The Burning Claws of Death

Silence permeated the house sending spiders crawling up Shana's spine. Her father had warned her not to enter the house until after sunrise, but she had driven all the way across the Mojave Desert to reach Joshua Tree Junction. She was hot. She was tired. She was thirsty. She did not have the energy to drive one more mile. All she wanted to do was find Aunt Georgia's setting room, sit down on the antique love seat, open the only remaining bottle of water she had left, and let the coming desert night cool her down.

"Stop imagining things," she said turning the handle on the door she thought lead to the setting room. The door squeaked open, revealing the sitting sun shining through a broken window pain onto the cracked linoleum floor of the kitchen. "Shit," she turned around and walked to the door across the hall. She tried the door knob, but it would not turn.

"How could this door be locked? There isn't a lock on it." She tried again while pushing on the door with her shoulders. The door flew open, she stumbled into the room, and fell on her face in front of her Uncle Fred's roll top disk. Pushing herself up, she glanced around at the room illuminated by the sunlight penetrating the darkness of her deceased uncles study. Getting up, she stumbled to the desk and lit the oil lamp. Behind her she heard the door to the study slam and the lock click shut.

Picking up the lamp, she went to the sofa that sit against the north wall. She placed the lamp on a round oak table sitting on the east side of the sofa. She removed the cloth book bag that hung from her left shoulder and placed it on the floor. Then she removed the fanny pack from around her waist and sit down on the couch. After taking several deep breaths, she took a large water bottle from the book bag and opened it.

"Well," she took a long swig, "it's hot, but it's wet." She opened her fanny pack, removed her smartphone, and attempted to call her parents. "Damn! No reception." She looked out the room's bay window at the deepening desert night. "I'll have to wait until morning to call them." She extinguished the lamp, removed her motorcycle boots, and lay down on the couch using her fanny pack as a pillow.

Shana woke up, sit straight up, and looked around. The darkness was suffocating. Shana attempted to breath, but she could feel a pair of hands around her neck squeezing tighter and tighter like a hangman's noose cutting off her air. She placed her hands to her neck, but she felt only her own pulse. Reaching into her fanny pack, she took a a small flashlight and turned it on. She was alone.

"That's weird," she said getting up. "I thought I moved that oil lamp off the desk." She walked over to the roll top desk, lit the oil lamp, and took it back to the couch again sitting it on the table. "Oh well, I must have dreamed I lit t he lamp earlier."

Leaning back she looked up. The burning wick of the oil lamp cast the shadows of claw like hands onto the ceiling. As she watched the shadow hands appeared to clutch tighter and tighter as if choking someone to death. Shana's eyelids fluttered and closed. From behind the couch, a two hands appeared. The fingers curled themselves around her neck and began to squeeze. She jerked her left arm up, it knocked the oil lamp onto the floor, breaking the chimney and body. The oil spilled across the floor catching fire.

Shana grabbed at the hand around her neck, trying to pry the finger loose. The fingers squeezed tightening themselves around her throat and the oil fire spread across the floor. As the fire spread the clawed hands burned themselves into Shana's throat.

***
The next morning, when the Shana's father reached the house. He found the wind blowing its smoulder ashes across the desert, but he could not find any sign of his daughter.