The first time James Coulter saw the flames dance, he was eight years old. It was the night his mother burned.
Not in a metaphorical way—she didn't drink herself into ruin, didn't leave them for a new man in the next town over. No, she burned. Real fire. Real screaming. The real smell of skin splitting like sausage casings on a grill. He remembered that smell the most: hot copper, melted plastic, and something sharp beneath it—something that made the hairs on his arms stand up and his stomach twist like an old dishcloth.
He told people what he saw, but nobody believed him.
"It was an accident," they said.
"She was careless," they said.
"Fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand," they said.
They never asked why her body was curled like she'd been dancing, her arms thrown up mid-spin, her fingers reaching for something unseen. They never wondered why the fire left the room black, the walls charred down to bone, but her body… her body was intact. Not a crisped skeleton. Not a pile of gray ash. Just skin burned tight over her bones, her mouth a silent, screaming O, her hands frozen in the air like she'd been waiting for a partner to take them.
James stopped telling people about the figure he saw in the fire.
The one that moved like a woman, but wasn't.
The one that danced.
Now, thirty years later, James was back in Black Hollow, the town he swore he'd never return to. The place where his mother died, where the air always smelled faintly of old wood and damp earth, even in the dead heat of summer.
He stood on the edge of the lot where his childhood home had been, now an empty stretch of dirt overgrown with weeds. But something remained—something that shouldn't have.
A single blackened imprint in the ground, the exact shape of his mother's body.
He knelt and pressed his fingers to the charred soil. It was warm.
"Doesn't go away, does it?"
James jerked up so fast his knees cracked.
The man standing there was a stranger, yet he seemed familiar in some way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dusty work shirt and jeans that had seen better days. His face was lean, all sharp lines and tired eyes.
"Excuse me?" James said.
"The burn," the man gestured toward the imprint in the dirt. "You can dig it up, pave over it, throw all the holy water you want—won't make a difference. It's there. Always gonna be there."
James studied him. "Did you know my mother?"
The man let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Everybody knew Lily Coulter."
James didn't like the way he said that.
"Who are you?"
The man extended a calloused hand. "Ray Mercer. I own the hardware store up on Main."
James hesitated before shaking it. Ray's grip was firm and dry. His skin was warm, just like the soil.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Ray asked.
James frowned. "Should I?"
"I was there," Ray said. "That night. The fire."
James felt his heart kick against his ribs.
"What?"
Ray glanced down at the burned imprint, then back at James.
"I saw what you saw."
James took a step back. "That's not possible."
Ray didn't blink. "She danced, didn't she?"
James's throat went dry.
Ray nodded like he understood everything James wasn't saying.
"They always do," Ray murmured.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving James standing there with his heart pounding, the air thick with the phantom scent of burning teeth.
James didn't sleep that night. He lay in the bed of the motel off Route 6, the one with the flickering neon sign that read VAC NCY because the second A had died sometime in the '90s. The sheets were stiff, the air conditioner rattled like a busted chainsaw, and the room smelled like someone had once tried (and failed) to cover up the stench of mildew with an entire can of lemon-scented Lysol.
None of that mattered, though.
Because all he could think about was Ray Mercer.
And what the hell he meant when he said: She danced, didn't she?
James sat up and rubbed a hand down his face. His skin was damp. Had he been sweating? The room was cold, but his body burned like he'd spent the night sleeping under a sunlamp. His heart was still hammering, that old childhood fear curled up in his ribs like a sleeping cat, waiting to stretch its claws.
Maybe coming back was a mistake.
But he needed answers.
James found Ray at the hardware store the next morning, stacking bags of mulch near the entrance.
"Back so soon?" Ray said without looking up.
"I didn't sleep," James admitted.
Ray nodded like he expected that. "You wouldn't."
James crossed his arms. "You said you were there. The night my mother died."
Ray sighed, wiped his hands on his jeans, and then motioned for James to follow him inside.
The store was cool and smelled like sawdust and fresh paint. Ray led him past the aisles of tools and gardening supplies, through a door marked Employees Only, and into a small office lined with old metal filing cabinets. He sat down behind a desk cluttered with receipts, a half-eaten sandwich, and a coffee cup that read WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD.
James stayed standing.
"You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?" James asked.
Ray steepled his fingers. "You ever hear about The Girl Who Burned Twice?"
James blinked. "What?"
Ray gestured toward the chair across from him. "Might wanna sit."
James hesitated, then did.
Ray leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "There's an old story about this town. One nobody likes to talk about. A girl named Margaret Dean—Maggie, they called her. Happened a long time ago. Nineteen-twenty-something, I think."
James frowned. "What happened to her?"
"She burned," Ray said. "Twice."
James felt something cold trickle down his spine. "How?"
Ray exhaled. "First time, she was seventeen. House fire. People say her drunk of a father knocked over a lantern during one of his rages. By the time the neighbors got there, the house was nothing but a pile of glowing embers. They found her body in the middle of it, burned black, arms up like she was—"
"Dancing," James finished before he could stop himself.
Ray's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Yeah."
James's hands curled into fists. "What do you mean she burned twice?"
Ray tilted his head. "That's the part that doesn't make sense. See, they buried her. People came, said their goodbyes, threw dirt on the casket, and all that. But a week later, another fire broke out—this time at the church. And when they got inside?"
James swallowed. "She was there."
Ray nodded. "Standing right in the middle of the flames. Burned all over again, just like before."
James shook his head. "That's impossible."
Ray leaned back. "Is it?"
James wanted to argue, wanted to tell Ray he was full of shit, but then he thought about his mother. The way she burned, the way the fire didn't consume her, just changed her.
The way she danced.
James clenched his jaw. "What does this have to do with my mother?"
Ray studied him. "I don't think the fire killed her, James."
James felt his stomach drop. "What?"
Ray's voice was quiet. "I think it let her go."
James shot to his feet. "That's bullshit."
Ray didn't flinch.
James ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. "No. No, I buried her. I saw them put her on the ground."
Ray just nodded.
Like he knew something James didn't.
James turned, shoved the office door open, and stormed into the store. His heart pounded, his skin felt hot, and the air felt thick, almost like smoke before a fire started.
He had to get out of there.
He had to leave town.
But then he stepped outside and stopped dead.
Because there, standing across the street, was his mother.
Lily Coulter.
The woman who burned.
She was watching him.
And smiling.
James Coulter knew three things about his mother:
She loved Johnny Cash. Played Ring of Fire on repeat until the old cassette deck in her car ate the tape. She never left the house without a pack of Winstons and a lighter with the initials L.C. carved into the side. She had been dead for thirty years.
So why the hell was she standing across the street?
James couldn't move. His feet felt nailed to the sidewalk, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. He told himself it wasn't real, couldn't be real—but she was right there. Lily Coulter. The same honey-blonde hair she always wore in a loose braid. The same faded denim jacket she used to throw over the back of the kitchen chair.
The same goddamn smile.
Not a warm, motherly smile. No. It was wrong.
Wide. Stretched too far. Like something had slipped beneath her skin and was trying to wear her face.
She raised a hand. Waved.
James stumbled back, nearly knocking over a metal display rack outside the hardware store. The sound made Ray Mercer appear in the doorway behind him.
"Shit, kid. You look like you seen a—" Ray started, but then he saw her, too.
His face drained of color.
"Get inside," he said, grabbing James by the arm.
James didn't move. "You see her?" His voice was thin, strangled. "You see her too?"
Ray yanked him backward. "Inside, goddammit!"
The urgency in his voice finally broke through the fog of shock, and James let himself be dragged through the door. Ray slammed it shut, locked it, and then yanked down the blinds.
The store was quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights.
James sucked in a breath and turned to Ray. "Tell me I'm crazy. Tell me I didn't just see my dead mother smiling at me from across the street."
Ray didn't answer.
He just reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam, and took a long, slow swig.
Then he handed the bottle to James.
James hesitated, then took it. He wasn't much of a drinker, but hell—he'd just seen a ghost. Or something worse. He took a burning swallow, coughed, then wiped his mouth.
Ray exhaled. "That wasn't your mother."
James let out a short, humorless laugh. "Sure as hell looked like her."
Ray shook his head. "Fire does that. Wears people's faces. Knows what'll shake you to the core."
James stiffened. "You're saying the fire—"
Ray looked at him, his expression heavy.
"It wants something, James."
James felt something cold coil in his gut.
Ray kept talking. "A long time ago, before this town had a name, people used to tell stories about a thing that lived in the flames. Something that didn't just burn people—it took them. And when it took them, it used them."
James swallowed. "Used them how?"
Ray's jaw tensed. "To bring it more."
James's skin prickled. "More what?"
Ray's eyes darkened. "Dancers."
James gripped the counter, the bottle of whiskey sweating in his palm.
"My mother," he said. "Did she—did it take her?"
Ray's silence was answer enough.
James's breath came fast and shallow.
"No," he whispered. "No, I buried her."
Ray nodded. "Yeah. And I bet if you went and dug up that grave, you wouldn't find a goddamn thing in it."
The world tilted. James pressed a hand to his forehead. "Jesus Christ."
Then, from outside—
A tap. Tap. Tap.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Like someone knocking on the glass.
Ray's head snapped toward the window.
James's stomach knotted. He turned—
The blinds were drawn, but there was a glow behind them. A flickering orange light, moving like fire in a breeze.
Then—
The smell.
Not just smoke. Not just burned wood.
That other smell. The one James had never forgotten.
Burning teeth.
The knock came again.
Then—
A voice.
Soft. Almost gentle.
"Jimmy."
James's breath caught.
It was her.
Not the thing outside. Not the fire.
Her.
His mother.
Or something that wore her voice.
Ray reached under the counter again. This time, he pulled out a shotgun.
James barely noticed. His body moved on instinct, his feet carrying him forward.
Ray cursed. "James—don't—"
But James was already reaching for the cord on the blinds.
Already pulling it.
Already looking.
And what he saw—
What he saw made his mind break.
James Coulter had seen fire before. He had seen the way it moved, the way it devoured. The way it danced.
But this—
This was not fire.
The thing standing outside the hardware store had his mother's face, but it wasn't his mother. It wasn't even human.
Its skin flickered—not burning, not charred, but moving, like the glow of embers shifting under ash. Every few seconds, it glitched, its features slipping and rearranging, like a TV stuck between channels. His mother's face would flicker away, and something else—something hollow-eyed and wrong—would take its place.
Then—snap—back to Lily Coulter.
And that smile.
That wide, stretched grin.
James felt something deep in his brain buck and rebel. He wanted to look away. He needed to look away.
But he couldn't.
Because it was calling him.
"Jimmy," it said again, its voice warm, sweet, curling around him like smoke. "Come outside, baby. I've been waiting so long."
Behind him, Ray Mercer chambered a round.
"Close the blinds," Ray said, low and steady.
James didn't move.
The thing tilted its head, eyes flickering with gold and red, a pulsing heat radiating off its body in waves. It lifted one hand—his mother's hand, but not—and pressed it against the glass. The glass didn't fog. Didn't smudge. The heat should have shattered it, should have melted it to slag.
Instead, the glass began to blacken.
Like it was charring from the inside out.
"James." Ray's voice was sharper now. "Close the goddamn blinds."
James wanted to.
But he couldn't move.
Because the longer he looked, the more he felt something pulling at him.
Not his body—his mind.
Like invisible fingers curling into his skull, peeling him away layer by layer.
And suddenly, he was eight years old again.
Standing in the hallway of his childhood home. Watching the flames rise. Watching his mother in the center of it all, arms up, twirling, spinning—
Dancing.
Her mouth opened in a soundless laugh.
Not screaming. Not crying.
Laughing.
James staggered backward, gasping.
And just like that—
He was back in the hardware store.
His knees hit the ground.
Ray grabbed him by the collar, yanked him away from the window, then slammed the blinds shut.
The heat vanished. The light disappeared.
James sucked in deep, ragged breaths.
"What the hell was that?"
Ray kept the shotgun raised. "You tell me."
James pressed his hands against his face. His skin was damp—sweat, not blood, though for a second, he'd been sure his nose was bleeding.
Outside, the thing let out a soft hum.
A familiar tune.
James's stomach dropped.
Because he knew that song.
Knew it down to the bones.
"Love is a burning thing," the thing crooned.
James clenched his teeth.
"And it makes a fiery ring…"
His mother's favorite song.
Ring of Fire.
James's hands curled into fists. "What does it want?"
Ray exhaled through his nose. "You already know the answer to that, kid."
James swallowed hard.
Dancers.
The fire wanted dancers.
James shut his eyes and tried to think. This wasn't like other hauntings. This wasn't some vengeful spirit, wasn't some restless ghost. This was something else.
Something that had been here long before his mother. Long before Black Hollow.
And it wasn't leaving.
Ray was staring at him.
"You hear it, don't you?" he asked quietly.
James met his gaze. "What?"
Ray licked his lips. His face was pale.
"The music."
James didn't answer.
Because the truth was—
Yes.
Yes, he heard it.
A low, crackling melody, just beneath the edge of his hearing. The soft twang of a guitar. The slow, steady beat of a drum.
Like an invitation.
Like a hand reaching out in the dark.
James shuddered. "How do we stop it?"
Ray's grip tightened on the shotgun. "I don't think we can."
James's jaw clenched. That wasn't good enough.
No. If this thing wanted him, it would have to take him kicking and screaming.
He turned, grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the counter, and smashed it against the floor. The sharp tang of alcohol filled the air.
Ray's eyes widened. "Jesus, kid, what the hell are you—"
James grabbed the lighter from his pocket.
His mother's lighter. The one they found next to her body all those years ago. The one he'd taken before they buried her.
He flicked it open. The flame danced to life.
And outside—
The thing laughed.
James took a breath.
And then—
He dropped the lighter into the whiskey.
The fire exploded.
A wall of heat surged forward, engulfing the room in bright, hungry flames. The wood snapped and popped, the air thick with smoke.
And outside—
The thing screamed.
But not in pain.
Not in anger.
In delight.
Because this—
This was a dance.
And it had been waiting for James to join in.
The last thing he saw before the flames took him was his mother's face.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Welcoming him home.
Fire has a rhythm.
James Coulter understood that now.
Not the frantic crackle of a house fire, not the chaotic roar of a wildfire tearing through dry brush—no, the kind of fire he stood in now was different. It had a pulse. A slow, steady beat.
Like a song.
Like a dance.
He was inside it.
And it wasn't burning him.
The flames wrapped around him, curling up his arms, and licking at his throat, but they didn't consume him. Didn't char his skin, didn't split him open like overcooked meat. Instead, they moved with him, waiting for him to take the next step.
Waiting for him to lead.
Across the fire, his mother swayed.
Her hair moved in slow, weightless waves, floating like she was underwater. Her arms lifted, wrists turning gracefully like she was waiting for him to take her hands.
James took a step forward.
Somewhere, behind the heat and smoke, he could hear Ray Mercer shouting his name.
But Ray was on the other side of the fire.
And James was here.
With her.
With them.
Because now he could see them all—all the dancers.
They moved in the flames like figures behind frosted glass, shapes flickering, hands reaching, arms lifting. Some slow and fluid, others jerky and disjointed, like marionettes caught in invisible strings.
And their faces—
God.
Some of them had no faces at all.
Just hollow spaces where eyes should be, empty mouths stretched wide in silent, ecstatic screams.
But his mother still had her face.
And she was smiling.
"Come on, Jimmy," she whispered. "Dance with me."
James's breath hitched.
The flames curled around his legs, up his spine, whispering in his ears. They knew him. They had been waiting for him.
His whole life, he had been running from this moment.
Now, he was here.
He could feel the rhythm.
Could hear the music.
Low, crackling strings. A ghostly drumbeat.
The sound of something old and endless.
Something that took, and took, and took.
James felt himself sway, his muscles loosening, his hands starting to rise.
Somewhere far away, Ray was screaming—
But James couldn't hear him anymore.
Because now—
He was dancing.
And it felt—
Good.
But fire never lets go.
Something hit him.
Hard.
A body, collided with his, knocking him off balance. James hit the floor, air punching out of his lungs, his vision snapping back into focus. The flames roared, but they weren't inside him anymore. He was on the ground, outside the fire.
Ray Mercer stood over him, face streaked with soot, eyes wide and furious.
"Get up, kid," Ray growled.
James sucked in a breath. The world snapped back. The store was burning. Smoke choked the ceiling. The heat pressed against his skin.
But the dancers—
They were still there.
Still waiting.
His mother was still in the flames, still reaching for him, her smile faltering, her head tilting.
"Jimmy," she whispered.
Ray grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him to his feet. "Don't listen."
James's head spun. His limbs felt heavy. "She—"
"She's gone, kid." Ray's grip tightened. "She was gone a long time ago."
James wavered.
But the music—
It was still playing.
Soft. Insistent.
The invitation hadn't been rescinded.
Not yet.
James turned to the fire.
And for the first time, he saw what was inside.
Not just his mother.
Not just the dancers.
Something else.
Something big, hidden in the center of it all, where the flames were brightest.
A shape.
A presence.
Something with a thousand arms, a thousand hands, reaching, twisting, beckoning.
Something that had been watching him his whole life.
Something waiting for him to burn.
James felt his stomach turn.
He took a step back.
Then another.
The fire shuddered like it knew it was losing him.
His mother's smile faded. Her lips moved, but this time, no words came out.
And James understood.
She wasn't inviting him in.
She was warning him.
Ray pulled him toward the door.
James's legs finally worked, and he ran.
They burst outside just as the roof caved in, a burst of fire and embers spewing into the night sky. The store collapsed in on itself, the flames roaring, and for one final, impossible second—
James saw them.
The dancers.
Hundreds of them, rose with the fire, their arms outstretched, their bodies twisting, spinning, leaping into the night.
And in the center—
That thing.
Still reaching.
Still waiting.
Still hungry.
Then—
The fire went out.
Not in the way a normal fire dies.
Not a slow burn.
Not a gradual flicker.
Just—
Gone.
Like it had never been there at all.
The air was silent.
The night was dark.
James Coulter stared at the space where the store had been, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His hands were shaking. His skin still felt too warm. The fire had touched him.
Had almost taken him.
But he was still here.
And they—
They were not.
Ray let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Shit." He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at James. "You okay, kid?"
James let out a breath. Nodded.
Ray exhaled. "Good."
Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and handed one to James.
James took it.
And this time—
He lit it.
Because fire was still in his blood.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
It always would be.
James Coulter left Black Hollow before sunrise.
Didn't pack. Didn't say goodbye.
He just drove.
Didn't matter where. Didn't matter how far. As long as the fire couldn't follow him.
But deep down, he knew—
The fire had no borders.
It had no walls.
It could be anywhere.
And maybe—
It was already inside him.
James didn't stop driving until exhaustion forced him to. A nameless roadside motel, three states away. One of those places with a buzzing neon sign, cigarette burns on the furniture, and a dead-eyed woman behind the desk who didn't ask questions.
Perfect.
He paid in cash, took his key, and shut himself inside Room 12.
The sheets smelled like stale sweat and something faintly metallic.
Didn't matter.
James collapsed onto the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to pretend he was safe.
He tried to ignore the sound of the crackling flames, but he couldn't stop listening to it.
He woke to the smell of smoke.
At first, he thought it was a dream.
He blinked, sat up, and rubbed at his face.
No flames. No fire. Just darkness, the hum of the old air conditioner rattling in the window.
James exhaled.
Jesus. Just a dream.
Then—
The music started.
Faint.
Muffled.
A radio playing from the other side of the thin motel wall.
A song he knew too well.
"Love is a burning thing…"
James froze.
The air felt heavier.
Thicker.
Like something wasn't right.
He turned, slow, muscles stiff—
And nearly screamed.
A woman was sitting in the motel chair.
Not just any woman.
His mother.
She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, head tilted, smiling that same stretched, too-wide grin.
But it wasn't her.
Not really.
James knew that now.
"Jimmy," she whispered. "Why'd you run?"
James's pulse thundered.
He forced himself to breathe. To think.
He wasn't in Black Hollow anymore.
The fire was gone.
The dancers were gone.
So why was she here?
James's mouth was dry. "You're not real."
His mother—the thing wearing her face—tilted her head.
Her hair shifted.
And for the briefest second—
James saw what was underneath.
Blackened, charred flesh.
A face burned down to bone.
Then—snap—she was normal again.
She smiled.
"I missed you," she murmured.
James's stomach clenched.
He had seen many things in his life. Things he couldn't explain. Things no one should ever see.
But this—
This was worse.
Because he knew, in some deep, crawling part of his brain, that this wasn't over.
The fire had touched him.
It had marked him.
And the fire never really goes out.
His mother stood up, slow, deliberate.
She took a step toward him.
James shot out of bed, backing up so fast he nearly tripped over the motel nightstand.
She smiled wider.
"You can run, baby," she said softly.
Another step.
Her body flickered.
Like a candle struggling in the wind.
"But the fire always finds its way home."
James's breath came fast, shallow.
He reached for the motel lamp, yanked it off the nightstand, and hurled it—
The lamp smashed against the wall.
His mother—the thing—was gone.
Just—
Gone.
Like she had never been there at all.
The motel was silent again.
The air still.
James stood there, heart hammering, breath ragged.
Then he heard it—
The faintest crackle.
The whisper of something watching.
Waiting.
He turned to the motel mirror.
And froze.
Because in the glass—
Behind his reflection—
There was something else.
Something dark.
Something that burned.
James Coulter clenched his jaw.
He knew what this meant.
The fire wasn't done with him.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
And sooner or later—
It would come to collect.
The End