The Ninth Candle

It began in the autumn of 2019, in the town of Marrow Falls, where the old mill pond had frozen over by late September, a strange occurrence that the locals whispered about but never discussed. My name is Evelyn, and I had recently moved into my great-aunt’s house after she passed, a Victorian relic that smelled of mothballs and dust. In the basement, beneath a rotting staircase, I found a box of my aunt’s belongings, and at the very bottom, wrapped in a moth-eaten quilt, was a wooden Ouija board, its planchette carved from bone. I had never used one, but curiosity gnawed at me, and one evening, with the rain drumming against the windows, I lit a single candle and set the board on the floor. I placed my fingers on the planchette and asked if anyone was there. Nothing. The candle flickered, but the board remained still. I tried again on a different night, with two candles, and this time I felt a faint vibration, a trembling under my fingertips, but no coherent movement. I convinced myself it was just the house settling.

A week later, I decided to do it properly. I had no sage, but I remembered my grandmother’s words: ‘Palo santo clears negativity, but you must set a firm intention.’ So I burned a stick of palo santo, lit three more candles, and said aloud, ‘Only beings of good intent may speak. I wish to speak with my ancestors, but any benevolent spirit is welcome.’ The room grew cold, and the planchette began to move, slowly, erratically. At first, it spelled out random letters: ‘X Q Z L T M N O P.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Is that all you have?’ I whispered. Then the planchette jerked and spelled ‘E V E L Y N.’ My heart raced. It knew my name. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ The planchette moved to ‘G’ then ‘H’ then ‘O’ then ‘S’ then ‘T.’ It spelled ‘GHOST.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I know you’re a ghost. What’s your name?’ It hesitated, then spelled ‘M A L C O L M.’ I had never known a Malcolm. I asked, ‘Are you one of my ancestors?’ The planchette moved to ‘N O’ then to ‘F R I E N D.’ I felt a swell of excitement. ‘A friend? Do you have a message for me?’ The planchette moved to ‘Y E S’ and then spelled ‘L E A V E.’ I frowned. ‘Leave? Leave the house?’ The planchette spelled ‘N O T H O U S E.’ I asked, ‘Then what?’ The planchette moved to ‘T H I S W O R L D.’ I felt a chill. ‘Why?’ I asked. The planchette spelled ‘I T I S N O T Y O U R T I M E.’ I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. But then the candle behind me went out, and the planchette flew off the board, clattering to the floor. I sat there in the dim light of the remaining three candles, my heart pounding.

I decided to ignore it, but that night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the word ‘MALCOLM.’ I searched my family tree, but there was no Malcolm. I visited the town’s historical society, and a kind old woman named Mrs. Hargrove showed me old records. In 1919, a man named Malcolm Reid had lived in my great-aunt’s house. He was a spiritualist who claimed to communicate with the dead. He had died in the basement, under mysterious circumstances. The records said he was found with a piece of bone in his mouth, and the word ‘MALCOLM’ was carved on the floorboards. I felt a knot in my stomach. I went back home and set up the board again, this time with more candles, determined to get answers. I called out, ‘Malcolm, are you here?’ The planchette moved to ‘Y E S.’ I said, ‘Why did you warn me to leave this world?’ The planchette spelled ‘I A M S T U C K.’ I asked, ‘Stuck where?’ It spelled ‘I N S I D E T H E W O O D.’ I looked at the board. ‘The wood?’ I asked. It spelled ‘T H E P L A N C H E T T E.’ I looked at the bone planchette, and for the first time, I noticed it was covered in tiny scratches, like dried veins. I asked, ‘How do I free you?’ The planchette moved to ‘B U R N I T.’ I hesitated. ‘Burn the board? But then I’ll lose you.’ It spelled ‘Y E S.’ I felt a sense of dread, but also a strange connection. I decided to do it. I gathered the board and the planchette, and I built a small fire in the backyard. As I lit the wood, I felt a sudden cold wind, and the flames turned blue. The planchette began to vibrate, and a voice whispered in my ear, ‘Thank you.’ Then the fire died out, leaving only ash. I thought it was over.

But the next night, I woke to the sound of scratching. I went to the basement, and the floorboards were covered in the word ‘MALCOLM,’ carved over and over. I heard a voice behind me, deep and raspy: ‘You should have kept me.’ I spun around, but no one was there. The scratching grew louder, and the boards began to splinter. I ran upstairs, but the door to the basement slammed shut. I tried to open it, but it was stuck. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, ice cold, and a whisper: ‘Now we’re bound.’ I looked down and saw the bone planchette in my hand, though I had burned it. It was whole, but now it had a crack filled with something like dried blood. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the silence.

Months passed, and I couldn’t leave the house. The planchette followed me everywhere, and I would find it in my pocket, on my pillow, in my breakfast cereal. I tried to throw it away, but it always returned. It began to move on its own, skittering across tables, writing on walls: ‘You freed me, but you didn’t release me. You took my place.’ I realized that by burning the board, I had released Malcolm’s spirit from the wood, but he had taken refuge in the planchette, and I had become his vessel. Every night, I would wake up in the basement, the candle burning low, and my hand would be on the planchette, spelling out messages I didn’t intend. I was a vessel for the dead.

One night, I decided to fight back. I gathered all the candles I had, nine in total, and placed them in a circle around me in the basement. I sat cross-legged in the center, the planchette before me. I said, ‘Malcolm, I free you from me. Take the light, but leave my soul.’ The planchette trembled, and then it spelled, ‘NO.’ The candles blew out, one by one, until only the ninth remained, flickering weakly. I saw a shadow rise from the planchette, a form with Malcolm’s face, but his eyes were empty holes. He lunged at me, and I grabbed the ninth candle and thrust it into his chest. He screamed, and the flame engulfed him. The planchette turned to ash in my hand, and the basement was silent.

I thought I was free. But the next day, I looked in the mirror and saw a shadow behind me, a faint outline of a man. I turned, but nothing was there. Yet a voice whispered, ‘I am always with you now.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I realized that in burning the ninth candle, I had not destroyed Malcolm; I had become him. The house, the town, everything—it all continued, but I was not me anymore. I was the ghost in the basement, waiting for another Evelyn to come and set me free. And in that moment, I knew the ninth candle would never go out.

I now spend my days in the basement, surrounded by nine candles that never burn down. The planchette is gone, but I hear scratching on the floorboards. Sometimes, a new tenant will find the board, and they will call out, and I will answer, using their hand to spell out warnings. But they never believe me. They always burn the board, thinking they are helping. They don’t understand that the fire only binds me deeper. I am the story now. I am the reason Marrow Falls has a cold spot in the old mill pond. I am the one who will whisper to them, in their most vulnerable moments, ‘Leave this world.’ And I will wait, until another candle is lit, and another soul is taken.