The Candle in the Red Glass

My apartment sits on the fourth floor of the Meridian, a hulking brick relic from the 1920s that once housed the St. Dymphna’s Lunatic Asylum. The building has a certain weight to it, like it’s holding its breath. I’ve lived here for nine years, and in that time, I’ve learned to ignore the creaks and groans, the occasional sobbing from the walls, the faint scratching in the dead of night. But there are moments when the past claws its way into the present, and I can’t pretend anymore.

One such night arrived with a summer storm that knocked out the power for the entire block. The darkness was absolute, a thick, suffocating blanket that pressed against the windows. I rummaged through a drawer and found two prayer candles: one green, one red, each embossed with a somber-faced Christ. I placed them on the sills of my twin windows, their flames casting dancing shadows that made the room feel alive. I lit them more for comfort than ceremony, their glass shields keeping the flicker steady. Before I drifted off, I blew them out, plunging the room back into the void.

At 2 a.m., I woke to a sound that defied nature. It was a low, guttural moan, like a cow being slaughtered, but layered with a wet, choking rasp, as if something were trying to speak through a throat full of blood. The presence was at the foot of my bed—invisible yet unmistakable, a weight of malice that made the air thick and cold. My heart hammered. I couldn’t move. The sound grew louder, vibrating through the floorboards, and I felt a pressure on my chest, as if a great beast were sitting on me, its breath reeking of rot and old medicine.

In desperation, I reached out blindly, my fingers finding the edge of the nightstand. My hand closed around a small, heavy object—the black rosary my grandmother had given me. I clutched it and whispered a prayer, my voice trembling. The pressure eased, and the sound receded into the walls, but I lay there until dawn, every shadow a threat.

That was the first incident. The second came a week later. I’d bought an antique mirror from a flea market, drawn to its ornate silver frame. I hung it in the hallway. One night, I passed it and caught a reflection that wasn’t mine. A figure stood behind me, tall and gaunt, with hollow eyes and a slack jaw. I spun around, but there was nothing. When I looked back, the mirror showed my own terrified face, but for a split second, I thought I saw the figure smile.

I tried to remove the mirror, but it was as if it were glued to the wall. It wouldn’t budge. I covered it with a sheet, but I could still feel its presence, watching me. Finally, I called a priest, an old friend from the neighborhood. He performed a blessing, sprinkling holy water and reading scripture. As he prayed, the room grew cold, and from the sheeted mirror came a sound like a thousand flies buzzing. The priest’s face went pale, and he told me, ‘This building has a memory, and it remembers suffering. You need to leave.’

I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. My job, my life, everything was tied to this city, and this apartment was all I could afford. So I stayed, and I learned to live with the horror. I learned that the green candle and the red candle seemed to have a purpose. Whenever I placed them in the windows, the entities stayed away. It was a fragile peace.

Then came the night of the birthday party. I invited a few friends over, trying to pretend everything was normal. We had cake, laughed, drank wine. As the clock struck midnight, the power flickered and died. The room went dark, and my friends screamed. I fumbled for a lighter, but before I could light the candles, I heard that sound again—the slaughterhouse moan, but now it was everywhere, echoing through the halls. The temperature plummeted. I could see my breath.

My friends were frozen, their faces pale in the dim glow from the streetlamps outside. One of them, a skeptic named Mark, laughed nervously and said, ‘Okay, who’s pranking us?’ But his voice cracked. Then, the laughter stopped. A low, chittering sound filled the room, like a thousand whispers converging. I saw shapes—indistinct, humanoid forms—beginning to materialize in the corners. They were hollow-eyed, their mouths open in silent screams.

I grabbed the candles, but they were gone. The red one, the green one—nowhere to be found. In their place, on the windowsill, sat a small, crude doll made of twigs and torn fabric, its face smeared with what looked like dried blood. I picked it up, and it was cold. Its button eyes seemed to bore into me.

A voice, gravelly and ancient, spoke from all directions: ‘You lit our candles. Now you must join us.’

My friends screamed and bolted for the door, but it was locked. They pounded on it, but it wouldn’t budge. I felt a hand—icy, bony—on my shoulder. I spun around, and there stood a nun, her habit stained with dirt, her face a mask of decayed skin. She smiled, and her teeth were filed to points.

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Nine years is long enough.’

I don’t remember what happened next. I only remember waking up in my bed, the morning sun streaming through the windows. The candles were back in place, red and green, their flames burning steadily. My friends were gone. Their phones went straight to voicemail. Their apartments were empty, their belongings left behind.

I tried to tell the police, but they dismissed it as a prank, or a shared hallucination. But I know the truth. The Meridian isn’t just a building. It’s a gateway. And the patients who died here—the ones who were tortured, lobotomized, left to rot—they never left. They’re still here, feeding on the living.

I stay because I have to. I’ve seen the alternative. The green and red candles are my only protection, but I know that one day, the power will go out for good, and the flames will die, and they will come for me. And I will join them, a new soul to torment, a new voice to add to the chorus of the damned.

Until then, I keep the candles lit, and I pray that the storm never comes.