When I looked back at our house, I saw movement.

Someone inside was smashing a fist through our living-room window.

I didn’t move, too dumbstruck to think straight.

This figure was engulfed in flames yet moved with all the urgency of a lookie-loo at a Sunday afternoon open house. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, kid or adult. This person was punching the glass out of the window frame, then stepping out headfirst and tumbling down onto the grass. But instead of doing your standard stop, drop, and roll around to, you know, put out the flames, he (or she) stood up, looked around, and began to run away.

What the hell?

Having seen a scorched canvas tarp on the grass not far from the Carters’ barn, I grabbed it and chased after the burning figure, upon whom the fire seemed to have no effect at all.

Flaming pieces of clothing dropped to the ground as he crossed the street and headed for the tree line.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Stop!”

As I ran, I felt the impact of all that smoke in my lungs, and I began to choke. When I looked up, this dude’s shirt was falling away. Or was it flaming pieces of flesh? What was that nasty char smell in the air?

I could see ribs.

Made of metal.

On fire.

Even if this creature had gotten artificial ribs, his internal organs would all have been toast by now. Yet he kept running.

I dropped the tarp—because it was slowing me down, and, really, what good would it do?—and resumed my chase. As fast as I had become, this skeletal figure was faster, never pausing as flaming debris dropped off its body. I was caught up in the urgency of the moment, but let me just note: Yuck!

As he reached the trees, the flames surrounding him had dimmed to embers, though the air was filled with a smell like marshmallows dropped into a campfire. My eyes were watering and stinging from the heat and smoke, which was messing with my vision. I wiped away tears and tried to catch up, but it was a losing battle.

“Hey!” I yelled again as I reached the edge of the woods. I stopped, coughing, and leaned a hand against an oak tree.

This time the figure stopped as well and turned back toward me. His legs looked like regular human legs, covered with dark pants even, but his abdomen was full of fire, as though his stomach and intestines were burning, the flames filling the rib cage and engulfing the heart and lungs. His head appeared to be little more than a skull, though I saw a flash of silver in there, too.

I slapped my palms against my cheeks. I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t dreaming. I hadn’t ingested any psychedelic drugs. I was seeing something in real life that I might’ve imagined only as CGI.

And now this creature was running toward me.

I grabbed a long stick off the ground just as he reached me, and I thrust it into his chest. The point appeared to go between his ribs and hit a lung, yet there was no squish, pop, or reaction. The stick snapped—half in my hand, half protruding from his chest, apparently harmlessly.