The Last Wisp

My grandmother, Nana Lia, was a woman of the old country, her skin the color of sun-baked earth and her eyes like chips of obsidian. She lived in a small, crooked house at the edge of the woods, where the pines grew so thick they seemed to swallow the light. Every winter, when the snow piled high against the windows and the wind howled like a hungry beast, she would bring out her brass lantern, its glass panels clouded with age, and place a single, fat tallow candle inside. That candle was her ritual, her bridge to the old ways, and for my sister Mira and me, it was the signal for the stories to begin.

Nana Lia’s stories were not like the ones in books. They were raw, earthy, and often unsettling. She told of the forest spirits that could steal a child’s name if you wandered too deep, of the river that would rise and drag the careless to a watery grave, and of the Great Bear that roamed the sky in winter, its roar causing the northern lights to dance. But most of all, she told of the Hundred Wisdoms, a tradition passed down through her family. Each winter, she would light one hundred small candles, and for each one she blew out, she would share a story, a lesson, a piece of her soul. By the hundredth, she said, the darkness would have a shape, and you would know its name.

We never reached the hundredth. The winter I turned ten, Nana Lia grew frail. Her hands trembled, and her stories became shorter, more disjointed. One night, with the snow falling thick and fast, she managed to light only ninety-nine candles. The hundredth wick remained untouched, cold and dark. ‘I’m sorry, my loves,’ she wheezed, her voice like dry leaves. ‘I can’t finish. But you must. Remember the price.’ Her eyes fluttered closed, and she was gone. Mira and I were too young to understand the weight of her words, and the unlit candle stood on the mantel, a silent accusation.

Years passed. We grew, moved away, and Nana Lia’s house fell into disrepair. But I never forgot her, nor the unfinished ritual. When I inherited the house, I returned, drawn by an inexplicable pull. The place was frigid, the air thick with dust and the smell of old wood. In the attic, I found a box of her things, and among them, the brass lantern and a bundle of one hundred candles, still wrapped in brown paper. On the mantel, the cold wick of the hundredth candle seemed to mock me. A note, yellowed with age, was tucked inside the lantern. It read: ‘The Hundred Wisdoms must be completed. When you blow out the hundredth, the story ends, and the story ends with you.’

I scoffed at the superstition, but the house felt different now, the shadows longer, the creaks more deliberate. That night, I lit the candles, one by one, arranging them in a circle on the floor of the parlor. Mira, who had come to help me sort through Nana Lia’s things, watched with unease. ‘Remember the stories? They were just tales to scare us,’ she said, but her voice wavered. I ignored her and began to tell the stories Nana Lia had told us, reciting them from memory. As each candle blew out, a whisper of smoke curled upward, and I felt a strange weight settle on my shoulders, as if the house itself was listening.

Ninety-nine candles were extinguished. The parlor was dark except for the faint glow of the last, the hundredth candle, its flame guttering as if in an unseen draft. I picked it up, the wax warm and malleable in my hands. Mira clutched my arm. ‘Don’t. Please.’ But I had to finish what Nana Lia started. I took a deep breath and blew. The flame flickered once, twice, and then died, its smoke twisting into a shape—a hand, clutching, then dissolving. The house fell silent. Then, from the walls, came a sound like a thousand whispers, a chorus of voices that seemed to rise from the floorboards. They spoke in Nana Lia’s voice, but distorted, layered with others.

‘You’ve done it now, child. You’ve called the Hundred. Now you must listen.’ The whispers grew into a cacophony, and the shadows in the corners began to writhe. I turned to Mira, but she was gone. In her place stood a figure—tall, thin, with skin like bark and eyes like burning coals. It was the shape of the Great Bear from Nana Lia’s story, but wrong, twisted, with too many joints and a mouth that stretched too wide. ‘The story ends,’ it rumbled, ‘but only one of you may leave.’ I screamed, but no sound came out. The candle in my hand was cold, its wick blackened. On the mantel, where the hundredth had been, a new candle appeared, unlit, waiting.

I am still in that house, with no memory of how I got here or how long it’s been. Mira is gone, and I am alone, but the whispers remain. They tell me stories now, every night, from the hundred I never finished. They tell me of a girl who trapped herself in a house of shadows, and a sister who became the forest. They tell me that when the hundredth story is told, the listener becomes the teller, and the cycle begins anew. I have tried to leave, but the doors all lead to the parlor, and the parlor always has a hundred lit candles. I think this is what Nana Lia meant by the price. The story never really ends; it just waits for the next breath to blow out the last wisp of light.