Children of Fire

The old neighbourhood was nearly unrecognisable, run down from years of neglect and lack of investment. Yet the building at the end of Crow Street still managed to stand out as even more dilapidated, having stood empty and abandoned for over a hundred years.

Rumours flew that the old orphanage had been burnt down by members of staff, who had blocked any escape for the terrified children inside. Maybe out of respect for the horror that had happened there, the site had never been built upon.

Jayne Stiner looked up at the four-storey grey building and mentally shuddered. It looked more like a prison than a place where children had once been cared for. She rummaged around in her bag for the key, found it, and opened the door.

Burnt furniture was still in place. The floor was littered with ash and charred objects, most beyond recognition.

“With only the bodies of the young victims removed, the odd burnt toy is the only physical reminder that children were once here. Still, the vibes given out by this forgotten place—the feelings of dread and helplessness—are a window to the past.”

That should put a shiver in their spine, she thought, while turning off her dictaphone. Her first book, As Sweet as Salt, had stormed the market. Now she was hoping her second book, based on this old building, would do the same.

She decided against going upstairs, fearing the blackened stairs wouldn’t hold her weight. After wandering around the first floor, she made her way to the garden. Though untidy and overgrown with weeds, the brightness of the garden made a welcome change from the bleakness inside.

At the end of the garden sat a solitary swing—no more than a bit of rough wood held together by rope. It swung slowly to and fro, as if moved by some ghostly presence. The sound of childish singing floated to her ears but vanished as soon as she registered it.

Looking around and seeing no one, she scolded herself for getting too involved. She walked over to the swing and, after checking it was safe, sat down to collect her thoughts. Time slipped by silently.

She awoke with a jump to find it was getting dark. She looked down at her wrist, only to realise she’d forgotten her watch. Sensing someone behind her, she turned to see a little boy dressed in a blue top and ragged brown shorts.

“Hello, are you lost?” she asked gently.

The boy didn’t answer. He just held out his hand. She took it, and they started back towards the house. They were halfway through the main room when Jayne heard someone coughing behind her.

Looking back, she saw a girl—a couple of years older than the boy—slipping in through the back door.

“Hello, do you know this boy?” Jayne queried.

The girl nodded slowly. Jayne was about to say something else when the girl pointed towards the front door. Looking over, she saw five other children. They were chanting in voices so low she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The hand in hers grew cold. The boy at her side began to cry. Looking back towards the back door, Jayne saw more children of all ages, all chanting—getting louder, yet still incoherent.

Jayne’s eyes scanned the room, searching for a way out. The smell of smoke wafted towards her nostrils. The room seemed to be getting incredibly hot, and an orange glow crept over them.

PC Ben Cooper pushed open the door of the old building. He saw the woman’s body just as it had been described to the 999 operator. Checking for a pulse and finding none, he radioed back to base.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hated this place. Looking down at the lifeless body, he guessed this was the woman who had been phoning him over the past few weeks—the one trying to get information for some book she was writing. For weeks, she’d wanted to know about his great-grandad George.

George was the only survivor of the blaze—eight years old at the time and too traumatised to speak. Ben had never met him. The thing was, though, Ben could have given her all the information she wanted.

He’d found George’s diaries as a child, staying over at his grandparents’ house. They held most of the answers. Like the fact that it was the children—not the adults—who had started the fire.

George, like the rest of the children, had been afraid of the people who ran the orphanage. They had planned to run away. The fire was meant to distract the staff while they escaped, but things hadn’t gone to plan.

Ben shook his head, as if trying to shake away the information stored there. He went outside in the hope of clearing his head. After a few minutes, he thought he saw someone inside and hoped it was CID.

He went in and found a small boy in a blue top and ragged brown shorts.

“You can’t be in here,” he said sternly—though glad of some company.

The boy said nothing. He just held out his hand.