I dropped the camera to the floor and heard a rustle in the bushes outside. I saw a figure dart away in the dark out the window and wanted to fall to the floor myself, just like the camera and give up on life, this was just too much.
But surrender would not be an option, the scent of burning ambers and the sound of crackling kindling grabbed my attention and I turned around to see The Shack starting to blaze back by my bed. From my vantage, I could see the fire was spreading from an old, printed out photo of Jeremy, Daniel and I standing in front our elementary school, our arms around each other.
The fire quickly picked up momentum and I had no other option other than to run out of The Shack or burn to death in the thing like a log thrown into a fireplace. I dashed for the door and quickly felt the cold rush of night coat my body.
The soundtrack of the croaking frogs had magically vanished when I stepped outside. I was calm, all was still, not a sound lingered on the wind.
Until I heard a stick snap behind me. I tried to whirl around, but stopped when I felt a hard object ram up against the back of my head.
“Don’t move,” I recognized the voice that barked the command even though I hadn’t heard it for nearly 20 years.
“Back into The Shack.”
The object stuck to the back of my head led me backwards until I was facing the wood of the door to The Shack.