The Molded Wax

I first noticed it in the salt-scoured room of a lighthouse on a storm-bitten island off the coast of Norway, where I had taken a winter residency to finish my book on maritime folklore. The room was small, with a single window that looked out onto a gray, churning sea, and a narrow iron bed that I rarely used. I spent most nights at a wooden desk, my fingers numb from typing, the hiss of the waves and the creak of the beams my only companions. But soon, there was another presence.

It was a shape I caught from the corner of my eye, standing in the doorway that led to the spiral stairs. It was tall, indistinct, like a smear of darkness against the dim light. When I turned my head, it was gone. At first, I blamed the isolation, the endless dark, but the feeling of being watched grew. I started to check the doorway more often, but there was never anything there until I looked away.

One night, I decided to take a bath to soothe my nerves. The bathroom was a small, tiled alcove off the main room, with a claw-footed tub that had seen better days. I lit a few candles, placed them on the edges, and slipped into the hot water. As I closed my eyes, I felt a chill that wasn’t from the air. When I opened them, the medicine cabinet above the sink swung open with a creak, as if pushed by an unseen hand. The mirror inside reflected my own startled face, but behind me, for just a flicker, I saw a darker outline. I jumped out, my heart hammering, and grabbed the cabinet door, but it wouldn’t close for a long moment, as if something held it.

I began to burn incense to mask the musty smell of the old stone. I used a small brass burner, and I poured in a few drops of oil. As I lit it, the flame flared up violently, and the burner exploded, sending shards of hot metal across the room. I threw myself to the floor, and a piece lodged in the wall where my head had been. The oil had been tainted, or so I told myself, but the fear was real.

Weeks passed, and I grew more desperate to finish my work and leave. One evening, I lit a single candle to see my notes by, a thick pillar of wax on a pewter holder. I left the room to get a drink from the kitchen below. When I came back up, the stairs were filled with smoke. The candle had toppled, and the holder had melted into a pool of wax, but the flame had caught a stack of papers on the desk, and then the wooden desk itself. I grabbed a fire blanket, but it was too late. The fire spread to the curtains, and I had to flee, calling the coast guard from a boat shed. The lighthouse survived, but it was gutted by smoke, and I could have easily died in my sleep if I had lingered even a minute longer.

I left the island, vowing never to return. But the ghost, or whatever it was, followed me. I see it now in every doorway, every mirror inset, every dark corner of my new apartment in the city. It watches me from the shadowed alcove where I keep my books. Sometimes, I catch a whiff of burning wax, even when no candle is lit. And I know, with a deep, creeping certainty, that it wants me to burn with it.

I have learned to live with it, but I always keep a light on, and I never, ever light a candle. Because the last time I did, the reflected flame in its eyes was all I saw before I blew it out, my hands trembling, my heart screaming. It is patient, though. It waits. And every time I close my eyes, I see the melted wax, pooling like a dark hand reaching for me.