Of a Fire that Bathes the Dead Forest

It is a sprint...
from here to there through the darkness of trees, menacing as they grope for his heels - he's spitting acid through his teeth with each wheeze of breath that manages to escape him. The fallen leaves shatter beneath each stride and the fledgling branches explode into splinters after whipping his eyes.
There are footsteps behind him...
He hears them, though with each glance over his shoulder the phantom exists only in shadow, so it is with a blind rage that he continues on, following only this luminous malice before him;
The light which leads the way is only that which emanates from the fire in his eyes, burning the spirits of this dry dead forest. Yet in his wake of flicking embers, the footsteps persist.
They diverge, becoming two in unison to his one - surrounding him at a frightening pace, he looks for them but he cannot see them, he breaks his course to attack them but they are always one step further ahead.
And then they speak, yet it is not with words nor any discernible tongue, it is with an abhorrent scream yet whispered so as only to excite his fury further. Like gasoline to an already enraged fire these words fall upon his ears, more grating than nails to a chalkboard, more scathing than fire to his flesh.
In his attempts to scream in reciprocation they only whisper their caustic hatred more vigorously. He closes his eyes to them yet they rake them open with fiery breath.
He sees them now, two of a kind, the most loathsome of beings, with fangs suspended in mandibles that reek of violence and yet pacifism at once, for these creatures exist only with the intention of leeching the happiness out of those foolish enough to enter their woods. They flick their tongues with the enmity of rattlesnakes and feed on his pathetic attempts to banish them, yet they never display a courage enough to touch him outright.
He stops sprinting and with a swing of his hand catches one by the neck, wringing it, letting it writhe in the agony of being caught. It knocks him to his knees and he puts his other hand around its throat... he tightens his grip slightly, making the beast recoil.. it would be so easy to squeeze just a little harder and watch it gasp its last breath... so easy and satisfying...
His gaze strays to a distant part of the forest where he sees a thin ray of unassuming light... golden in its brilliance it causes the creature to wince as if in pain. He loosens his grip and the ray of light grows in girth to match his opening hand. The wretch is struggling more vehemently than ever, and even though his hold on its neck is loosened it is powerless to escape his fingers.
Realizing then that the ray of light is this creature's ultimate bane he looks with pity down into its eyes... and sees nothing. Staring back at him are eyes that had long ago forsaken the soul that was housed behind them...
At this he rises from his knees and says to the creature, "You, you are a satanical, dim skewer - and though you have teeth like needles and skin like razored blades, you cannot pierce me." With that he released his grip completely and was deaf to the creature's screams as he walked away. The further away from the wretch he walked the more the world became illuminated, until at last he had walked into a place bathed in lighted coruscation. He turned back to look upon what was left of the demon and saw only a blackened hole in the ground where it had met its timely and gratifying demise...