The Candle’s Hollow

It was the autumn of 1995 when I first sensed something wrong with our little flat in Salalah. My colleague, Mara, and I had been transferred from Muscat to the coastal city for a two-year consultancy contract. We were both in our mid-thirties, seasoned engineers, and we’d shared many apartments across the Gulf. But this one—a modest two-bedroom on the fourth floor of a coral-stone building near the old souk—felt different from the moment we stepped in. The walls were thick, the windows arched, and the air carried a faint smell of salt and old incense. We shrugged it off as the charm of an old Omani house.

Our first week was uneventful. We explored the frankincense stalls, watched the vendors at the fish market, and marveled at the unending stretch of white sand. But at night, I’d wake around 3 a.m. with a sense of being watched. The ceiling fan hummed, the curtains billowed, but the room felt heavy. I’d call out to Mara, who would groan from her bed, ‘Just the wind, Han.’ She was the practical one, always dismissing my Catholic-raised imaginings. Yet one morning, she confessed she’d seen a shadow move across her wall—a shape like a tall, thin figure with arms too long. We laughed it off, blaming the moonlight and our overactive minds.

Then came the night of the power outage. The storm had knocked out electricity, and we lit candles, placing them on the windowsill and the coffee table. As we sat in the flickering glow, Mara suddenly froze, her eyes wide. ‘Look at the candle flame,’ she whispered. I did. It was burning straight and tall, but the shadow it cast on the wall was not ours. It was a dark silhouette of a man with a hat, elongated and swaying as if made of smoke. We both sat motionless, the air turning cold. The shadow raised an arm, pointing toward the hallway. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the power came back, and the shadow vanished. The candle, however, had melted into a weird shape: a hollow pillar, as if something had dissolved from the inside out.

We tried to rationalize it. Mara said it was a trick of the light, but her hands trembled. I thought of the old Filipino superstitions my grandmother used to tell me—about spirits that could be seen in candle flames. ‘This isn’t home,’ I muttered. Mara agreed. So we did what any rational women would do: we called a local sheikh who was known for dealing with jinn. He came the next day, a kind old man with a white beard and a worn Quran. He recited verses and sprinkled rosewater, then told us, ‘There is a presence here, but it is not malicious. It is confused, bound by a promise. It lingers near the candles.’ He advised us to stop using candles and to keep the windows closed at night. We obeyed, but the unease lingered.

A week later, I had to work late. The building was nearly empty, the offices silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights. I was reviewing structural blueprints when I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around—nothing. But on my desk, a single candle I had kept for emergencies was lit, its flame bending toward the door as if beckoning me. I followed the corridor, my footsteps echoing, until I reached the storeroom. The door was ajar, and inside, a candle sat on an overturned crate, casting shadows that writhed on the walls. I stepped closer and saw the flame hold a ghostly face—a woman’s face, ancient and sorrowful, with eyes like wells. It opened its mouth in a silent scream, and the flame grew tall, revealing a hollow pillar, just like the one from our flat. I backed away, tripping over a pipe, and the candle went out.

I ran back to the flat, my heart pounding. Mara was there, pale. ‘I just saw her,’ she said. ‘The woman from the candle. She was standing at the end of the hall, pointing to the old wardrobe.’ We looked at the wardrobe—a heavy, antique piece that came with the flat. We had never opened it, assuming it was locked. But now the lock was undone. We opened it together. Inside, there was nothing but a single, yellowed photograph. It showed a man in a Western suit, smiling, with his arm around an Omani woman in traditional dress. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: ‘To my beloved Sarah, until the candle burns hollow.’

The puzzle came together. The apartment had a history. The man, a British engineer, had loved a local woman named Sarah. When he left, he promised to return for her. She waited, lighting a candle every night. She died in this very flat, alone, her candle burning hollow. Her spirit, bound by the unfulfilled promise, flickered at the edges of our world, seeking completion. We felt her presence as a longing, not a threat. So we decided to help her. We took the photograph and the remains of the candle, and at sunset, we went to the sea. We placed the photo in a small boat made of palm leaves, set the candle stub inside, and pushed it out. As the waves carried it away, the candle flickered once—then went out, calm.

That night, the flat felt lighter. The air was fresh. We slept soundly for the first time in weeks. The next morning, the wardrobe door was open, and inside, on the floor, lay a single white feather. We never saw the shadow again. But sometimes, when I light a candle in my new home, I think of Sarah and her hollow flame, and I whisper a prayer that she finally found her peace. The mystery of the candle’s hollow remains, a silent reminder that some promises, broken in life, can only be mended in the beyond.