The Candle in the Hall

In the autumn of 1994, when I was five years old, we lived in a cramped bungalow on the outskirts of a small Kansas town. The house was old, with a long, narrow hallway that connected the living room to the bedrooms, and the sole bathroom sat at its midpoint. Every night, like clockwork, I would wake around midnight, guided by the pale glow of the moon through the thin curtains, to fetch a glass of water or use the toilet. I was never afraid of the dark back then; the silvery light seeping through the windows was all I needed to navigate our home.

That particular night, the moon was nearly full, and its light spilled across the living room floor, casting a bright, elongated rectangle that ended at the hallway’s entrance. I padded barefoot across the cold linoleum, my small feet slapping softly, and pushed open the hollow-core door that led to the hall. But this time, something was wrong. The hallway was not bathed in the usual bluish glow. Instead, a dense, black darkness filled it, so thick it seemed to swallow the moonlight before it could reach the walls. And at the very end, where my parents’ bedroom door should have been, there was only an impenetrable void.

I paused, a strange unease prickling my skin. I leaned forward, trying to see past the darkness, and that’s when I noticed a faint, flickering light coming from the bathroom. It was soft and warm, a candle flame dancing behind the frosted glass of the bathroom door. I had never seen a candle in that house, and the bathroom was directly across from my parents’ room, but in the darkness, the door to my parents’ room seemed to have vanished entirely. The light from the bathroom cast just enough glow to illuminate the hallway’s floor, but it did not reach the end.

Curiosity overriding my newfound hesitation, I took a step into the hall. The darkness felt almost solid, pressing against my skin like a cold, wet blanket. I whispered, ‘Mom? Dad?’ but my voice was a meek squeak, absorbed by the heavy air. No response came. I took another step, then another, my eyes locked on the candle’s glow through the frosted glass, which seemed to pulse gently as if beckoning me. I reached the bathroom door, my hand hovering over the knob. The light inside flickered, casting dancing shadows that writhed just beyond my sight.

I pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning in a creak that seemed to stretch for minutes. Inside, the bathroom was not the familiar white-tiled room I knew. The walls were black, the floor was wet, and a single black candle sat on the sink counter, its flame sputtering impossibly in the still air. The mirror above the sink was covered in condensation, save for a single clear circle in the center. I stepped closer, my reflection partially visible in that clear spot, but my face was not mine. It was older, twisted, with hollow eyes that stared back at me with a sadistic hunger. I stumbled back, a scream catching in my throat, but before I could flee, a voice whispered from the darkness behind me, ‘You see me now.’

I spun around, but the hallway was gone. I was standing in a vast, empty field under a black sky with no stars. The only light was a distant candle, floating in the void, casting long shadows that pointed towards me. The voice came again, from everywhere and nowhere, ‘You will find me here, in the dark, whenever you look.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, covering my ears, but the darkness was inside me now. When I opened them again, I was back in the familiar hall, the moonlight streaming through the living room window. The bathroom door was shut, but through the frosted glass, I could still see the candle’s flame. And at the end of the hall, my parents’ door was there, as it always had been. I ran to it, threw it open, and dove into their bed, my heart hammering.

In the morning, I told my mother about the candle in the bathroom. She frowned and said, ‘There’s no candle in the bathroom, sweetie. We don’t have any candles.’ I didn’t argue, but every night after that, when I walked the hall, I would look for the candle. Sometimes I saw it, flickering behind the frosted glass, and sometimes I didn’t. But I never went near it again. And when I was older, I learned that the house had once belonged to a man who had drowned his wife in the bathroom sink, then vanished. They never found his body. But I know where he is. He’s in the dark, with his candle, waiting for the next child who isn’t afraid of the dark to come looking. That was the first of many nights I learned to fear the light that flickers where it shouldn’t, and the darkness that hides it.

Years later, when I was forty, I returned to Kansas for my mother’s funeral. I stayed in a motel near the old house, but I couldn’t resist driving by. The bungalow was still there, abandoned and decrepit. I parked across the street, watching the windows. As twilight fell, a faint glimmer appeared in the bathroom window—the same candlelight. A shiver ran down my spine. I started the car to leave, but I saw a figure in my rearview mirror, standing in the doorway of the house. It was the man from the mirror, the one with the hollow eyes, and he was holding a candle. He smiled, and I knew he had been waiting for me all this time.

I drove away, never looking back, and I vowed never to return to that town. But some dark things follow you, no matter how far you run. Last night, I woke at midnight to get a glass of water. As I walked down my own dimly lit hallway, I saw a flickering light coming from the bathroom. My bathroom. And I knew, at last, that the candle had found me again. But this time, I’m not five years old anymore. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of what the dark shows me.

I stood outside the bathroom door, my hand on the knob, and I could feel the cold seeping through the wood. I pushed it open. The candle was there, on the sink, and in the mirror, I saw my own reflection, but it was not me. It was the man, with my face, and he said, ‘You’ve been looking for me all your life, and now I’m here.’ I snapped awake in my bed, gasping, but the nightmare has not ended. I hear a faint scratching from the bathroom, and I am writing this in the dark, praying that if I look, the candle will be gone. But I know it won’t be. It’s always there, waiting, and the hall is always dark at that one spot, where the moonlight never touches.

I am fifty now, and I have never told anyone the full story. But I know that tonight, when I step out of my room, I will see the candle again. And one night, I will walk to it, and I will not come back. That will be the end.

This was the first of many, and it will be the last.