange. They were a deep, pulsating purple, like a bruise, and they pulsed in a rhythm that was almost organic. As I watched, a coal rolled out of the bed and onto the hearth, forming a small pile that began to rise, as if something were pushing it from beneath. I stepped back, my heart pounding. The pile coalesced into a crude, humanoid figure, about a foot tall, made of embers and copper ash. It had no mouth, but it tilted its head as if listening. Then it began to move, shifting its weight from one leg to another, like a child doing a dance. I grabbed the fireplace poker and swung, but the figure crumbled into a heap, and a thin, reedy voice, like the sound of air escaping a lung, said, ‘You let the old ones out, with your new box.’ I froze. The voice seemed to come from the stove itself.

I called for Lena, but there was no answer. The house was silent, save for the wind and the creaking of old timbers. The fire was out now, but the embers still glowed purple in the tray. The copper ash had formed a pattern across the floor, spiraling toward the center of the room. In the center, there was a dark stain, like water damage, spreading. I knelt and touched it. It was not wet; it was warm and moved under my finger, like a pulse. I pulled my hand back. The stain began to grow, and in it, I saw reflections of things that were not in the room: a forest, but all the trees were upside down, and the sky was below, and in that sky, there were eyes, many eyes, all looking up.

I ran to the phone to call someone, but the line was dead. I tried my cell, but the battery was drained, the screen black. The clock on the mantel had stopped at 12:34, and the hands were spinning backward. A low hum filled the room, the same hum from before, but now it was louder, and it was coming from everywhere. The copper ash swirled in the air, forming a tornado, and in the center of that swirl, I saw the face again, but it was huge, taking up the entire space, and its mouth opened wide. I felt a pull, as if something was trying to draw me in. I grabbed the edge of the couch, but I was sliding across the floor toward the stove. The face spoke again, in a voice that was not a voice but a vibration in my bones: ‘You have fed us well, with your clean fire. We are free now.’

I do not remember what happened next. I woke up in the morning, lying on the living room floor, covered in a thin layer of copper ash. The stove was cold, and the tray was empty. But there were footprints in the ash, leading from the stove to the front door, and the door was slightly ajar. The cold air rushed in, and I could hear the sound of a crow cawing outside. I got up, shook off the ash, and went to check on Lena. She was in bed, but she was pale, and her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She said, ‘They are in the trees now.’ She has not spoken since.

We moved away soon after, sold the farmhouse to a young couple who thought the copper stain on the floor was a design feature. I do not know if they still live there. Sometimes, at night, I think I hear that hum, and I look out my window into the dark, and I see a pair of antlers silhouetted against the moon. And I remember the words from the ash: ‘You let the old ones out.’ I only hope they have not found me again.