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Coming home to Crestwood always evoked a symphony of emotions within me. The moment I'd driven back into town, nostalgia wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. I wasn’t sure I liked it because underneath the warmth of nostalgia, a cold unease gnawed at my bones.
Crestwood was my hometown, but it had never truly been home. To the few people that remembered me, I was an ungrateful prodigal son returning to claim an inheritance. But it was an inheritance I never asked for. I was an outsider here, and I always felt on the edge, watching the world around me.
In high school, I’d been physically fit and had some prowess on the football field, but my fiery temper kept me from pursuing a normal track. Coaches wanted me. Girls checked me out. However, I knew the truth about me.
I had more than a bad temper. I had a bad soul. Just like my old man.
As I made my way through the town’s streets, landmarks flashed by, triggering memories both fond and painful. I strolled past the town park where I'd played as a kid, and the school where I was often branded different or odd. I was headed back to my old home, now weather-beaten and showing its age. I hated the idea of going home, but I had to do something with this place. The truth was I had nowhere else to go.
My gift—or curse, depending on how you saw it—had been the cause of most of my troubles.
Fire. An element as destructive as it was captivating. I could start fires.
Not with matches or lighters, but with my mind. However, it took a lot of rage to fuel a fire. Lots of rage. It was a power that had grown stronger with age, and with it grew the challenges of controlling it.
When I was younger, I unintentionally set things ablaze when I was agitated or overly emotional. Over the years, these incidents had led to charges of arson in various places. While I never meant to cause actual harm, the outcomes spoke otherwise.
To the world—or at least some towns and municipalities, I was a criminal. To me, I was a prisoner of my own abilities.
So, I became a drifter. Never staying in one place long enough to let the flames catch up. Until recently, that is. Until the Old Man died. Pity we’d not spoken in nearly three years. I had been surprised that my father's attorney found me and even more surprised that he’d left me the old homeplace.
He left me a little money. Not much, but enough to keep me comfortable for a little while. That is, if I could keep a low profile. Keep out of trouble.
The backyard had become my training ground. Piles of wood lay stacked, remnants of countless controlled burnings. Practicing, trying to reign in the volatile fire within me was my desperate attempt to establish dominion over my own gift.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Using fire to control or create fire. But underneath it all, anger simmered. Why did I have this gift? Why wasn’t I warned?
My father had been just like me, a firestarter. He'd kept it hidden, even from his own family. He'd passed away without warning me of the legacy he'd left behind. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that understanding and guidance could have been mine, if only he'd shared his secret.
As I strolled through town, every corner and alley whispered memories of days gone by. The old diner was no exception. Seeing its familiar neon sign took me back to that summer night during senior year.
Betrayal, jealousy, and flames. I remember the evening with painful clarity; Beth, my then-girlfriend, parked outside the diner. As I approached, hoping to surprise her, the last thing I expected to see was Beth locked in a passionate kiss with Jake, a guy from our rival school.
The rush of emotions that hit me had been overwhelming: betrayal, anger, heartbreak. But the strongest was an intense, burning rage. I screamed at her, the sound erupted from the depths of my belly.
Before I knew it, the car's hood began to smoke. Flames suddenly danced around it, consuming the car with alarming speed.
Beth and Jake, sensing the heat, scrambled out of the vehicle in terror. They stared at the blaze, then at me, their faces a mix of confusion and fear. Though they escaped unharmed, the incident cemented my reputation in Crestwood as someone to be wary of.
I had never wanted to hurt anyone, but that night... my powers had taken control.
Today, as I approached my childhood home, the air was different. Heavier. The peeling paint and overgrown bushes couldn’t hide the history etched into its walls. I found myself drawn to my father’s study, where dusty shelves and forgotten tales awaited.
One particular journal, worn and weathered, caught my eye. As I began to read, my father's elegant script wove a tale that was beyond anything I could have imagined. A tale that centered around the warlock, Jezreel Banks.
June 7, 1981
My research has led me to some startling revelations. Jezreel Banks, one of the colonists who founded Crestwood in 1702, was more than just an ancestor. He was a warlock of great power. He summoned and consorted with an elemental, known as Wormwood. This being thrived on chaos and destruction. Under Jezreel's guidance, Wormwood wreaked havoc upon the early settlement.
However, our founding fathers recognized the threat. In a desperate bid, they banished both Wormwood and Jezreel. But not before the elemental left its mark on our lineage. I’ve seen this evil bastard in my nightmares. The Banks family carries its touch, its influence. I feel it within me. And I fear for my son, Alex.
It seems Jezreel’s spirit is restless, and Wormwood is eager to be summoned once more, but they need fuel. The kind of fuel my power can provide.
The whispers in the shadows, the visions I've experienced - they're not just remnants of the past but warnings of what’s to come.
Even worse, I know Alex sees them too...
My heart raced as I continued to skim the pages, uncovering my father's internal battle with his own powers, his fears for me, and the looming threat of Jezreel's malevolent spirit.
I flipped to another page in the thick, dusty journal.
September 12, 1985
Jezreel's influence grows stronger. He wants me to embrace the elemental, to awaken Wormwood once again. But I resist. I must, for the sake of my family and for my town. But it's a battle, and I fear I may not have the strength to win. Not this time. The disease is taking its toll on me.
Please, Alex. Don’t come home.
Closing the journal, a chilling realization washed over me. My father hadn’t just been fighting his own demons; he’d been protecting me from mine. From our shared legacy. Jezreel Banks, my ancestor, was beckoning from the shadows. And with him, the malevolent force of Wormwood.
My return to Crestwood was more than just a trip down memory lane. It was a descent into a legacy of darkness and power. And the battle for my soul had only just begun.
The weight of my family's legacy, intertwined with the shadows of Crestwood's past, pressed heavily on me.
Attempting to distract myself from the surge of emotions and the information I'd just learned, I turned on the television, seeking the normalcy of some mindless programming.
Ugh. Bowling for Dollars.
The dial on Dad’s old television broke and the channels had to be changed with a pair of needle nose pliers. I was too tired to get up and tinker with it. Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore and twisted the dial.
I twisted the knob’s fine tuner and shifted the antennas a bit to get a better signal. A laugh track greeted me.
Thank goodness. At least it’s not boring ass bowling.
I tried to lose myself in the banalities of the sitcom, the canned laughter a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts and fears inside my head. But then I noticed it — a sudden spike in temperature, causing beads of sweat to form on my forehead. It wasn’t the stifling heat of summer; it was as if an intense heat wave had condensed solely within the four walls of my living room.
Oh hell. This isn’t right. Not at all.
Unsettled, I stood up to adjust the thermostat, but a flickering movement in my peripheral vision froze me in place.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, sinuous shadow darting down the hall.
It wasn’t like the shadows cast by the swaying trees outside in the evening breeze; this shadow moved with purpose and intent. Its form was vaguely human, elongated and menacing. It wasn’t a normal thing for me to see shadows. Not like this. I wasn’t like the rest of the folks at that meeting. I didn’t have visions or read people’s minds. I didn’t see ghosts or talk to the dead either.
Shit!
The shadow surged once more before disappearing onto the floor of the hallway. It vanished in seconds.
Feeling the panic rising, I took hesitant steps toward the hall, every fiber in my being urging me to run in the opposite direction. The lights flickered ominously, plunging the room into sporadic moments of darkness.
The air grew heavier, thick with anticipation.
Reaching the entrance of the hallway, I peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of what I had seen. A sudden, cold draft made me shiver, contrasting sharply with the previous heat.
The oppressive silence was shattered by a whispered voice that echoed in the stillness. It was distant, yet oddly clear, dripping with malevolence.
Wake me, Alex Banks...
I spun around, trying to locate the source, but there was no one there.
No evidence of any intrusion. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was no longer alone in my childhood home. Somewhere, in the recesses of its old, creaking structure, something watched and waited for me.
The realization was clear—the spirits of the past weren't just in the pages of a journal, or in the whispered legends of Crestwood. They were here, with me, and attached to the Banks family and they weren't going to let me forget it.
As the final chilling words echoed in my mind, the television set unexpectedly went blank, leaving me standing in an eerie silence, surrounded by an encroaching darkness.
I didn’t even scream when it crashed to the floor.
