The Candle That Wouldn’t Die

BY SHAFI ULHAQ

Ana found the candle on her doorstep at dawn.

It was plain and white, about the length of her hand, with a smooth surface that hadn’t yet been touched by flame. No note. No box. Just wax and wick, waiting.

At first, she assumed it was a gift from Marta next door—Marta, who believed burning candles kept the spirits of their ancestors at peace. But when Ana asked, Marta only frowned. “No, dear. I would’ve left something brighter. That thing looks like it belongs in a church crypt.”

Ana almost threw it away. Almost.

Instead, curiosity whispered louder than caution.

That night, Ana lit the candle.

The flame danced calmly, giving off a strangely soothing scent—lavender, maybe. She leaned closer, entranced by the way the shadows curled around the light. Then she saw it.

A name, barely visible, flickered inside the flame.

Simón Duarte.

Ana blinked. She hadn’t seen that name in years. Simón had been her teacher in secondary school—the kind who made students feel small, like secrets he held were heavier than their grades. She hadn’t thought of him since graduation.

Shrugging it off as an odd trick of the light, Ana blew out the candle.

But the next morning, the village group chat buzzed with a single message:

“Has anyone seen Señor Duarte? Didn’t show up for class.”

He never showed again. Just… vanished.

Ana tried to forget. The mind plays tricks, she told herself. Maybe he moved. Maybe he died and no one noticed right away.

But when she lit the candle again—against every quiet instinct in her chest—another name appeared.

Luisa Bragado.

This time, she watched the name until her eyes stung. It didn’t fade, didn’t change. It just hovered there, like the flame itself breathed it.

And the next morning, Luisa was gone too.

By the fourth name, Ana stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

Her hands trembled as she kept a notebook beside the candle, writing down every name that emerged. Some she recognized immediately—neighbors, coworkers, one old boyfriend. Others were strangers. She cross-checked missing person reports, local gossip, obituaries.

One by one, each name disappeared from the world.

Sometimes people left notes behind—rambling messages, or nothing at all. Sometimes they simply never came home. Always within twenty-four hours.

The candle didn’t shrink. No wax dripped. No wick burned down.

It was as if it fed on the people it chose.

Ana stopped lighting it for weeks. Hid it in the back of her kitchen cabinet. But even there, it called to her—a pull in the spine, a restless flutter in her chest.

When she finally gave in and lit it again, the flame sputtered.

She braced herself for the name.

Mateo Alvaro.

Her younger brother.

“No,” she whispered. “No, not him.”

She blew the candle out violently. The flame resisted, flared for a second, then died.

Ana ran to Mateo’s apartment that night. He opened the door groggy, shirtless, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I am. Are you?”

He made her tea. They talked. He promised to call every day. The next morning, Ana opened her phone to a dozen missed calls and a police update.

Mateo was gone.

By now, the village had begun whispering of strange vanishings. Superstitions flared. No one trusted their neighbors. Doors were bolted. Windows shuttered.

Ana stopped attending church. She couldn’t stomach the candlelit altar. She watched from her window as people vanished and police shrugged. She kept tracking names, praying for patterns.

Then, one night, as the flame flickered steadily in the dark…

Her own name appeared.

Ana Velasco.

She stared at it until dawn.

She didn’t blow it out.

At sunrise, she walked into the woods behind her home, where the pines swallowed sound. The candle, wrapped in cloth, glowed faintly in her bag, unbothered by movement or air.

At the base of an old cedar tree, she dug.

There, buried in damp soil, she left the candle and her notebook, pressing the earth down with both hands until her fingernails bled.

And then she walked away.

Ana never vanished.

But the candle… it was never found again.

Still, some say—on certain nights, in certain towns—a single name flickers in the flame of an unfamiliar candle.

And someone is never seen again.