Andrei and Rhian

Baby Lidia lived to celebrate her first year, and the whole of Istok turned up to congratulate the beloved family. There were decorations, pastries, and all manners of overindulgences. The townspeople understood the importance of the child. They had seen the couple through their losses—consoled them when the other could not. Theirs was a classic love story. A bond to be envied.

“The two of you are just so darned lovely together. He’s just so lovely, and you’re just so… lovely,” they might have said to Isabella’s face. Behind her back, some swore she was the worst possible bitch, and plotted to seduce the nice man away. It never worked, and they’d catch on eventually. They’d know his devotion and know nothing but death could keep them apart. They’d soon see it for themselves.

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The blood soaked his clothes, stained his hands, shrouded his vision. The knife was still slick as he fell to the floor. He’d done something to them, but why couldn’t he remember?! The townspeople would soon come for him. They’d surely heard the screams—the ones which would torment him for eternity.

So our brown-eyed boy went and did what he did best. He set fire to the house with two bodies inside, and the townsfolk never did learn what happened to the nice man they once loved. Maybe he hadn’t been so nice. “Always knew there was something wrong about him,” they’d say. “He was too nice.”

Every five years henceforth, the infamous home was rebuilt—the commissioner a mystery. Family after family lived and died inside, until it was deemed cursed and inhabitable. In time, as with most things morbid and misunderstood, the mysterious property drew curious tourists in droves. The Fire Fair became celebration of a tragedy—each generation’s version of the story more elaborate, further distanced from the truth. And every five years, the people stood in the brisk Amali night with their hot beverages and symbolic torches, watching as the empty house seemed to set itself on fire.