Burning Butterflies

The sun yawned, rubbing away the night’s concerns with a gentle dawn. The forest glittered in the emerging light – rainwater clung to the greenery. Shelly Langstrom unzipped her tent, scratching at the silence of the morning. If she hadn’t woken up already full of so much noise, maybe she would have realized a morning in the mountains is never this quiet. 

Embers from last night’s fire released threads of smoke. Shelly slumped into a cheap camping chair; she had forgotten her sturdy, expensive one at home. 

A checklist formed in her head. Get the fire going again. Fill the kettle with water. Boil the water. Brew coffee. Eat something (optional). Calm down. Start packing.

Those tasks hovered around her like curious insects. If she ignored them, maybe they’d go away. The notion of a normal morning made her stomach flip. Despite her hesitation, the needs of the body eventually overruled all else. 

Morning’s first cup of coffee also assumed the role of lunch. 

Hunger fought with nausea. Something had to satiate the restless stomach.

She didn’t finish even a quarter of it before it all came back up. The tree she leaned on shook almost as violently as her own limbs were. After watering the ground with bile and tears she shrunk back into the chair. 

Her whole body shook, as if her skin held back an earthquake. All of her felt so…grey. Just like the world around her.

The roaring of her rushing pulse pulled her away from the campsite. Pulled her miles through the uneasy woods. Pulled her right back to the edge of the cliff; a river below delivered powerful waves that crashed into a collection of boulders sitting at its base. 

Shelly’s tears blurred her vision; she saw clearly anyway. 

The thing below sat on one of the boulders. Neck craned back, gazing up. Not at Shelly, but past her, at the sky. The river began to rise. Through the immense hum of the growing water, someone screamed.

Dirt clung to Shelly’s clothes and skin. Sticky pine needles pricked her face. She was not at the cliff. She was on the ground at the campsite. The heat of the dying fire licked up her tears. 

Something flipped a switch. 

Dusting off her clothes, Shelly stood. Air stopped tasting bitter. Colors weren’t so muted. She still shook, but only because she hadn’t eaten all day. 

After a quick change of clothes to match the approaching chill of the evening, Shelly fished through the cooler. The full pack of beer sang to her. While she munched on a granola bar and revived the fire, tension in her back forced her to pause. A sensation not unlike accidentally grating your fingers while shredding cheese shot up her spine. Yet it dissipated just as fast. She dismissed the moment, bemoaning her aging body. Every joint and muscle complained – running ceaselessly through a forest for 2.6 miles would be her cardio for the year.

She continued setting the campsite up for a peaceful evening, humming to herself while she fed the fire and built the thickest sandwich she could. 

Beer and meal in hand, she deflated in front of the fire. Through a gap in the trees a mountain peak reached high, brushing against the edge of dusk.

The early hours of the night soon tucked away the sun. Shelly studied how the fire danced. Watched how the wood split. How it all toppled, burying itself in its own remains.

Her jaw opened wide, popping as she yawned, taking in the chilly air. A few more logs rested nearby. She stood to throw it into the fire, then jolted backwards. She tipped over the chair and fell onto her back, hitting her head against the ground.

“No. No! No no no no….” 

The thing on the boulder stood just within the ring of firelight. Water dripped from its soaked clothes. Viscera and blood spilled out from the horrible cavity in its skull – half of its face missing. An arm clung to the torso, twisted in the wrong direction. Its one intact eye stared into the fire – blood in place of tears. The corpse of her friend remained silent. It never moved. Never looked away from the flames.

Shelly’s shoes couldn’t find a grip on the ground as she tried to push herself back up. She forgot to breathe. Adrenaline snaked its way through her body; it told her to RUN. It couldn’t be here. Simone couldn’t be here. 

Shelly hurried to stand. Dryness forced her eyes to blink. 

It vanished. 

Silence – absolute silence – accompanied the predatory darkness. This time, Shelly noticed. Only the soft crackling of burning wood remained; she clung to the sound.

Her fingers twitched. A nearby owl’s sudden call made Shelly jump. Other sounds of the night soon joined together in their wild choir. Shelly’s uneasy laughter joined the cacophony. 

“Come on, Michelle,” she said, trying to shove bravery into her voice, “You’re imagining things. You’re exhausted, yeah.” Sparks jumped as more sticks and logs joined the ever growing pile of ash. Despite the chill stiffening her fingers, the remaining bottles of beer opened without resistance. Each slow sip washed away some emotional debris. 

Dawn was opening the door to a new day when Shelly decided to crawl into the tent. She had been stretched, beaten, and tossed around. Her brain sizzled, on the brink of burning. Too much changed. Too much went wrong. 

In the end the outcome remained the same. 

Shelly turned into stone as she lost her battle with sleep. 

The forest screamed. Or rather, Shelly screamed. A tree held her hostage, hiding everything except her face and chest. Specters draped in flame twirled over roots and spun around trunks. They held enough shape to resemble the visage of a person. Everything they caressed immediately exploded in a shower of sparks and ash. Shelly spat out blood as they neared. Some of her skin fell to the ground – clumps of charcoal. A dancer stopped in front of her. Threads of smoke pulled away the fire. 

Butterflies emerged from the stump of a decapitated head. Perfectly normal, unharmed butterflies. One landed on her forehead. 

A sudden bloom of frost in her chest soothed its frantic heart.

In an instant the inferno around her vanished. The butterfly slipped off her face. It crashed to the ground, shattering as if it were glass.

Shelly’s throat seized. Smoke flew out of her mouth when she coughed. Bones began to shatter, but she couldn’t stop coughing. When her stomach ripped open, releasing her intestines, Shelly woke up.

An unobstructed shout escaped the moment she opened her eyes. There was a thunderstorm in her chest. All of her shook uncontrollably. 

“Hey, Seashell, y’alright?” 

Shelly whipped her head up. There she was. Simone. Very alive and okay Simone. The shaking increased. Simone’s face scrunched up with worry. 

“Shelly? Are you okay?”

Shelly forced herself to take a deep breath. Her heart began to smoke.

“Uh, sorry. I had a really bad nightmare.”

“Looks like it.” She walked over to the rock Shelly sat against. She picked up a water bottle. Shelly stared at Simone. A library’s worth of thoughts and questions piled high in her mind. Simone put the water bottle back. “When you feel better join me at the edge, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Shelly replied. The sound of the river curdled her stomach. The sight of her best friend kindled the vicious flame infiltrating her heart, her head, her hands.

How was Simone here?

Shelly saw — well, maybe she didn’t see?

Confusion and all of its cousins fought at the dinner table.

Maybe it all really had been a nightmare. She felt certain it wasn’t. But here she was. With Simone at the edge of the cliff taking photos…again. In the middle of a wonderfully bright day surrounded by gorgeous views on all sides.

…and here Shelly was again. Happy to be out here with her bestie…while harboring a bloated rage. The inferno pushed against her ribcage. Boiled her blood and threw itself around in her head. The soot stained everything.

She stood. Rocks tied down her feet. All of that pressure sat impatiently within – it dragged her forward. Every step got her closer to Simone, closer to the edge. Resisting the invisible pull made everything hurt. 

“What’s wrong Seashell?” Simone suddenly said, still taking photos. “Afraid to relive your sins?” A snake coiled around Shelly’s spine. Her rage kept her walking. Terror deprived her of oxygen. Simone turned around.

“What the fuck!?” Shelly spat out. 

Despite missing half of her face, the glee on Simone’s rotting skull couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. “Didja forget how much you enjoyed this?” The corpse shuffled forward. Every step squelched. “Seashell, why are you fighting it? It’s already been done.” Simone stood at eye level with Shelly. The snake coiled tighter. “And it’ll be done. Over and over and over again.” 

Shelly screamed in the corpse’s face. She shoved Simone back. Everything she had been suppressing exploded. Shrapnel shredded her insides as it burst through her steaming skin. The rage fit her like a soft robe. Simone laughed. Bloodied water spilled from her skull. “Yeah, come on Seashell,” she taunted. “Maybe my other side will hit the rocks this time.”

“You’re dead! Go away!” 

“Make me.” She beckoned with a shriveled hand. 

Shelly reigned in her impulses, trying to ignore her desires long enough to form a coherent thought. None of this made sense. The cliff suddenly seemed smaller than it used to be.

“You’re not real. You’re not Simone.” Her voice cracked. Hot tears raced down her cheek. The corpse tilted its head. 

“I’m all that and more, Seashell.”

A small, almost non-existent feeling wriggled through the violent anger.

“You’re lying.” Shelly stepped back. “You are not Simone.”

“Sure I am.” It sighed, annoyed. “Don’t be difficult, Seashell. You wanna push me? Then. Push.” The cliff shrunk again. Its heels kissed the end of the precarious ledge. Shelly could step forward. She could shove Simone. She’d fall down and her skull would shatter on the rocks again. The river would send her away. Her rage would retreat back into cold, dark corners. 

She wanted to push Simone again. She wanted to kill again. As much as she hated it all, another part of her enjoyed it way more. The sound of Simone’s body splattering and cracking dangled in front of her – a carrot on a stick.

The corpse must have seen the starvation begin to creep in. It opened its arms wide. “Yeah, give in, Seashell.”

Vitriolic ecstasy hugged her heart and clawed at each artery. Her fingers twitched, and she did almost give in. Then a butterfly appeared above and behind the corpse. Its wings glittered in the sun. She couldn’t quite tell, but Shelly thought the insect’s wing scales looked like fine pieces of stained glass. 

The frost returned while the butterfly flitted around.

The corpse turned around, following Shelly’s gaze.

It expelled a guttural hiss. The butterfly’s wings crumbled into colorful dust when the corpse snatched it from the sky. “That bitch has no business being here,” It growled.

The air suddenly felt stale. Not-Simone radiated its own kind of rage. Some primal malevolence seasoned with an ageless bitterness.

“Sorry, Seashell. This run was a bust.” 

The ground beneath Shelly cracked. She was unconscious before she even had time to scream. As the earth carried her away, the old roots plucked out all of her tainted memories. 

Preparing her for the next room’s horrors.