The Candle at St. Mellion

In the summer of 2015, I lived in a small town in Cornwall called St. Mellion, not far from the moors. The estate where I lived was a maze of identical houses, and the streets were always alive with kids kicking footballs and riding bikes until the streetlights came on. But there were tales, ones that only a few of us dared to share, about a figure that appeared near the lampposts at dusk.

One evening, my brother Jack, his girlfriend Lucy, and I decided to walk to the corner shop for some sweets. As we passed by a neighbor’s gate, my mate Tom, who was hiding behind a bush, jumped out and scared us, making us shriek and run. The old man from number 12, Mr. Henderson, burst out of his front door and shouted at us to keep the noise down. Jack, flustered, pointed at Lucy and said, ‘It was her fault, she screamed.’ Lucy gave him a dark look, but we all shuffled on.

We reached the shop, bought our treats, and then Jack and Lucy had a row about something trivial. Jack stormed off back home, leaving Lucy and me standing outside. To cool off, we walked to the end of the estate where a row of old lampposts lined the pavement. We sat on a low wall, munching on our sweets in the growing gloom.

Then, a car rolled down the road, its headlights sweeping across the pavement. In the brief flash of light, I saw a woman standing beside the nearest lamppost. She wore a long, dark nun’s habit, and her hands were cupped around a single candle, the flame casting an eerie glow on her face. The car passed, and the street went dark, but the candle still flickered. The car’s brake lights glowed red as it stopped at the junction, and I turned to look again—she was now on the opposite side of the road, still holding the candle, her gaze fixed on us. Then, as the car drove off, she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of smoke.

Lucy grabbed my arm, her eyes wide. ‘Did you see that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my heart racing. We hurried back, not daring to look behind us.

A few months later, I was walking past my aunt’s house, which was on a quiet street on the other side of the estate. As I approached her kitchen window, I saw a face peering in—pale, with hollow eyes, and the same dark habit. The figure turned its head slowly and looked directly at me, then stepped back and disappeared into the shadows. I ran to the door and burst in, but my aunt was alone, making tea. She said she hadn’t seen anyone, but the window was slightly ajar, and the curtains were billowing in the wind.

I never spoke of it again, but every night since, I keep my curtains closed, and I never walk past a lamppost after dark. The candle burns only in my nightmares now, a solitary light in the endless black, waiting for me to look again. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see her hands, cupped around that flame, a silent invitation to follow her into the dark.