“The Candle That Wouldn’t Go Out”
Marcus sat slouched at the kitchen table, staring at the lone cupcake in front of him. One candle flickered in the center, leaning slightly like it, too, couldn’t be bothered. No balloons, no streamers, not even a text from his sister. Just the steady tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator.
“Happy birthday to me,” he muttered. He didn’t even blow out the candle. What was the point?
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window. Marcus sighed and stood to close it. As he did, a loud *pop* echoed from the kitchen behind him. He turned quickly—half-expecting the cupcake to be gone. It wasn’t.
But the candle… it had grown. What was a stubby wax stick before now stood nearly six inches tall, burning with a blue flame instead of orange.
Marcus blinked. “What the hell?”
He reached out to touch it—maybe it was a trick candle? His fingers stopped just short of the flame. Something in him said not to touch it.
A soft scratching sound drew his attention to the wall. It was faint, almost rhythmic, like nails on drywall. Then it stopped.
The candle burned steadily.
Marcus walked to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and tried to laugh it off. Stress. Loneliness. Boredom. They all did weird things to the brain.
When he turned back, the candle was taller again—twisting, curling upward like a waxy plant. The blue flame now licked toward the ceiling. A small trail of black smoke curled from it… but it didn’t rise. It curled downward, flowing like oil across the table.
He backed away.
The smoke coiled, pooling on the floor, then rising—forming legs, a torso, arms.
No face.
Just the rough shape of a person.
The front door slammed open. Marcus yelped, but no wind came in—no sound, even. Just that figure… watching.
He ran to grab his phone, but it was dead.
The lights flickered. Then, the flame died.
Silence.
Marcus stood alone in the kitchen, breath ragged. The candle was a nub again. Smoke gone. No figure. No noise.
He inched forward, reached for the cupcake—because somehow, *touching it* would make things feel real again.
A whisper, just behind his ear: “Make your wish.”
Marcus spun. No one.
The candle reignited.
His phone buzzed violently on the counter. A new message. From his sister.
**“Happy Birthday. Sorry I’m late. You lit it, didn’t you?”**
His stomach dropped. He typed fast:
**“Lit what?”**
Three dots. Then:
**“Don’t blow it out. Whatever you do. Don’t blow it out again.”**
He turned slowly back to the candle. It was now red. The flame pulsed.
And it was whispering his name.
Marcus backed away, pulse hammering in his ears. The flame flickered rhythmically—almost breathing. It whispered again, soft as silk:
“Maaaarcus…”
He stared, his mind racing. The candle was now a deep crimson, the color of blood, and the flame seemed too solid—less like fire, more like something alive.
He grabbed his phone and called his sister.
One ring. Two.
Then her voice, sharp and panicked: “You blew it out, didn’t you?”
“I—I didn’t mean to! It went out on its own—what is this? What is this thing?”
“You need to leave. Right now. That candle isn’t… it’s not from here.”
“What the hell does that mean?!”
There was a rustling on her end, like she was running. “That thing—it’s old. Older than anything we understand. Dad kept it locked away for a reason. You lit it, Marcus. It saw you.”
“The figure,” Marcus whispered. “In the smoke.”
She hissed, “Don’t talk about it. Not out loud. Not while the flame’s burning.”
Marcus stepped toward the front door, but the handle was ice-cold—frost had crept over it, spreading across the frame like spiderwebs. Outside the window, the world was… wrong. The street was gone. Just a gray void, shifting and pulsing like fog underwater.
“Why is this happening?” he whispered, turning to look at the candle again.
But it wasn’t alone.
The shadow figure was back—taller now, more defined. Its arms stretched down to the floor, fingers too long, too jointed. It didn’t walk. It just was. A presence more than a being.
Marcus dropped the phone.
The figure moved—closer. The flame surged high.
And then—
Darkness.
Not a flicker. Not a fade.
Just gone.
The next moment, Marcus was in the same room, but it felt… older. The walls were cracked, peeling. The ceiling sagged. No lights. Just the candle, now the only point of color in a grayscale world.
And around him, dozens of others—figures, human-shaped but not human—stood in the shadows, watching. Waiting.
The cupcake still sat in the middle of the table, perfectly untouched. The candle now white-hot, humming low.
Then, a whisper. This time, not from the candle—but from the walls.
“Happy birthday, Marcus.”
The candle relit itself.
And the door behind him unlocked.
Marcus turned slowly. The old wooden door creaked open just an inch, but that inch was enough.
A pale, flickering light spilled through the gap, colder than moonlight. It pulsed in time with the candle’s hum, like a heartbeat—steady, deliberate. Not his.
The figures in the corners didn’t move, but somehow he felt them urging him on. Not with kindness. With hunger.
He stepped closer, heart hammering against his ribs. The floor groaned under his weight, but he didn’t stop. He reached for the knob.
His hand paused mid-air.
A voice, not his sister’s, not the candle’s—his own voice—spoke from behind him.
“If you leave, you’ll never come back.”
He froze.
“But if you stay…” it continued, “you’ll become one of us.”
He turned—but there was no one behind him. Just his own shadow stretching out unnaturally long, peeling off the floor like it had a mind of its own. The shadow reached toward the candle, fingers outstretched.
Marcus gritted his teeth and swung the door open fully.
Beyond it was a staircase—spiraling downward into an impossible space. It didn't lead to a basement. It led beneath something deeper. The space was massive, endless, and filled with echoing, shifting whispers that had no source.
On the walls, names were carved.
Some were ancient. Some were in his sister’s handwriting.
One of them was his own.
He descended.
Each step felt like sinking. The world above shrank. Time didn’t pass down here—it unraveled. Threads of memory pulled apart and stitched back together wrong. He remembered birthdays that hadn’t happened yet. He remembered the candle being lit before he was even born.
At the bottom was a stone room. In the center: a pedestal.
And on it, a box.
The same box their father had kept hidden in the attic.
Marcus stepped closer.
The box opened on its own.
Inside was another candle—this one black, wax swirling like oil, flame green and silent.
And a note:
“Only one way to relight the door.”
Suddenly, the staircase behind him sealed shut. Stone ground against stone. No way back.
He was alone.
Except… he wasn’t.
The candle beside him flared.
And the whisper came again.
“Happy birthday, Marcus. Make your final wish.”
Marcus stared at the black candle, its green flame dancing without warmth. His breath came in short, shallow bursts. The box before him pulsed with a faint heartbeat—not his own.
The note lay heavy in his hand:
"Only one way to relight the door."
He looked around the stone chamber. The walls began to shift, subtly at first, then more violently—like something was pressing from the other side. The whispering returned, louder now, layering over itself in different voices.
His voice.
His sister’s.
His father's.
He clutched the note tighter, forcing the words out of his dry throat.
"I… I wish to go back."
The candle didn't react.
A hiss—just barely audible—escaped from the green flame.
Marcus stepped back. “That’s my wish!”
A deep, guttural voice echoed from the walls:
“Wishes are not given. They are earned.”
Suddenly, the chamber plunged into shadow. The green flame vanished, and something began to rise from the pedestal. Tall. Wrapped in tattered smoke. Its face was a mirror—no reflection. Just a void.
It pointed at Marcus with a finger like scorched bone.
“Give something in return.”
Marcus's eyes darted to the walls, then the candle, then back to the figure.
“What do you want from me?”
It didn't speak. It simply raised its arm and pointed at his chest.
His heart.
Panic surged through him. No way. No way he was trading his life for a way out.
But then… a memory surfaced.
His father, hunched in the attic, whispering:
"One birthday. That’s all it takes. One lit candle. One choice."
And now, Marcus understood.
You didn't get out unless you gave up what brought you in.
And he had lit the candle.
So he made a choice.
“I wish…” he said slowly, “for my sister to forget this place. And never find it again.”
The chamber froze. The creature paused.
The black candle flared high.
The green flame snapped back to life.
The stone walls uncoiled. The staircase returned.
But the box was now empty.
And Marcus… no longer had a shadow.
Upstairs, the door to the outside stood open again. Bright daylight. Fresh air.
But Marcus didn’t step through.
He turned, looked back down the stairs.
He belonged here now.
The candle on the table at the top of the steps was gone.
Only the cupcake remained.
And on the wall where no one could see it but him—one more name had been carved:
Marcus Wren – Keeper of the Flame
Three weeks passed.
Lena Wren hadn’t heard a word from her brother. His phone rang once, then disconnected. She drove to his place twice—everything was exactly where he’d left it. Cupcake on the table. Candle missing. No signs of a struggle.
Just that eerie feeling in the air… like someone was still watching.
She tried to let it go. Tried to believe maybe he had just snapped and walked away. But deep down, she knew better.
She’d warned him.
And she’d failed.
That night, back in her apartment, Lena tossed in bed, unable to sleep. The shadows in the corners of her room felt too thick, too awake. She sat up and reached for her nightstand—where, to her horror, a single red candle now sat.
It hadn’t been there before.
And it was already burning.
Her blood ran cold. She stood up so fast the chair tipped. No—this wasn’t possible. She’d made sure to never light another.
That was the rule.
One candle per family. One wish.
She picked it up with trembling hands, ready to smother it, crush it, toss it into the sink—but something held her fingers in place.
A whisper slithered into her ear.
“He gave his wish for you.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Marcus…”
The flame turned blue.
The room flickered like a dying bulb, and when it stabilized—she was no longer in her apartment.
She stood in the spiral staircase.
Same ancient stone. Same whispering walls.
The red candle burned in her hand, now solid wax, unmelted. The door above vanished. The stairway downward beckoned.
And on the walls—
Hundreds of names.
But one glowed faintly with a silvery shimmer:
Marcus Wren – Keeper of the Flame
She whispered his name.
A sudden gust of wind swirled around her, carrying voices, memories, and something else.
Laughter. His laughter.
Not cruel. Not sad.
Almost… peaceful.
Then a message carved itself below his name in fresh, wet stone:
“He waits at the end. Don’t light the second candle.”
Lena stared at the red candle in her hand.
Its flame flickered.
“You only get one wish.”
She turned.
And began walking down.
Three weeks passed.
Lena Wren hadn’t heard a word from her brother. His phone rang once, then disconnected. She drove to his place twice—everything was exactly where he’d left it. Cupcake on the table. Candle missing. No signs of a struggle.
Just that eerie feeling in the air… like someone was still watching.
She tried to let it go. Tried to believe maybe he had just snapped and walked away. But deep down, she knew better.
She’d warned him.
And she’d failed.
That night, back in her apartment, Lena tossed in bed, unable to sleep. The shadows in the corners of her room felt too thick, too awake. She sat up and reached for her nightstand—where, to her horror, a single red candle now sat.
It hadn’t been there before.
And it was already burning.
Her blood ran cold. She stood up so fast the chair tipped. No—this wasn’t possible. She’d made sure to never light another.
That was the rule.
One candle per family. One wish.
She picked it up with trembling hands, ready to smother it, crush it, toss it into the sink—but something held her fingers in place.
A whisper slithered into her ear.
“He gave his wish for you.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Marcus…”
The flame turned blue.
The room flickered like a dying bulb, and when it stabilized—she was no longer in her apartment.
She stood in the spiral staircase.
Same ancient stone. Same whispering walls.
The red candle burned in her hand, now solid wax, unmelted. The door above vanished. The stairway downward beckoned.
And on the walls—
Hundreds of names.
But one glowed faintly with a silvery shimmer:
Marcus Wren – Keeper of the Flame
She whispered his name.
A sudden gust of wind swirled around her, carrying voices, memories, and something else.
Laughter. His laughter.
Not cruel. Not sad.
Almost… peaceful.
Then a message carved itself below his name in fresh, wet stone:
“He waits at the end. Don’t light the second candle.”
Lena stared at the red candle in her hand.
Its flame flickered.
“You only get one wish.”
She turned.
And began walking down.
The spiral stairwell was cold, but it wasn’t just temperature—it was emptiness. The kind that eats at your thoughts. Lena descended slowly, her red candle burning steadily, though no wax dripped, and no smoke rose.
The whispers grew louder with each step. They didn’t chant. They remembered. Words and phrases she’d said as a child. Fears she thought she’d buried. Regrets she never spoke aloud.
She passed the names carved into the stone. Some were fresh, others eroded nearly to nothing. One she passed had been crossed out violently, gouged over and over. It read:
“I wished to leave. I didn’t mean to stay.”
She kept going.
After what felt like hours—but might have been minutes—she reached the bottom. A vast chamber, circular and impossibly dark, opened up before her.
In the center stood a pedestal.
And on it: a chair.
Not a throne, not a seat of power. Just a simple wooden chair. Sitting in it, back to her, was Marcus.
She gasped. “Marcus?”
He didn’t turn. But he spoke.
“Why did you come here?”
“I—I didn’t light it. I swear. It just appeared.”
He finally turned. His face was older. Not in years, but in weight. Like he’d seen too much. His eyes were hollowed but aware.
“You were never meant to come back. I gave up my place. You were free.”
She stepped forward. “I couldn’t leave you here.”
“That’s the trap,” he said softly. “That’s how it spreads. Through love.”
The shadows around the chamber began to slither. Dozens of those watchers stood at the edge of the room—tall, long-limbed, featureless. The flame in Lena’s hand flared red-hot, and the whispers stopped all at once.
“The second wish is yours.”
The chamber spoke. Every voice, every wall, every watcher—speaking as one.
Lena gritted her teeth. “I want Marcus to come back with me.”
The shadows laughed—not mocking. Amused.
“No two may leave.”
Marcus stood from the chair. “This is my place now.”
“No. It doesn’t have to be.”
“You don’t get it,” he said. “The candle chooses. You’re holding it. That means it wants you.”
“I don’t care.”
She dropped the candle.
It didn’t hit the ground.
It floated.
Then ignited again—green this time.
The watchers began to move. Slowly. Closer.
Marcus stepped in front of her.
“No!” Lena shouted. “There has to be a way out!”
The room pulsed.
The pedestal sank.
And a new staircase—spiraling upward—rose in the distance.
“Only one.”
The voice again. Flat. Final.
Marcus took her hand, tears welling in his eyes. “You have to go. You’re the one carrying the flame. You still have a choice.”
“But I—”
He stepped back.
And pushed her.
Lena screamed as the staircase pulled her upward in a flash of light and wind.
The candle vanished from her hand.
She woke up in her apartment.
The red candle was gone. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
One new message.
From Unknown:
"Second wish taken. Door closed."
She sobbed.
But outside, the world was bright again.
Normal.
Except for one thing.
Every time she passed a mirror… Marcus was behind her.
Watching. Smiling.
Waiting.
Will Continue Next Time
