A ring of fire.

They thought I was crazy when I told them. Said I was off my rocker. Nuts. Past my sell-by date. Just you wait, was all I thought. You wait until you see them too.

It was 1993, the sixteenth of October. Weather was nice and temperate, not too hot, not too cold. The news presenter that day was Mitchell Weatherby, a nice young lad, about nineteen at the time. I didn’t know him personally, but he was an excellent presenter, his suit was always pressed with creases just the right sharpness, and he had just a hint of stubble making its way onto his clean-shaven face.

I heard it on the radio before I saw it on the news. Poor Weatherby, killed in a tragic work fire. Somehow, everyone but Mitchell had escaped, uninjured and breathing fine. Weatherby, however, was the last to hear the news and before you knew it, was encircled in a ring of fire. People all over the town were mourning the loss of their favourite news presenter. I saw his parents, his mother pale with glassy eyes, his father grey and sobbing. My heart was breaking for them.

It was that precise night that I saw it. 11:08 pm, in Black Dog alley. I’d been out for a few drinks with my mates, in tribute to Mitchell. I slipped out of the pub for a quick smoke and had a wander to the alley. I leaned against the wall and fumbled in my pocket for my cigarette packet. Then I heard a clatter. But I’m a full grown man, I wasn’t scared, so I ignored what I’d heard and started lighting up. Then I heard it again, louder this time. The darkness seemed to be closing in on me. I felt a tightness in my chest. I dropped my unlit cigarette in shock, looking for something, anything that could save me. Then, I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if I was being strangled, choked. Then I heard whispers. Whispers that changed me forever. “Cold front in the wesssssssssstt……” The whispers drifted away. That’s when I saw him, surrounded, in a ring of fire, begging for help. I sprinted forwards, my arm reaching out, when it stopped, as suddenly as it had started.

I rushed back, eager to tell my friends of my experiences. I retold the story, not exaggerating one bit. My best friend at the time, Aaron, just laughed at me. “I think it’s the drink talking, mate!” He said with a hearty laugh and a hard clap on the back. I could barely believe that Aaron, whom I trusted so very much, was dismissing me in that way. How could he? I decided to push it aside and ignore the fact that I had been shunned by my own best friend.

Fast-forward twenty years or so, I'm in my retirement home, and Aaron, who's in his reclining chair next to me, suddenly starts screaming. “Aaron, what's wrong mate?” I ask out of genuine concern. He responds, “I just saw that lad Mitchell Weatherby, surrounded in a ring of fire.