The Fifth Candle

In the basement of St. Michael’s Church, beneath the flickering fluorescent light that buzzed like a trapped fly, I was teaching my younger cousin, Danny, how to prepare the thurible for the midnight service. It was December 24th, 2012, and the heating had failed, so we kept our coats on while we worked. The sacristy was a cramped, windowless room, crammed with vestments and dusty hymnbooks, and the only other light came from a single candle we’d set on a shelf near the charcoal brazier.

We were tasked with keeping the coals glowing for the incense, a duty that required constant fanning with a metal paddle. To pass the time, I hummed a tune I’d heard on the radio, but Danny, ever the joker, plugged his earphones into his phone and started blasting some heavy metal. The music echoed off the concrete walls, and I laughed, shaking my head. ‘Turn that down, or the priest will hear us,’ I said, but he just grinned and mouthed ‘What?’ over the noise.

I took the paddle from him to show him the proper rhythm. As I fanned, I caught my reflection in the dark window of a cupboard—or so I thought. But the window was dirty, and the image was oddly sharp. I tilted my head, and the reflection tilted its head a half-second later. ‘Danny, do you see that?’ I asked, but he was too absorbed in his phone.

I stepped closer to the cupboard, squinting. The reflection was wearing the same clothes as me—a black hoodie and jeans—but its hair was parted on the wrong side. And when I raised my hand to wave, the reflection didn’t wave back. It just stared, a faint smile playing on its lips. A chill ran down my spine, and I backed away. ‘Danny, look at this,’ I said, my voice trembling.

Danny finally pulled out his earphones and looked. ‘See what?’ he asked, frowning. ‘The cupboard,’ I said, pointing. He walked over and ran his hand across the dusty glass. ‘It’s just a mirror, man. You’re seeing things.’ But I knew it wasn’t a mirror. Because when I looked again, my reflection was gone, and in its place stood a figure that looked exactly like me, but older, with hollow eyes that seemed to know me.

Then the lights went out. In the pitch black, Danny screamed, ‘The candle!’ I fumbled for the matchbox, my heart pounding. I struck a match, and the flame revealed Danny kneeling by the brazier, his face pale. ‘The coals are fine,’ he whispered, ‘but there’s something in the corner.’ I swung the match towards the corner, but it sputtered out. I lit another, and this time I saw it—a third figure, identical to me, standing right behind Danny, its hand on his shoulder.

Danny felt the touch and spun around, but there was nothing. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he stammered. We stumbled towards the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The handle was cold, and the wood seemed thicker than before. We pushed and pushed, but it was sealed tight. Then we heard a sound—a soft, rhythmic breathing coming from the corner where the figure had been. And a voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Why did you light the fifth candle?’

I looked at the brazier, and on the shelf beside it, there were now five candles, not three. The fifth was black, its flame burning an eerie blue. I hadn’t lit it. Danny screamed, ‘I didn’t do it!’ and we huddled together, watching as the black candle’s flame grew, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. One of the shadows detached itself from the wall and began to crawl towards us, elongating like a serpent.

We screamed, and then the door burst open, and Father Michael rushed in, his cassock billowing. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded, but when he saw the black candle, his face went white. ‘Who lit that?’ he snapped. We shook our heads, and he grabbed the candle, crushing it in his fist. The flame died, and the room returned to its dim, normal light. He looked at us, his eyes serious, and said, ‘Never, ever light that candle again. It is for the dead.’

We never went back to that sacristy alone. But sometimes, at night, I think I see my reflection in my bedroom mirror, and it’s not me—it’s that older version, smiling, as if it’s waiting for another Christmas Eve, another midnight alone with the coals.