The Candle in the Attic Window

I always thought of them by their roles now: my stepfather, Raymond, and my stepbrother, Julian, even though they were just family friends when it all started. It’s easier that way. We met them when I was seven, right after they bought the old Pickman house on the edge of the salt marshes. It was one of the oldest structures in our county, built in the 1820s by a whaling captain who’d made his fortune on the high seas. The house had stayed in his family for over a hundred years, then sat abandoned for decades, its windows like hollow eyes, its roof sagging like a tired beast. Raymond, full of grand ideas, bought it for a song and spent two years restoring it.

The house wasn’t just old; it was wrong. It had an L-shape, with the original two-story section facing the road, and a newer, one-story wing stretching toward the marsh like a gnarled finger. That wing held the kitchen, a living room, and a back office. We spent our weekends there, helping with renovations. I remember the smell: sawdust and old wood, and something else, something like brine and decay, that clung to the walls no matter how many coats of paint we slapped on. Raymond laughed it off, saying it was just the marsh air.

But there was one thing that made my skin crawl: the attic window. In the gable of the original house, there was a small, round window, like a porthole, and sometimes at night, I’d see a faint, flickering light behind it, like a candle. I mentioned it to my mother, who said it was just the moon reflecting on the glass. Julian, who was sixteen and loved to torment me, laughed and said, ‘Maybe it’s the ghost of Captain Pickman, looking for his lost gold.’ I didn’t find it funny.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept downstairs to get a glass of water, and I saw a light coming from the back office, the room Raymond had claimed as his study. Curious, I tiptoed to the doorway. Raymond was hunched over an old sea chest, its wood blackened and warped. He was holding an oil lamp, and its light cast monstrous shadows on the walls. I saw him pull out what looked like a tattered logbook, its pages thick and yellowed. He muttered to himself, his voice a low, urgent whisper, ‘Not yet, not yet.’ I backed away, my heart pounding.

The next day, he sealed off the attic door with plywood and screws, saying he was afraid of drafts. But I noticed the attic window remained, and I swore I saw that candle again that same night. I told Julian, and for the first time, he didn’t mock me. His face went pale. He told me that he’d seen it too, and that he’d once heard Raymond talking to himself, saying things like ‘The tide must be right’ and ‘He needs a new vessel.’

We decided to investigate. The attic was directly above my bedroom, but there was no access from there. Raymond had boarded up the only staircase, but Julian was resourceful. He found an old blueprint in the town records, and we discovered a concealed door behind a bookshelf in the office. It led to a narrow spiral staircase that wound up into the attic.

We climbed it one afternoon while Raymond was away. The attic was pitch black, and the air was thick with dust. We used our phone flashlights. It was cluttered with old furniture, crates, and cobwebs. In the center, we found a small table with a thick, melted candle stub, and on the floor, a circle of salt. On the table lay an old, leather-bound book, open to a page with strange diagrams and writing. It wasn’t English. Julian, who’d taken Latin in school, recognized some symbols. ‘It’s a ritual,’ he whispered. ‘To bind something.’

At the base of the table, there was a small wooden crate. Inside, we found a collection of objects: a tarnished locket, a set of silver keys, a child’s shoe, and a photograph of a family standing in front of a ship. On the back, in faded ink, was written, ‘The Pickman family, 1898.’ We also found a logbook, similar to the one I’d seen Raymond with, but older. Its pages were full of cramped writing, describing voyages, and then, later entries detailing experiments with ‘the deep ones’ and ‘gifts from the sea.’ The final entry, dated 1912, read: ‘I have bound him to this house, but he grows stronger with the tide. I must find a new custodian, or he will break free and take his vengeance.’

We heard the front door slam. Raymond was home. We grabbed the logbook and snuck back down, our hearts racing. We hid in my room and read the logbook cover to cover. It told of Captain Josiah Pickman, who had made a pact with something from the deep, a creature that granted him luck and wealth in exchange for sacrifices. When the captain died, he bound the creature to the house, but it demanded a new master every few decades. If a worthy successor wasn’t found, it would rise and consume all.

Raymond, it seemed, had discovered this secret during his renovations and had become the new master. He was preparing to pass the burden to Julian, his own son, and I was to be the ‘unworthy’ sacrifice to appease the creature until the transfer.

We had to get out, but Raymond had locked all the doors. He called up the stairs, his voice smooth and cold, ‘I know you found her diary. It’s time to come down. Your new brother is waiting.’ Panic engulfed us. We barricaded my door, but he was strong. We heard him dragging a heavy object up the stairs. It was the crate from the attic.

He pounded on the door. We scrambled to open a window, but it was sealed shut. Desperate, I remembered the attic window, the one that faced the marsh. Maybe we could climb out onto the roof. I helped Julian pry open the attic door, and we fled up the spiral stairs.

At the top, we found the attic bathed in an eerie, greenish glow. The candle was lit, and the circle of salt was intact. The air was cold, and we could hear a low, rhythmic hum. Raymond appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face twisted into a grotesque smile. ‘Too late,’ he said. ‘He’s already awake.’

The floorboards beneath us began to tremble. The windows rattled. Julian grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the attic window. He forced it open, and the wind rushed in, smelling of salt and rot. Below, the marsh was silver under the moon, but the water in the creek was churning, rising, forming a shape. A figure rose from the water, tall and scaled, with glowing eyes.

We climbed out onto the roof, our feet slipping on the shingles. Inside, the attic filled with a sound like a thousand whispers. Raymond screamed, but it was cut short. The house shook, and I lost my grip. Julian caught my arm, but he was slipping too. The creature turned its gaze to us. It opened its mouth, and a sound like the deep ocean came out. Then, as quickly as it had risen, it sank back into the water, and the wind died.

The house was silent. We scrambled down the drainpipe and ran to the neighbor’s house. The police found Raymond’s body in the attic, his face frozen in terror, the candle still burning beside him.

Julian and I never spoke of what we saw. We moved away, but sometimes, at night, I still see the attic window, with a candle burning inside, waiting for a new master. And I know, somewhere, deep below the marsh, something is stirring, remembering us, waiting for us to return.