Burning Addiction

Present day.

Marshal awoke with a jolt, the sudden sensation of being thrown from his dream caused his heart to beat like a jackhammer inside his chest. A lingering disorientation surrounded him as he struggled to come to terms with the fact that he was no longer dreaming. For a terrifying moment, everything seemed strange, even the walls of his room felt unfamiliar. Sweat trickled down his cheek, leaving little pools of water on the bedsheets. What he would give just to have a normal night's sleep. Marshal understood why the dreams were back, and frankly, he deserved them.

Pulling himself out of bed, he reached for his T-shirt. A small grunt escaped his mouth as he wrestled it over his clammy skin. Coffee, he thought to himself. I need coffee, and lots of it.

Flicking the switch of the kettle on, still bleary-eyed, Marshal fished in the sink for a cup that looked at least half clean. Doing dishes wasn’t his thing; in fact, being house-proud wasn’t his thing. He was a slob, and he knew it. Shovelling in three large spoons of coffee into his mug, he sat down, stirring the tar-like mixture angrily. He slurped the coffee greedily , trying to get the dream images out of his head but he couldn’t, because he knew they were real. He knew before long, his past would catch up with him. Every time he closed his eyes he could see them, the terrified faces of his victims.

Distorted faces, burnt bodies, a flame filled street , and a chilling message inscribed in blood.

We know your secret.

We are your secret.

We will expose your secret.

5 years previous.

Marshal unzipped the bag that was hidden in the derelict barn situated behind his home. The last thing he wanted to do was open it, but he was desperate. It was either do what he was told, or in the words of the thugs he was due thousands of pounds to, they would bash his skull in, until there was nothing left but splattered brains. Marshal gulped as the contents inside the bag were exposed. A thick black pair of leather gloves, a balaclava, a jerry can full of petrol, a box of matches, and a gun stuffed in the pocket. Underneath it all was a note that read,

The address is,

24 Minchcliff Gardens.

You know the area.

Remember our deal, burn the house and everything in it to the ground. The fire alarms, let’s just say, they have been tampered with. Once you do this, we are even.

Ps. The gun is a little present for you, because if you fuck this up, I’d advise using it to blow your own brains out, before we do.

Rushing to the door of the barn, Marshal kicked it open and violently threw up. What had he gotten himself into. His life truly ruined, because of his severe cocaine addiction, and hard love for the game of poker. Selling his house wasn’t an option, it wouldn’t cover the amount he was owe. He couldn’t magic up the money either , so the only other option, was to blow up some poor families house with everyone inside. Vomit rose to the back of his throat again but he managed to hold it down, this time. Marshal had no idea what the family had done to deserve this but he didn’t know them, and that’s what he kept telling himself.

Present day.

Marshal couldn’t face going into work, not after the night he had. It would be a day of drinking coffee, and hoping the horrors of his dreams weren’t going to come and take him away.

Over the past few years, he had well and truly turned his life around. He had beaten both of his addictions, got himself a steady job, and had never heard from the dealers he was due money to, they stayed true to their word. Life had gone on. He had never been caught for the arson attack on the house but he knew deep down, that one day, either the police would catch him, or the ghosts of his past would.

The dreams always returned around the anniversary of the fire, each year becoming more vivid. Would this be the year everything finally caught up with him, or would he be destined to live the rest of his life being haunted with dreams of the dead.

Marshal lit a cigarette, the burning tip crackled as he took in an unusually long drag. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the dreams had never affected him like this before. Usually going to work helped take his mind away from it all, but not today. Paranoia engulfed him. The smallest of noises had him on edge, the slightest twitch from the curtains had him rushing over to the window, even the tick of the clock made him jump.

“ Snap the fuck out of it”, he cursed at himself. ” No police, no dealers, and no deathly figures from your dreams are coming to get you”.

His little outburst had done nothing for him, The tension at the bottom of his neck had travelled to the sides of his head. Laying down on the sofa, he gently massaged his temples. A large whiskey was what he needed, not another cup of coffee.

A few hours had passed. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table next to him. Clearly feeling the effects, he mumbled manically to himself. Drinking alcohol wasn’t the best of choices, and he knew that, but he needed something numbing, something to take the edge off. He lay back down again, until sleep finally claimed him.

5 years previous.

1 am flashed on the clock inside the car. Marshal slowly placed the key inside the ignition and gently turned it. The car groaned to a start. Piece of shit Marshal thought, but tonight, the car was the least of his worries. A whole world of feelings circled his mind. He could run away and not go through with it, but with no money, and the chances of being hunted down very high, he knew deep down, it really was the only option.

Minchcliff gardens was located in a little town about an hour’s drive from Marshals home. He had spent the previous night planning a route which would give him the best possible chance of not being caught. Life in jail for arson and murder, was not part of his future plans.

Marshal rolled down his window and lit a cigarette. The roads were eerily quiet at this hour. They were long and empty, creating a sense of unease. He gripped the steering wheel as if waiting for a spectral figure to jump out in front of the car. In a few miles, he would be arriving at his destination, he had to stay alert, there was no time for silly distractions, tonight he had to be professional.

Turning off the main road, down a dirt track was a forest thick with trees, and a vast darkness, a perfect place to park . A ten minute walk through the trees would take him directly to number 24 Minchcliff Gardens, a house on its own at the top of a hill. Pulling the leather gloves and balaclava from the bag, he quickly threw them on. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he locked the car and crunched his way through the fallen leaves.

Crouching down at the break of the trees, he unzipped the bag, pulling out the jerry can, and matches. Staring at his watch, his heart beat at 138 beats per minute, he had to calm down. Number 24 stood in complete darkness, no cameras or alarms which he found strange in this day and age but it would make the job easier for him. Slowly creeping up on the front door, he soaked a rag in petrol and quietly posted it through the letter box. A flicker of doubt flashed in his mind. No he thought, I have to do this, or I’m a dead man. Gripping the match between his thumb and index finger, he pressed the head of the match against the striker on the box. The match flew through the open letter box setting the rag immediately alight. To his surprise, the hallway lit it up almost instantly. He knew the poor souls inside had no chance with the smoke alarms being tampered with, so he set off back through the woods. His job was done.

Sirens screamed in the distance, as he reclined in the car seat. Driving home straight away would be obvious. The only car on the road that early in the morning, he would be as well handing himself in. As soon as daylight hit, he would be off.

Leaving now meant he blended in well with the hustle of the morning traffic. The balaclava, gloves, jerry can, and matches were all zipped back inside the bag, waiting to be burned as soon as he was home. He vowed to himself to never gamble again, never to make the same mistakes again.

The bag slowly burned in front of him, along with the clothes he had on. what a night, a night, he wished to forget.

Laying back on the sofa, he switched the TV on. A breaking news headline flashed on the screen. Family killed in suspected arson attack, Police ask anyone with any information to come forward. That’s when it hit him, he was a Murderer.

Present day.

Marshal rubbed his eyes as he woke up a few hours later, the house in complete darkness. Reaching for the whiskey, he poured himself another drink. A newspaper cut out sat next to him, the headline sending chills down his spine. Family murdered in arson attack. How the fuck did that get here he thought. It's a newspaper cutting he kept in a box, along with his old journal that was filled with pages of his guilt. He didn’t remember taking the box out but then again he could have, whilst downing the whiskey. Snatching it up, he crumpled it between his hands. He needed air, and a cigarette. Stumbling through the hall, still intoxicated by all the whiskey, he abruptly stopped in his tracks. A light flickered upstairs. “Hello, is someone there” he slurred. Of course there wasn’t he thought, its nothing more than a faulty light.

Stepping outside, the cold air hit him. Damn it felt good. The cigarette felt good, it’s the best he had felt all day. Heading back in, he decided the last of the whisky, and another cigarette on the porch, was just what he needed but something wasn’t right. All the lights in the house were now flickering. Shadows danced and crept up the walls, making him feel irritable, and on edge. Floorboards creaked upstairs, for a second, he thought he might be dreaming again but a quick pinch of the skin assured him he wasn’t. Now in a state of fear, he climbed the stairs, hoping that nothing would jump out on him.” Hello” he slurred again, but still nothing, there was no answer. A crashing noise came from one of the rooms. Marshal slid his Back against the wall and began edging his way closer to the junk room at the end of the hall. Breathing heavily, he pushed the door open. A slurred scream escaped his mouth. Slamming the door shut as quickly as he opened it, he backed off down the hallway, not taking his eyes off the door. The handle frantically moved up and down, a flamed hand crept around and pushed it open. Marshals eyes widened, they had come for him. The dreams, they were real. Turning on his heels he ran, not realising how close he was to the banister. He flew over the top, screaming as he fell. Lying crumpled on the floor, blood oozing from his head, he managed to look up.

The last thing Marshal saw before taking his last breath, were the distorted faces of the burning family staring down on him. smiling. Revenge at last.

The police would eventually find Marshals cold dead body, along with the journal, newspaper cuttings, and his anti-psychotic medication. Marshal was a killer, and his secret would be exposed.