The Candle’s End

The winter of last year, my cousin Lena, her partner Marcus, and I decided to hold a séance in the basement of Lena’s newly inherited farmhouse. The place was drafty, with old wooden beams and a dirt floor, and we’d been hearing odd scratching sounds in the walls for weeks. Marcus, who had recently started seeing things out of the corner of his eye, suggested we try to contact whatever was causing the disturbances. Lena, ever the pragmatist, agreed, and I, being the curious one, went along.

We gathered the usual items: black candles, a silver bowl, a white cloth, and a photo of Marcus’s late grandmother, whom we suspected might be the one haunting him. We cleansed the space with sage and salt, drew a circle on the floor, and lit the candles. We began to chant, a simple invocation, and for a while, nothing happened. The air was still, the only sound our voices and the occasional creak of the house settling.

Then, the temperature dropped. A cold, sharp draft swept through the basement, making the candle flames flicker violently. The scratching in the walls stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. I looked at Lena and Marcus; they both felt it too. The hair on my arms stood up. Something was there, watching us.

Marcus started to cry. Not a gentle sob, but a deep, wrenching cry that seemed to come from somewhere else, as if the sound was being ripped from him. He began to hyperventilate, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and unfocused. Lena grabbed his arm, asking what was wrong, but he couldn’t speak. He just pointed to a corner of the room, where I saw nothing but shadows.

Then he screamed. It was a raw, primal sound, and he lunged forward, blowing out the candle in front of him. The room was plunged into darkness except for the faint glow of the other candles, and that’s when the chaos began.

From outside, we heard tapping on the windows—first on the basement windows, then on the siding above us. The tapping grew louder, more frantic, like a hundred fingers drumming against the glass. Then came footsteps, heavy and slow, pacing around the perimeter of the house. And then, a soft whining, like an animal in pain, but it was too deep, too human. Lena and I exchanged terrified glances. We blew out the remaining candles, intending to end the séance, but the noises continued, growing more intense. We ran up the stairs, not daring to look back, and locked the basement door behind us.

Even now, months later, that house is not the same. The basement door is always cold to the touch, no matter how hot the day. Sometimes, when I’m there after dark, I catch movement in the periphery, and I hear that soft whining again, muffled, as if from behind the walls. Lena refuses to go downstairs alone, and Marcus won’t stay overnight. We tried to cleanse the house again, but it didn’t work. Something followed us out of that séance, and it’s not leaving.

The worst part is the smell. It’s like burnt hair and rotting leaves, and it lingers in the hallway near the basement door. And sometimes, when I’m lying in bed in the guest room, I see the shadow of a figure standing at the foot of the bed, just for a second, before it vanishes. I told myself it’s my imagination, but then I notice the candle on the nightstand has been moved, its wick blackened, as if someone blew it out.

Now, I never go to the farmhouse after sunset. I’ve thrown away the photo of Marcus’s grandmother, thinking she might be the source, but the tapping still follows me. Sometimes, I hear it outside my own apartment window, and I wonder if it’s not the farmhouse that’s haunted, but Marcus, and what we summoned that night is now attached to him. I just hope that we didn’t let something out that we can’t put back.

Last night, I got a call from Lena. She was whispering, almost too quiet to hear. She said she was in the basement, and she could hear me breathing. She said, ‘You’re still here, aren’t you?’ And then she laughed, a low, grating laugh that I didn’t recognize. I hung up, but the phone rang again. It was Marcus, crying, telling me to come over, that Lena was in the corner, staring at him, and she wasn’t blinking. I didn’t go. I’m writing this now, and I can hear scratching at my door. I pray it’s a raccoon. But I know it’s not. The candle I lit for protection just went out, and in the reflection of my window, I can see a figure standing behind me. It has its hand on my shoulder, and it’s whispering my name. It’s the same voice from that night, the one that called out from the dark. It’s not Lena. It’s not anything human. And it knows I’m afraid.