The Hollow Candle

In the autumn of 1987, my obsession with the paranormal was still young, a fascination born from the dusty tomes in my father’s study. I didn’t believe a word of it, not truly, but I craved proof—something tangible to hold against the whispers of coincidence. My friends and I combed through secondhand shops until we found a trove of occult literature. Most of them lost interest, but I kept one book, its cover cracked and smelling of old smoke. I read until my vision blurred, the words seeming to shift on the page, and then one night, they rearranged themselves into a warning I couldn’t ignore. I slammed it shut, my heart hammering, and buried it in a box under my bed.

A week later, I met Lena at a party. She wore a silver crescent pendant and spoke of spirits as if they were old friends. Intrigued, I asked if I could observe her next session. She agreed, but her eyes held a flicker of something—pity, perhaps. On a night with no moon, we gathered in her basement, a space lit by a single black candle. Around us, jars of dried herbs and a rusted bell sat on a cloth printed with faded symbols. Lena instructed me to sit across from her, our knees almost touching, and to hold a small, hollowed-out bone she called a ‘spirit’s whistle.’ The others, two girls I didn’t know, whispered an incantation I couldn’t follow.

The candle flame guttered, then stood straight as a pin. The temperature plummeted, and my breath fogged. A pressure built in my ears, like descending too fast. Lena’s eyes rolled back, and a voice—not hers—issued from her throat, rasping like dry leaves. It spoke of a bargain, a payment for the knowledge I sought. I tried to pull away, but my hands were frozen to the bone. The flame turned blue, and a face formed in the smoke—a hollow-eyed thing that smiled with too many teeth. Then, as suddenly as it began, the candle died, and Lena slumped forward, gasping.

I fled, but the hollow eyes followed me. For days, I saw them in reflections, in the dark corners of my room. My friends dismissed it as dread. But at night, I heard a faint ringing, like that bone whistle. Desperate, I dug out the buried book and opened it to a page I’d never noticed. The words described the thing that had visited us: a Bargainer of the Threshold, a spirit that marked the one who saw its face. To break the connection, the book insisted, you must find the candle that never burns and extinguish it with a single breath.

I sought out Lena, but she denied everything, claiming I’d imagined it. Her pendant had turned to rust. I tracked down the other girls; they had moved away, leaving no trace. I was alone with my dread. That night, the ringing returned, louder. I followed it to the basement, where the black candle had been left. It was lit, burning with a steady light, though no one had touched it. A small, folded note lay beside it. Unfolding it, I read: ‘All who seek truth are drawn to the same flame.’

I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, leaned in, and blew. The flame flickered, but wouldn’t die. I blew harder, until my lungs ached, and still it burned. Then, from the smoke, the face appeared again—smiling. Its voice was a whisper in my skull: ‘You cannot blow out what is already hollow.’ I looked at the candle, and through the flame, I saw my own reflection—my eyes, once full of curiosity, now empty and dark.

I blew one last time, and the flame went out. But it was me who disappeared. The body that remained in that basement was just a husk, a vessel for the hollow thing that now wore my skin. In the weeks that followed, I—or it—continued my life, studying the occult with a zeal I’d never had. My friends noticed my eyes, how they seemed to look through them. But they said nothing. I was the one who’d wanted proof, after all. I’d found it. And it was hungry.

Now, I travel from town to town, collecting old books, attending circles, always looking for the next skeptic who wants to look behind the veil. I offer them the hollow candle, and I watch as their curiosity extinguishes their life. And the hollow thing inside me grows, feeding on their last breath. If you find this, and you’re tempted, remember: some flames cannot be blown out. They can only be passed on.