The Ember on the Corner

The rain had been relentless for days, turning the town of Millbrook into a soggy gray blur. I had moved there with my wife, Eleanor, and our new German Shepherd puppy, Brutus, to escape the city noise, but the silence of the countryside had its own kind of pressure. That night, Brutus had been restless, whimpering every few hours, and I was running on fumes. We had just settled into our new home, a farmhouse that had stood for over a century, its bones creaking with age. The past few nights had been manageable, but tonight, the storm had knocked out the power, and we were relying on candles and our phone flashlights.

At 3 AM, I took Brutus out into the rain, holding a lantern that cast weak, dancing shadows across the yard. The wind howled through the bare trees, and the mud sucked at my boots. Brutus did his business quickly, tugging at his leash, eager to get back inside. As I turned to head back, I noticed a faint orange glow near the corner of the house, where the old firewood pile sat. Curious, I walked over, and there, perched on a rusty iron bracket that had once held a hose, was a lit cigarette. No one else was around. The cigarette was smoldering, a wisp of smoke curling up into the rain. I laughed nervously, assuming a previous owner had left it, but it was dry, burning steadily. The hair on my neck stood up. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but only the rain answered.

I rushed inside, locking the door, and went to the bedroom. Eleanor was fast asleep, and Brutus curled at the foot of the bed. I crawled under the covers, my heart still hammering. I tried to convince myself it was some prank, but a cold dread settled in my stomach. I eventually drifted off, still shivering.

The dream that followed was surreal. I was in the same house, but it was different—cleaner, brighter, the furniture unfamiliar. Outside, the sun was shining, and I saw a girl, maybe six years old, playing by the woodpile. She looked up at me, her eyes wide, and then she vanished. I walked to the same corner, but the cigarette was there, still smoking, held by a small, delicate hand that faded into the air. I felt a presence behind me, and a voice, soft and low, whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have come back.’ I turned, and there was nothing. I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding, to the sound of Brutus whining. It was 5 AM, still dark, and the power was still out.

Eleanor was still sleeping. I got up to check on things, and as I walked past the window facing the yard, I saw it again: the ember, glowing in the darkness, now closer to the back door. I grabbed a flashlight and shone it outside, but the cigarette was still there, hovering in mid-air where the bracket would have been. But this time, it was moving, bobbing slightly, as if held by an invisible hand. A cold draft swept through the room, and the candle on the nightstand flickered and went out. Brutus began to growl, a low, guttural sound.

I woke again, in my bed, face down, soaked in sweat. Eleanor was shaking me, saying, ‘Wake up! You were screaming!’ I tried to catch my breath, and I asked, ‘What time is it?’ She whispered, ‘Almost 3 AM again.’ I told her about the dream, and she looked at me with a strange expression. ‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘I had a dream about a little girl, too. She was holding a stick, and she said “Don’t let him smoke.”‘

We both fell silent, the rain pelting the roof. Then, from the yard, we heard a thud, like something hitting the wooden porch. Brutus started barking furiously. I grabbed a poker from the fireplace and opened the back door. There, on the porch, lay a soggy pack of cigarettes, the brand my father used to smoke. My father had died ten years ago, in this very house, which had been his. He had been a heavy smoker, and he had always warned me never to take up the habit.

I knelt down, my hand trembling, and picked up the pack. Inside, there was a photo, folded and water-stained, of a little girl I had never seen. On the back, in my father’s handwriting, were the words: ‘Forgive me, Clara.’

I had never heard of Clara. But as I held the pack, the ember from the corner floated down and landed on the porch, extinguishing itself with a soft hiss. From the darkness beyond the yard, I could have sworn I heard a child’s laughter, fading into the rain.

That was the last time I ever saw the ember, but to this day, every time I hear a child’s laugh or smell cigarette smoke, I think of Clara, and I wonder what my father had done.