EMBERS drift down like dying stars, and with every inhale, my mask gets hotter, tighter. The house feels alive, its lungs expanding and contracting in waves of heat and smoke. I cross the threshold, my boots splashing through water pooling across the charred floorboards, the hose outside still pumping, flooding the rooms in a desperate attempt to smother the flames. 

Ready or not, here I come.

I listen closely, the den is still, save for the wind pressing its warm breath against a windowpane. The curtains tremble against the glass, a slow inhale. I check behind the couch. A hollow where someone small might have been. A few forgotten things—half a crimson crayon, a lace-trimmed sock, a small toy horse with a melted leg.

Where did you go, Janie Doe?

I move to the hall closet, fingers skimming the brass knob. Moth-eaten coats sway on their hangers, singed sleeves empty, rocking slightly as if recently disturbed. The floor beneath me groans.

I know you’re here somewhere.

In the kitchen, the walls weep. No one curls under the table or squeezes beneath the sink. Water from the hose surges across the tiles, destroying all in its wake. The house hisses in protest, steam rising where the attack is beating back the blaze. 

A photograph drifts by—hands pressed in quiet prayer,; her communal gaze focused on something out of frame. The image sinks slowly in a foamy pool, and the edges dissolve—as if the water is trying to take her back.

That’s when it hits me—the weight of the air, thick as honey, pressing into my suit, seeping into my soul.

Come out, come out. Wherever you are.

One by one, I climb the stairs with a weight on my shoulders heavier than before. I can sense I’m getting warmer. Her door yawns open, and I step inside. The air swirls and banks down low, curling around my ankles like a silent hand reaching from the dark.

The bed is unmade, blankets crumpled in a heap, but it is not Janie balled up underneath.

A dollhouse in the corner is half-collapsed, its miniature furniture slathered in soot. Across the room, a bookshelf wilts to the side, the spines of her favorite stories curling inward, blackened at the edges. The walls—

The walls are now wheezing. Dark veins bubble beneath the paint, writhing, shifting when I look too long. Heat presses against me, relentless even through my gear, sweat pooling at the base of my neck. 

Olly olly oxen free.

My breath echoes in my mask, the hiss of filtered air the only thing keeping the fire from filling my lungs. I blink and turn away.

And then I see them.

The shoes.

Tiny blue sneakers with Velcro straps. Half-hidden beneath the bed, one tipped on its side.

A cough rises in my throat.

The house groans around me, a long, shuddering breath, as embers flake from the ceiling like drifting ash, the heat licking hungrily at what little remains. 

That’s when I know.