The Relic of the Last Candle

In the autumn of 2014, the world watched as Pope Gabriel III lay in state, his body resting in the chapel of a secluded monastery in the hills of Umbria. The air was thick with incense and grief. I had traveled from my small village, not as a pilgrim but as a collector, seeking a piece of history. I purchased a wooden cross, carved with the image of a suffering Christ, and a silver pendant bearing the Pope’s likeness, thinking they would be treasures to pass down.

On the fifth night of the wake, I sat in my rented room, the cross in my hands, watching the live broadcast from the monastery. The cameras showed the faithful lining up, their faces etched with sorrow. As the clock struck midnight, I felt a deep exhaustion, not just from the day, but from a weight I couldn’t explain. I switched off the television, placed the cross on the nightstand, and lay down. Soon, I slipped into a restless sleep.

Hours later, I woke with a jolt, my eyes open in the darkness. I could see the moon casting pale light through the window, but my body was paralyzed. I could hear my own breathing, but I couldn’t move a finger. Then, from the corner of my vision, I saw a figure emerge from the shadows near the window. It was tall and gaunt, like a man made of smoke. It moved silently, its form absorbing the light, and it approached my bed. I wanted to scream, but my throat was locked. The figure leaned over me, its face a void, and I felt a cold hand press against my chest, where the pendant hung beneath my shirt. A whisper, dry as dead leaves, seeped into my ear: ‘You carry him, but you do not know him.’

The figure then withdrew, and I felt a searing pain in my chest, as if the pendant had turned to ice. I blacked out.

When I awoke, the sun was streaming through the window. My chest ached, and when I looked at the pendant, I saw that the Pope’s image had changed. His eyes, once serene, were now wide with terror, and his lips were parted as if in a silent scream. I tried to remove the pendant, but the chain was fused to my skin, and the cross on the nightstand had fallen to the floor, its Christ figure now bearing a garland of thorns that seemed to pierce deeper.

I fled the room, seeking the monastery’s archivist, an old monk named Brother Anselmo. He listened to my tale with a grave face. He told me that Pope Gabriel III had not died of natural causes, as the world believed. He had been plagued by visions of a ‘black pilgrim’ who followed him, and on the night of his death, his last words were ‘He comes for the relic.’ Brother Anselmo revealed that the cross I had bought was not a mere souvenir; it was a reliquary, containing a fragment of a bone from the Apostle Peter, and that the pendant was a key, meant to open the reliquary. But the key had been corrupted, and now it had bonded with me.

That night, as I lay in the monastery’s guest cell, the black figure returned. This time, it spoke in a voice that resonated within my skull. ‘You have the key. You will open the way, or I will take it from your heart.’ I felt a pressure in my chest, and the pendant grew warmer, as if alive. I tried to pray, but the words died in my throat. The figure extended a long, skeletal finger toward my forehead, and I saw visions: a crypt beneath the monastery, a candle that had burned for a thousand years, and a door sealed with wax.

The next morning, I knew what I had to do. I found the hidden entrance to the crypt beneath the chapel, a stone slab covered by a moth-eaten rug. With trembling hands, I pried it open and descended into the cold, damp darkness. At the far end, I saw a niche with a single, flickering candle. The flame was blue, and it seemed to dance in rhythm with my heartbeat. The black figure materialized behind me, its breath on my neck. ‘Light the final candle,’ it said, ‘and release me from this purgatory.’

I realized then that the figure was not a demon, but a tormented soul, bound to the crypt since the time of the Crusades, when he had stolen the relic from the true Church. The candle was his soul’s anchor. I looked at the pendant, at the Pope’s face, and saw that his eyes now held a message: ‘Stay the flame.’ With all my strength, I tore the pendant from my neck, along with a chunk of flesh, and threw it into the candle. The flame sputtered, then went out, plunging the crypt into total darkness.

The figure screamed, a wail of agony that shook the walls, and then it dissolved into a wisp of smoke. I fell to my knees, gasping. When I emerged, the morning sun blinded me. The cross on the ground had cracked, and from it fell a small bone, which crumbled to dust. Brother Anselmo found me, and I told him what I had done. He wept, saying, ‘You have ended the curse, but you have also severed the Church from a precious relic.’

I left the monastery that day, carrying only the memory of the blue flame and the black figure. But as I walked down the hill, I felt a tug at my chest. I looked down and saw that the pendant had reappeared, embedded in my skin, and the Pope’s face now bore a serene smile. I knew then that the true relic was not the cross, nor the bone, but the sorrow I carried within me, forever bound to the last candle I had extinguished.