The crematorium

I recoiled, horrified, feeling that perhaps I was losing my mind. The accumulation of stress and work seemed to be affecting my mind.

I decided to take a few days off, but the voices would not leave me alone, even invading my dreams.

There, the people whose bodies I had cremated materialized, appearing before me with burned and deformed faces, their mouths incessantly whispering, “It's your turn.”

Returning to the crematorium after those days, I was determined to face what haunted me. I opened the furnace as I did every day, and looked inside.

There was nothing, just the metallic shadows, but I felt a presence, something I couldn't see, but I knew it was there.

It was as if the heat had a life of its own, as if the murmurs and pleas were part of the fire itself.

That night, as I turned off the furnace, I saw it. A shadow, a figure moving among the embers, bones and ashes.

It stood there, looking at me, though it had no eyes. I understood at that instant that the voices were not a figment of my imagination.

Something, or someone, was trapped in the fire, in every burning body, and wanted to get out.

Now, every time I turn on the oven, I hear those whispers. I no longer try to ignore them, because I know that those voices, those screams, will not go away until they get what they seek.