The Candle in the Window

“The Candle in the Window”

In the forgotten village of Black Hollow, where the fog never quite lifts and the crows circle low even at noon, there stood a house no one dared approach. Perched at the edge of the forest, crooked and half-swallowed by ivy, the old Thorne house had been abandoned for nearly a century—or so the villagers claimed.

Yet, every year on Halloween night, a candle would appear in the upper window.

A single flickering flame, pale and steady, like a watching eye.

Children were warned: Never go near the Thorne house. But children, as they do, don’t always listen.

This year, three dared each other to find out the truth.

There was Molly, sharp as a tack and twice as reckless. Dean, whose bravado hid a constantly pounding heart. And little Evie, who hardly spoke, but followed the older two like a shadow.

They set off as dusk fell, giggling nervously, torches in hand. By the time they reached the crumbling gate, night had already crept in behind them, dragging a heavy silence with it. Even the wind had stopped.

The front door, oddly enough, was ajar.

It groaned open at their touch, revealing a long hallway choked with dust and age. The wallpaper peeled like dry skin, and the floorboards moaned beneath their feet.

“We just go up,” whispered Molly. “See the candle. Then we leave.”

But upstairs, in the candle room, they found… nothing.

No flame. No candle. Just an empty room.

Until Evie said, “There was a candle. It was in the window.”

The others turned, surprised. “You saw it?”

Evie nodded, her small voice barely audible. “He lit it for us.”

“Who?”

But Evie didn’t answer. Instead, she crossed the room and opened the closet.

Inside was a tall figure—draped in rotted black, skin like burnt paper stretched across bone, hollow eye sockets that somehow looked back.

And the candle.

In his hand.

Before they could scream, the door slammed shut behind them. All light vanished, except the flame.

It didn’t flicker. It grew.

The last thing Molly saw was Evie’s face smiling calmly in the firelight, her eyes gleaming like polished stones.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“You’re not supposed to see… what I remember.”

Down in the village, an old woman looked up at the forest and crossed herself.

Another candle now burned in the window.

But this time, there were three flames.

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“Evie Remembers”

They never asked me why I never screamed.

Why, when we crept into the Thorne house that Halloween night, I didn’t seem afraid—only quiet, as always. But I remembered.

I remembered the house.

Not from stories or dares. From before.

Before I was Evie.

The house had been mine, once. A different name. A different time. The candle in the window was how he found me.

He’s old. Older than the house, older than the village. He comes on the wind when it dies. He lives in silence and flame. He remembers everyone who broke the pact.

And I broke it first.

That’s why I lit the candle. I was the one who placed it in the window. Every year. Waiting.

Not for help.

For company.

I didn’t mean to bring Molly and Dean. But they followed. Molly was so full of fire—he’d like her. Dean’s fear tasted sharp in the air. He’d like that, too. I didn’t want to hurt them, not really. But I had to choose. Or he would choose for me.

So I opened the closet.

And there he was, waiting. As he always had been. A tall shadow crowned in rot and sorrow. He held out the candle, and I knew it was time.

He whispered my old name.

And I remembered everything.

I turned back one last time. They were frozen in place. I smiled, so they wouldn’t be scared. But they didn’t understand. They never do.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I said softly.

Then the door closed.

Now there are three candles in the window.

Next year… there will be four.

*****************************************************************************

A poem whispered by the figure in the closet.

---

“The Candle’s Pact”

Whispered in the dark by the figure in the closet

Come, little child, come into the shade,
Where promises sleep and debts are repaid.
The wax has dripped, the flame is low,
But still I wait for those who know.

A knock, a creak, a breath held tight,
Three steps down in the dead of night.
A name forgotten, a face once dear,
All lost to time… but I am near.

One for sorrow, and two for sin,
The third is the one I let back in.
Their eyes will dim, their voices fall,
For I have kept the pact through all.

Light the candle, place it high,
In windows watched by unseen eye.
The fire calls, the flame replies—
And I arrive when silence dies.

So whisper low and seal your fate,
The hollow house shall watch and wait.
My shadow stretches, thin and wide…

Come join me now…
from the other side.

“The Fifth Flame”

Clara didn’t sleep.

Not that night. Not after seeing the girl in the mirror.

She tore the rest of the wallpaper from the wall in a flurry of fear and defiance, revealing more bone-white surface beneath—and more carved lines, like verses of a hymn for the damned. They weren’t finished. They wrote themselves slowly, word by word, in the dark.

She covered them with bedsheets.

But the sheets burned away by morning.

Downstairs, her mother made porridge. Spoke in soft tones. Didn’t notice how Clara’s shadow didn’t quite match her body anymore. It flicked when she didn’t move. Twitched when she smiled.

That evening, Clara stood in front of her mirror.

She had to know.

“Who are you?” she whispered to the girl who now stood behind her always, her face half-hidden beneath tangled hair.

The girl in the mirror didn’t reply.

Instead, she lifted a candle.

And pointed toward the forest.

---

The Path to Thorne House

Clara walked alone.

No flashlight. No coat. Just the whisper of leaves brushing against her, as if the trees knew she was coming. As if they leaned closer to listen.

The Thorne house rose before her like a wound in the night.

Four candles burned in the upper window.

And the front door, as always, stood open.

Waiting.

Inside, the dust had settled into strange shapes. Small handprints on the walls. Faces in the wood grain. The air was too still.

Clara climbed the stairs.

Each step echoed like a heartbeat.

In the candle room, the flames burned without wax, without wick. Pure flame, each a soul caught in fire.

Evie stood between them, barefoot, her eyes all wrong. Too deep. Too old. She smiled gently.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

Clara shook. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

Evie nodded. “Neither did I. But we’re already part of it, Clara. The fifth flame can’t be lit unless you choose.”

“I choose to leave.”

Evie’s smile didn’t waver. “You can. But the candle will still find someone. And the poem will still grow.”

Clara looked behind her.

In the hallway, the wallpaper was peeling.

---

The Final Verse

On the floor of the candle room, new words had appeared:

Five flames to burn, five souls to take,
A hand must give, a mind must break,
The one who sees must light the last,
Or all shall fade into the past.

Clara trembled. “What happens if I light it?”

Evie’s voice was like ash. “Then you stay. But no one else comes.”

“And if I don’t?”

Evie looked away. “Then we find your little brother.”

A coldness seized Clara’s chest.

They knew.

Her hand reached toward the matchbox. Her fingers shook.

She struck it once. Twice. On the third, a flame burst to life.

She stared at it.

And chose.

---

In the Village…

The next morning, Clara’s mother found her bed empty.

She told the constable.

They searched the woods.

They never found her.

But that night, the village children looked toward the Thorne house.

And saw five candles glowing in the window.

No more.

No less.