The Lantern Wicks

On the last night of October, in the quiet village of Ashwick, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decayed leaves. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the cobblestones slick and the trees motionless, as if holding their breath. My grandmother, Elara, had sent me outside to light the lanterns along the path leading to our front door, a tradition on this night to guide the spirits of our ancestors home. I was sixteen, old enough to scoff at such superstitions, but I obeyed, carrying a box of matches and five small clay lanterns filled with oil.

I placed them in a row by the threshold, their wicks dark and waiting. As I struck the first match, a chill ran down my spine, and I could swear I heard a faint hum, like a distant swarm. I shrugged it off, lighting each wick in turn. The flames sputtered to life, casting a warm glow against the encroaching darkness. I sat on the step, watching them flicker, feeling a bit foolish for the tradition, yet unable to shake a growing unease.

Then, one by one, the flames began to bend sideways, stretching as if pushed by an invisible breath. All five, in perfect unison, leaned away from the house, toward the empty garden. There was no wind. The leaves on the trees were still as stone. I felt a cold trickle of sweat on my neck. My breath caught in my throat. I tried to look for any sign of a draft, but there was nothing—just the unnatural slant of fire, as if someone was standing there, blowing softly, playing with the light.

I wanted to call out to my family inside, but my voice was frozen. I watched, transfixed, as the flames danced and swayed, never extinguishing, but bending in a slow, rhythmic pattern, like a silent conversation. The hum grew louder, a buzzing that seemed to come from within my own skull. Then, as suddenly as it began, the flames snapped upright, burning steady and bright. The hum ceased. The silence was deafening.

Slowly, I rose, my legs trembling, and backed into the house, not daring to look away from the lanterns. I slammed the door behind me and leaned against it, heart pounding. My grandmother looked up from her knitting, her eyes knowing. ‘They come back, child,’ she said softly. ‘Sometimes, they want to play.’ I didn’t sleep that night. I stayed by the window, watching the lanterns burn until dawn, and when they finally flickered out, I knew something had been there, something that had found our threshold and left a mark on my soul.

The next morning, I went outside to collect the lanterns. The oil was gone, but the wicks were blackened and twisted, as if they had been bent by fingers. On the step, I found a single small, brown moth, its wings covered in strange markings that looked like letters from a language I didn’t recognize. I carefully picked it up, and it crumbled to dust in my hands. That Halloween, and every one since, I light the lanterns, but I never sit with them alone. And I always leave an extra one, unlit, just in case. They say the flames bend for those who are remembered, but now I know they also bend for those who are forgotten, and they want to be seen.