Like Gasoline on Paper

My father's gasoline tank was in the storage. Said tank was rarely ever used, as it was only for the rare occasions when my father had to go on long travels for work. He said it was always good to be prepared for the worst, that you may never know at what point the car will run out of gas, leaving you stuck in the middle of nowhere. And... 

...Nevermind. I don't even know why I'm rambling about this, I only now remembered father's advice because I was just about to get the tank for myself.

Not for myself myself, I mean. I'm not that desperate. It was actually to burn some junk papers I had lying around. The paper were of a good quality, like a stiff chart paper, so I knew they wouldn't burn easily with just matches. I'm also not saying I confirmed this hypothesis of mine... but it's just, gasoline sounded much more cooler.

So here I am, 25-year-old Ain Hamza, an average university boy, pouring the gasoline over the scattered papers on the tiled balcony floor. The balcony was nearly covered in darkness due to the lightbulb short-circuiting last week, so the only light source was coming from my bedroom inside, which was honestly enough for me. The fire will brighten up everything anyway, so that was fine.

The liquid's smell made it's way to my nose, despite me wearing a facemask, and I grimaced. I shook my head, regaining some sense and tossed the tank aside. No one was at home, so I could make all the noise I wanted, but regardless, the thunk of the tank hitting the floor made me flinch little. The sound seemed to echo across the entire house and it felt eerie, to say the least. Like I was destroying a perfectly peaceful environment.

Anyways, on to the task at hand--

"Going to start a fire, young man?"

"AAAAAAA-!!"

A manly scream erupted out of me and I fell backwards. My wide eyes desperately scanned the dark corners for even a shred of the existence that had spoken to me. And soon enough, my eyes recognized a very tall, dark silhouette standing on my favorite garden chair. 

That's right. The thing was standing on my chair, which made his towering height seem to reach up to the dark sky above. Temporarily, I felt tongue-tied; the image before me was surreal and absurd, as if I had found myself in a fever dream, and I briefly remembered my father telling me of the house's history when we first bought it; something about haunted sightings. So naturally, I assumed the same as I stared at the figure.

"...Are- are you a ghost?" I asked him, hoping he wouldn't hear my hammering heart and the wavering in my voice. The figure stretched his arms above itself, as if imitating a bird flapping its wings. Then it tilted slightly, and said:

"No? Geez lad, why would you think that."

The detached words and the monotone way of his speaking sent me mentally reeling. Why is a ghost speaking like that???  I thought. Nevertheless, I was still thankful it wasn't an actual, real person, because that'd be more terrifying than some silly ghost doing outdated yoga exercises on my chair.

"Why are you standing over there?" I simply asked, suddenly feeling very brave.

"I wanted to see how tall I could get, you see. Sorry, is the chair important to you?"

I... What...

"No, I don't see. In fact, could you get off it?" I paused and then added, "Please?" 

The figure, who only seemed to be interested in striking weird poses, reluctantly got off the chair. But even on the ground he seemed to be taller than the door frame leading to my room. Heck, his height was near to the level of the roof that covered half of the balcony! By now I had realized the gravity of my situation and my sleep-deprived state whooshed away, leaving me as awake as an owl looking for its prey. ...Except I would be the prey here, I guess.

"So, young man," the figure said as if he couldn't hold down his curiosity any longer, "What do you have there?"

My eyes fell to the papers lying near my feet. A jumble of mess, I would say. Words like 'certificate', 'award', and 'first-prize' were glaring at me even in its gasoline-drenched glory. "Wow," the thing said, casually glancing at the papers over my shoulder, the sudden proximity making me flinch away.  "Quite the overachiever you were, huh?" he said.

"Why are you asking?" I blurt back. The shadowy thing's outline seemed to shift, it raised two hands in mock-surrender, which irked me even more. The figure seemed to twitch nervously, and it was seconds after that I realized it was scratching its head. The void covering it from head-to-toe made it hard to guess where its limbs ended, but despite that, the small action felt eerily human.

 "I'm just asking," it mused, "Can't a guy just ask if he's curious?"

Guy. This thing called itself a guy. Was this a weird dream?

"Please, just-" I paused and sighed, closing my eyes and lightly massaging my temples in response to an oncoming migraine. "Who exactly are you? Why are you here?"

The pause I got was unexpected. Originally I had assumed it was waiting for me to ask about itself, since the aura it gave off was that of a quirky chat bot... but the more the pause prolonged, the more uneasy I got. I slowly opened my eyes and surprisingly, found nothing. 

So it really was me dreaming- er, hallucinating? Oh man, I'm still young-

An icy distorted hand enclosed around my wrist.

"I... can't answer the first question. But the second one, I'll try. You just have to cooperate."

And then it leapt off the balcony, taking me with it, plunging into the ground below.