There is a spot in the woods. It lies deep within a dried ocean of dead trees, frozen in time. In the dry autumn of 1938, Potter Valley’s wonderfully rich and verdant forest was stripped of life in a matter of minutes as the land beneath the trees was swept in a blanket of unstoppable flame.

            There were investigations of the wildfire after it ceased its destruction. There were no signs of arson. Arnold Smith, the fire marshal for this sector of the national park, found nothing. A natural calamity. He cracked his knuckles. When he went to question the fire lookout in charge of the watchtower he was nowhere to be found. The marshal ascended the tower and found all of the lookout’s personal belongings. There was a pot of stale coffee that filled the air with a rank, putrid smell. The bed even had the look of someone that just arose from it. The room before him portrayed a man that just left in the middle of his duties.

            The fire marshal saw one thing he found familiar. A notebook. It was common for lookouts to keep notebooks. Being a lookout was a solitary job. Writing down sights and thoughts felt like a connection to people. Arnold knew this from his previous days as a lookout. Inside the first few pages were the details of his days: his various duties of tower upkeep, forest observations. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then it became blank. Blank page after blank page. Arnold believed it to be the last of the lookout’s personal journaling until he found something. Something that he found…peculiar? No. Something that made the back of his neck shiver with gooseflesh. Sprawled across the bottom of the page there was a question. Written in red.

            “Whose hands are these?”

            The marshal stopped…what? Breathing? Reading? He just…stopped. Confusion and discomfort flooded his mind as he tried to make something of what he read. He cracked his knuckles and turned the page.

            “What has he done with my hands? Are these mine? Or his? Am I writing this? Or are these hands doing it? I no longer feel in control. He’ll come for me. I will be the light.”

            The handwriting faltered and shook about the page. Arnold attempted to make sense of what was written on the pages in his hands. What was the last thing the lookout wrote before these cryptic messages? The sky above darkened as clouds of dark gray ballooned and billowed until the sun dwarfed behind. He found the last page of notes before the intermediate silence.

            “The wildlife seems to be acting more strangely than usual. Early this morning a cougar was running south. I figured it was hunting a small herd of deer that was also heading south but it didn’t seem to notice them. It was within arms reach but it continued right past the herd. I glanced to the north and saw a small gathering of rain clouds above a small spot. It did not have the same characteristics of an incoming storm. It was one small area in the sky. A congress of ravens seemed to be circling directly beneath it.

            “There was lightning. However, it was not a storm. The cloud cast several bolts of lightning down onto a singular spot in the woods. There was something…enchanting about it.

            “After the sky subsided its bolts all was quiet. It was distractingly quiet. There was no wildlife to be heard. Not a single sound interrupted the silence. I went to the balcony and was met with a soft breeze when I opened the door. However, none of the trees were moving amidst this breeze.

            “I think I will venture north to the spot in the woods. It looks roughly three miles ahead with the binoculars. The earth should be cooled by the time I reach it. I’ll be sure to return before nightfall and will write upon returning.”

            That was the last part written before the confusing messages. The fire marshal looked up from the notebook out into the woods and noticed a small group of birds circling a position a couple of miles north. That must have been the spot the lookout mentioned. Where did the lookout go? What did he see? What happened to his mental state? He looked down and noticed he was pumping his fingers. Trying to crack his knuckles. But he didn’t even know he was doing it. He wanted to find some answers. He grabbed his yellow coat. Arnold then decided he will venture north to the spot in the woods.

            He walked briskly among through the dead wood with the lookout’s notebook under his arm. The crunching of twigs and cindered leaves beneath his boots filled the still air around him. Arnold bustled through the smell of charred oak toward the faint sound of birds chirping. No. Not chirping. Cawing? Croaking, perhaps? Still too far to discern.

            In between the sounds of the birds ahead—which seemed to croak in synchronization—Arnold heard something. Something big. He heard the sound of a thud. One after another. Like the thing was walking. He froze in his place. The thuds grew louder and in a quicker succession. The beat of his heart almost matched the thumps in the earth. Something was coming towards him. Fast. He reached for his survival knife attached to his hip. As he unbuckled the sheath, a large cougar came galloping out of the woods. It barreled down at him. He leaped to the side out of its path as it darted away from him. The cougar turned its head towards Arnold as it was fleeing and he noticed it was missing an ear. The next instant the animal was out of sight.

            Relieved of his newfound safety, Arnold sat there to catch his breath. To his side was the lookout’s notebook that must have fallen open as he jumped away from the woodland beast. He picked it up and read the entry on the open page.

            “I will be the light. It calls me. It calls my name. Roland. Roland will be the light.” The fire marshal made no more sense of this but at least he had the lookout’s name.

            A couple of hours passed as he was getting closer to the spot. The birds overhead were loud. Almost shaking the dead trees around him as the ravens croaked in unison. The marshal noticed something lying on the ground ahead of him. A brown mound in the dirt. Something large yet unmoving. It looked like a corpse. He approached it slowly and was able to identify it. It was a dead cougar. As he observed it with more precision, he saw that it was missing an ear. He stomach twisted slightly. Wasn’t the cougar from before missing an ear? Was it the same ear? This macabre thought contorted in his mind as the ravens above croaked in deafening synchronicity.

            He reached for his ears as they winced in pain when the notebook fell open on the ground below him. He looked down and noticed he was cracking his knuckles. Wasn’t he just plugging his ears? He wasn’t cracking his knuckles. But it felt like somebody was cracking them for him. Was it him? From below his hands he saw something on the pages of the open notebook. Something moving. He bent down and saw smears of red form on the page. He crouched in and saw that it was blood. Blood was appearing before his eyes on the page. Something was writing itself on the page in blood.

            “I see him. He’s come for the light. But it’s mine. I am the light.”

            Arnold rubbed his eyes in an effort to make the writing disappear. But it didn’t. And he wasn’t rubbing his eyes. He thought he was. But he didn’t know what he was doing. The ravens above croaked and a blinding light burst through the woods. The silhouettes of dead trees illuminated until they almost disappeared. Arnold looked up. His eyes adjusted to the vibrance of the light and stood there. Staring. It was unlike any light he’s ever seen. It was breathing. It was living. It was beautiful. And he stepped inside.

            He stood there for hours. Or was it a few seconds? Time didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did. Only the light mattered. The enchanting elegance of the glow pulled him in farther. Arnold approached the light and saw something out of the corner of his eye. A figure. It was a person. Somebody was out here with him. With the light. What did they want? What if they wanted the light? He wanted it. It wanted him. It was calling to him, after all. Not this undeserving impostor. He reached for his knife. He ran at the person and plunged the blade deep beneath their yellow coat and into their heart until they stopped breathing. What did he just do? Did he just murder someone? Did his hands just drive a knife into another human being? They weren’t his hands, though. Were they?

            Arnold rose from the ground and noticed the person was carrying something. A notebook. He no longer felt like himself. He no longer felt like he was in control of what he was doing. His bloodied hands reached for the notebook and began writing. He looked up from his entries and saw someone in a yellow coat approaching. He began to write again.

            “I see him. He’s come for the light. But it’s mine. I am the light.”

            There is a spot in the woods. It lies deep within a dried ocean of dead trees, frozen in time.

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