The Fire in the Snow

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this ‘imaginary friend’ named Leo. He only appeared in my mind, usually when I was drifting off to sleep. Sometimes I’d catch a flicker of him in half-remembered dreams, always a blur of motion, never a clear face. My parents just laughed it off as a phase, but I knew he was real.

Lately, things have gotten weirder. Sometimes when I blink, I see a flash of red, then green, and a wave of heat washes over me, like standing too close to a furnace. It’s not unpleasant, just strange. Last week, I was lying in the small clearing behind our house, the one where the old oak tree split in half during the storm, and I closed my eyes. The flash came, red to green, and this time I saw it clearly: a towering bonfire, flames licking at a dark, starless sky. The heat was so intense I felt like I was being consumed, but I wasn’t afraid. Then, from nowhere, I heard a voice, a boy’s voice, clear as a bell: ‘Come on!’ I shot upright, gasping. The clearing was empty. The snow was pristine, untouched. I know I heard it.

My mom thinks I’m losing it, my dad pretends nothing’s wrong, and at school, kids whisper ‘fire-boy’ behind my back. But I’m not crazy. Something is happening.

Two nights ago, the real nightmare began. We have a new front door, and on it, a heavy brass pineapple door knocker, a housewarming gift from my grandma. At midnight, a loud, sharp knock echoed through the house. It wasn’t a gentle tap; it was a demand. I froze, heart pounding. I sneaked to the window and peeked outside. The porch was empty. No one was there. I went back to bed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had stepped across the threshold.

That night, I dreamt of my friend Maya. We were in the school parking lot, under the flickering fluorescent lights. A car backfired, and in the dream, it was a gunshot. Maya crumpled to the ground, blood blooming on her white shirt like a red flower. I woke up drenched in sweat, a scream stuck in my throat. The image of her falling was so vivid.

The next day at school, Maya was fine. She laughed at my pale face, called me a worrywart. But later, in history class, our teacher, Mr. Henderson, mentioned a gang shooting that had happened in the adjacent town. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my dream was a warning.

Last night, the knocking returned, but this time it was from the back of the house, the sliding glass door that leads to the patio. I crept towards it, my bare feet cold on the hardwood. The curtains were drawn, but I could see the faint outline of the snow-covered yard. I pushed the curtain aside, and there, in the middle of the lawn, stood a figure. It was a boy, about my age, but he was made of fire. Flames danced where his hair should be, his face a mask of embers and shadow. He raised his hand, and even through the glass, I felt the heat. He beckoned to me.

I stumbled back, tripping over a chair. When I looked again, he was gone. But on the glass, written in frost, was a single word: ‘Maya.’

Now I know Leo is not just my imagination. He’s a ghost, or a demon, or something else entirely, and he’s reaching out from the fire in my mind into my reality. And he’s targeting my friends. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m terrified that next time, Maya won’t be just in a dream.