The Candle in the Mirror

I had just stepped out of the shower, my skin still prickling with the cool air of the old hacienda my family had inherited in the heart of Jalisco. The bathroom mirror was fogged, so I wiped a clear patch with my palm, revealing my reflection as I combed my hair. Behind me, the doorway to the bedroom was a dark rectangle, and for a moment I saw a woman standing there—a pale figure in a flowing white gown, holding a candle that flickered with an unnatural light. Her face was a blur, but I felt her eyes on me. I spun around, but the doorway was empty. The candle was gone. My heart hammered as I threw on clothes and fled the room, not stopping until I reached the bustling town square where my family was already seated at a café.

That night, I couldn’t shake the image. I begged my cousin Marisol to stay over, and she agreed, laughing at my nerves. We shared the large bed in the main bedroom, and as the hours passed, Marisol fell into a deep sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, when I felt the mattress dip beside me. A cold presence settled next to my hip, and I froze. Slowly, I turned my head. No one was there, but the weight remained. I scrambled over Marisol, clutching her arm, and stayed like that until dawn, my eyes burning from the strain.

The next evening, as the clock struck seven, a faint crying began—a baby’s wail, thin and pitiful, drifting through the walls. It came every night at the same time, always from the direction of the old chapel on the property, which had been sealed for decades. I mentioned it to the neighbor, Señora Ruiz, who shook her head. ‘No, mija, I hear nothing. You must be tired.’ I asked my aunt, who lived in the adjoining house, and she gave me a strange look, crossing herself. ‘There is no baby here, child. Only old sorrows.’

On the third night, I decided to investigate. The crying led me to the chapel, its wooden door half-rotted and hanging askew. Inside, the air was cold and musty, and the faint flicker of a candle danced at the altar. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the woman from the mirror, kneeling before a small grave at the side of the chapel. Her gown was stained with age, and her long hair hid her face. She was rocking a bundle in her arms, and the crying came from it. I must have made a sound, because she turned. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dark pits, and she whispered, ‘You see me. You can help.’ The bundle in her arms was empty—just a folded shroud.

I fled back to the house, locking every door, but the crying followed me, softer now, pleading. My mother called from the town square, worried, but I couldn’t explain. That night, as Marisol slept, I felt the cold presence again, and this time I forced myself to look. The woman stood at the foot of the bed, her white gown glowing in the dark, the candle in her hand dripping wax like tears. She pointed to the chapel, then to a small box on the dresser I had never noticed before.

When I opened it, I found a yellowed photograph of a young woman holding a baby, and a letter in Spanish. It was written to my grandmother, confessing that she had died in childbirth in this very house, and that her baby had been buried in the chapel without a proper rite. She begged that someone pray for them, so their souls could rest. The crying had been her plea for attention all along.

I went to the chapel the next morning and said a prayer over the grave. I lit a candle and left it burning. The crying stopped that evening, and I never saw the woman again. But as I packed to return home, I glanced in the mirror one last time. For a split second, I thought I saw a faint smile on my own reflection, and the candle in my hand burned a little brighter.