Candle Lore

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A candle that meant a great deal of terror to the neighboring villages.

The cabin stood at the convergence of two paths, each from one of the two closest villages. The paths joined at the front of the once-home and led villagers to the river. They passed the cabin each time they filled a bucket, rinsed their laundry or took a swim. On the return to their respective villages, each of them eyed the cabin cautiously as they passed, remembering the lore their elders told them. They recalled the horrors a lit candle would foreshadow and attempted to ignore the little hairs rising on the backs of their necks. They peered at the candle in the window and were rewarded with a sense of relief when they could not find a flame or flicker. On that night, they would not be given such a reward.

That particular night was otherwise not very particular. It was a hot night, like most other nights in the latter part of the summer. The wind was present, but slight. Enough to rustle the leaves of the trees along the path and to sway the tall grasses that surrounded the cabin. But not enough to make up for the thick humidity that hung in the air. Children and women made trips to and from the river all day long, gathering water for chores. And children returned to treat themselves to a swim if they finished before supper.

The first to see the candle’s flame was a young girl named Agnes. She had dull brown hair and wore a long dress like every other girl her age. Plain, straight, with wool stockings underneath. Colored in a way that, even on the rare occasion the dress was cleaned, you could not tell if it was a really old white that had gotten stained over time, or if a group of mothers gathered and decided that this shade of beige was the best color for their kids to grow up in to live long, respectful lives.

Agnes noticed the flame on the candle right away. Something drew her attention to the top window of the raised cabin, like the sensation of someone staring at her. She turned her head and knew exactly where to look. All these years, she had expected that if she ever saw the candle lit, it would be a much more remarkable occasion. She stared at the candle, unsure of what to feel. After a moment, she decided it was completely unremarkable, shrugged her shoulders, and went on her way with a wooden tub of freshly-rinsed linens. After all, it was just the elders’ made-up story. Somebody was probably playing a joke.

A few other children passed, each only pausing briefly to shake away the momentary terror that came with seeing the lit candle for the first time. Then came a slightly older boy named Henry. He did not believe the stories either. Yet, the cabin still terrified him, even after walking past it nearly every day for several years.

Each day, he made several trips to get water for his father, the baker. Each night, he returned to the river for a swim. He loved to swim, but he also hoped to get up the courage to talk to the girl with the shiny brown hair from the neighboring village.

Whenever Henry passed the cabin, he took a giant gulp of air with his dry mouth and looked up at the window. When his eyes were met with the unlit candle, he closed them for a moment to quietly give thanks. On this night, however, his eyes grew wide. On this night, his stomach, which contained the very tiny lunch he ate, lurched to the bottom of his insides when he saw the candle flickering in the open window.

As each child returned to their village, they poured water, hung laundry, or helped with another number of chores. They quickly forgot what they saw. Except the boy named Henry. Henry rushed to tell his father, who was retrieving bread from his baking stones in the town square and handing out portions for the next day’s worth of meals.

Henry opened his mouth to speak, but his father spoke before Henry could utter a single word. “Did you see her?”

Henry blinked his eyes, puzzled by the question.

“The girl for whom you trek to the swimming hole at the end of an exhausting day.”

The girl with the shiny brown hair. The one subject that could distract Henry from the candle. A smile crossed his lips as he nodded his head. “I finally had the courage to ask. Her name is Margaret.”

Henry’s father beamed. “I was only fourteen when I first met your mother, may she rest in peace.”

“Yes, I know.” Henry heard that story many times before. “Father? Something else happened.” Henry proceeded to share the details of the candle that everybody feared.

“Probably just some mischievous lad playing a prank. Everyone knows a candle in that window would frighten many in this village,” his father assured him.

“What did thou just say?” Henry’s grandmother appeared, her lips trembling with fear. “The candle in the window of the old cabin? ’Tis lit?”

“Come now, mother,” Henry’s father put his hand on the grandmother’s shoulder. “Nobody believes those stories of old.”

She repeated her question slowly, her eyes burrowing through Henry even as her son attempted to escort her back inside. “’Tis lit?”

Henry nodded. His grandmother yelled in a loud shrieking voice for the whole village to hear. “The candle is lit once more!”

Henry heard a waterfall of gasps. Most of the older villagers and some of the younger ones hurried off to their homes. Shutters slammed closed and door locks engaged. Panicked whispers made their way through the crowd. Even non-believers gathered around. Henry looked around at the crowd. The paled faces, flared nostrils, and clutching of chests made him feel even sicker.

Henry’s grandmother spoke to the group. “Ye who have lived as long as I already know the horrors we are about to witness. For the rest of you, recall the story of William Hughes. His limbs, drained of blood, hanging outside his dwelling. It has been two score and eight years since the last time the old witch has visited our village, but I will never forget the terror she leaves in her wake. And after this, neither will any of ye.”

Another of the elders spoke. “Listen to her, young fools. The witch will not stop until she takes a life. Don’t let it be you! Take your families inside and secure your homes.”

The wind picked up. Henry’s grandmother spoke once more. “The sun is going down. Hurry!”

The villagers ran off toward their quarters. Mothers grabbed their children and took them inside, not caring whether toys or other belongings were left behind. Fathers secured their homes the best they could.

Henry’s grandmother slowly walked inside muttering, “Who will be the chosen one this time?”

The common area was soon empty. The only signs of life were the sets of eyeballs peeking through shutters.

Henry stared out the window with great trepidation as darkness fell. All he could hear was the wind, howling through the empty town square. He thought he might have heard something else. A voice, far off in the distance.

The voice got closer. Henry turned to his father. “’Tis a girl. She calls for help.”

His father rushed to the window. The girl came running toward the open area of town, screaming for help. A low fog seemed to follow her. She kept looking over her shoulder and eventually was surrounded by the fog in the middle of the town square.

“Someone, help me. Please!” she cried.

Henry caught a glimpse of her face and knew immediately he must help her.

“Father, it’s Margaret!” Henry pleaded, “Please, we must help her.”

“Do not thou dare open that door!” Henry’s grandmother stepped toward the door and held out a broomstick.

“Grandmother, please,” Henry insisted.

Henry’s father stepped toward the door.

The grandmother slowly moved her gaze between her son and her grandson and whispered, “That girl is the chosen one. Once the spirit gets the one it has chosen, this will all be over. If ye get in its way, then we may join in her fate.”

“Mother, you cannot suggest we simply ignore a child in need,” Henry’s father said as he pushed the broom away and unlatched the door.

“Thou must consider thy own family. Do not be naive, boy!”

Henry’s father did not heed her warnings. He opened the door and beckoned for the girl to hurry in. She ran full speed toward the door, the fog trailing close behind. She dove inside the home. Henry’s father locked the door just in time to hear a low growl and a thud on the door.

“Wha—what is that?” Henry asked, blinking.

“That is thou sealing our fate,” his grandmother responded.

Margaret stood and smoothed her skirt. “I was being chased.”

“By what?” Henry asked.

Margaret had a bewildered look on her face as if she was trying to process what just happened. “A ghost lady? In the fog?”

“Thou art safe now,” Henry assured her.

Margaret looked at Henry and bowed her head slightly. Her face was flushed from running, but Henry was certain he could see the slightest blush of her cheeks.

Henry’s father introduced himself to Margaret. “Thou may call me Mr. Baker.”

Henry and his father looked out the windows to make sure the witch was gone. “See, mother? It has moved on. There’s no such thing as the chosen one.”

“Thou had better hope so. Or it will be our limbs hanging in the village.”

“What is she talking about? The chosen one? Me?” Margaret turned to Henry.

“I saw the candle burning in the window of the cabin,” Henry replied.

“I saw it earlier as well, but ’tis just a made-up story, no?” Margaret asked.

“Did that seem made up?” The grandmother pointed at the door. “Hmm?”

Margaret shook her head.

She was the prettiest girl Henry had ever seen. And Henry had traveled more than most kids his age. When his mother died, he traveled with his father to inform her brother (Henry's uncle) who lived in a big city a few hours away. Henry learned that life in the big city, and the towns surrounding it, was quite different. The elders did not speak of witches and candles. They spoke differently, simpler yet more modern. More prestigious. Their attire was different from one day to the next. And their homes had more rooms and something called a “water closet” that was a much fancier lavatory than his family’s chamber pot. Henry thought everything about the city was nicer than his village, except one thing: he never saw a girl as pretty as the girl with the shiny brown hair from back home.

“Would you like to hear about the witch of the cabin?” The grandmother asked, squinting at the girl.

Margaret nodded.

“Back nearly two-hundred years ago, a family lived in that cabin. A man, wife, and two children. The woman was always a bit strange, but nobody ever thought of her as dangerous. Until one night.”

The children’s eyes were glued to the grandmother. Even Mr. Baker paid close attention this time.

“One night, the mother lit a candle and then, one-by-one, murdered each member of her family. Nobody knows why.” Grandmother paused. “The next morning, the candle was extinguished, and all the limbs of her family were seen hanging from the porch, pale with a sickening grey tint to them. Upon further inspection, they discovered that every last ounce of blood had been drained from them. They did not know what she did with all that blood. Some people said she drank it. The villages sentenced her to death before they could find out for certain.”

The children’s mouths hung agape.

“Some people called her a witch, but others said she was something much worse. A year later, on the anniversary of their deaths, the candle was lit once more. That night, the spirit of the evil witch made an appearance in our sister village. The next day, body parts of one of the villagers were found hanging outside his dwelling, each one drained of blood. Whenever someone saw the candle lit, the pattern would repeat. One or more people found hanging outside their dwelling, all drained of blood. If no body parts were found, then we knew ’twas not over. Anyone with half a mind would lock themselves up night after night until we saw the hanging body parts and knew we were safe.”

“How often did it happen?” Henry asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“There is no pattern to speak of. Whenever the spirit chooses someone. This last time was nearly half a century, the longest it has ever gone.”

“Doest thou think that it will keep coming after me?” Margaret asked.

Henry watched a tear fall down Margaret’s cheek. He instinctively reached for her hand, expecting her to pull away, but instead she squeezed him tightly.

The old woman stared directly into Margaret’s eyes. “In my day, when the spirit chose someone, we let it be. It was a sacrifice we accepted for the village. My idiot son has gotten in the way of the spirit this time. I suppose we shall see what lengths it will go to for thee.”

“Alright, that is enough, Mother,” Mr. Baker raised his voice.

His mother shrugged. “I suppose ’tis also possible it may just go find the next easy target.”

“Alright, children, go upstairs,” Mr Baker demanded, though kindly.

Henry rushed off, excited to show Margaret his wooden carvings. He knew that was his chance to impress her.

Once they were gone, Mr. Baker reprimanded his mother. “Thou should not scare children like that.”

“I did not scare them enough if thou ask me. But if it keeps you both safe, then my work is done.” She collapsed with a heavy breath into her rocking chair and began knitting.

Mr. Baker sighed but knew there was no point continuing the argument. He had never known his mother to back down, and he just did not have the energy. He spent the next hour watching out the window for the spirit.

Mr. Baker started to fall victim to the rhythmic creaking of his mother’s rocking chair. No sooner had he drifted off, he was awoken by a loud, low growl outside the window. He peered through the shutters, but saw only fog. He knew something was amiss and felt comfort knowing the children were safe upstairs. A sudden thump! at the door startled him. Then another. And another.

The thumps got louder and harder. The door creaked and bowed under the pressure.

Mr. Baker was about to yell for the children when the fog disappeared. He was surrounded by silence. Not even the rocking chair made noise. He turned toward his mother. She was slouched in her chair, a clean slice across her neck, blood staining the top of her clothing. Before he could scream, he felt a sharp stab in his ear. Everything around him faded.

#

Upstairs, in one of two small rooms, Henry showed Margaret his carvings. He had never been so close to a girl so pretty. Her company distracted him so much that he must have shown her the moose three times.

“I must use the chamber pot,” Margaret said, looking up at him, slightly bouncing.

Henry directed her to a tiny room at the bottom of the stairs.

Margaret hesitated. “Do you promise I am safe in here?”

“I promise,” replied Henry. And he meant it.

Margaret nodded and hurried off.

Less than five minutes later, Margaret came running back into the room, eyes wider than before. Henry opened his mouth to speak, but she reached him in time to put her hand over it.

“Shhhh.” She swung her head around, looking panicked. “We need to hide. Now.”

Houses that had more than one room meant that the rooms were smaller and there were not many options for hiding. Henry pulled her down in the corner behind a wooden chair with a clean sheet folded on it. He spread the sheet over the chair and over them. It was not much, but it was the best he could do.

“What happened?” Henry could not be sure if his palms were sweating from the possibility of a ghost witch coming for them or if it was from being this close to Margaret.

“When I was downstairs, I heard a growling and thumping. ’Tis coming for me; I just know it.” She flung her head onto Henry’s chest and sobbed.

“Shhh. ’Tis okay,” reassured Henry. “I will protect thee.” Of course he did not truly know if he could keep that promise. He was scared, too.

Margaret gave him a quick kiss, right on the corner of his mouth, before returning her head to his chest.

Henry’s whole body went numb. He wanted more than ever to keep her safe. “I will be right back.”

“No!” gasped Margaret, grabbing his arm.

“Stay here,” Henry insisted. “I will simply check that everything is as it should be.”

But Margaret would not let go. “I am coming with thee,” she stated firmly.

Henry nodded and carefully placed her behind him so he could shield her from any danger. He reached one arm behind him, and they grasped each other’s forearms tightly as they walked.

They paused at the top of the stairs. All was silent. Henry quietly led Margaret down the stairs. “I am sorry my grandmother scared thee with that story.”

“’Tis okay,” Margaret whispered back. They reached the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the front of the house. “’Tis similar to what I have heard before, but not exactly the same.”

“What was different?” Henry asked. But he couldn’t hear her answer. His heart beat madly in his ears when he saw his grandmother dead in her rocking chair. He could barely breathe as he turned toward the front door and saw his father on the floor, a knitting needle plunged through one ear, eyes open and lying lifeless.

He whispered to Margaret, “Hide!”

Margaret hurried over to the door and opened it. Obviously she was panicking and not thinking clearly. Henry rushed over to grab her hand, but it was too late; the fog entered through the doorway and filled the room. Henry heard the snarl of an angry animal in the room, though he could not see it through the thick fog.

“Your grandmother got one detail wrong,” Margaret said. The fog cleared just enough for Henry to see the area directly around her. “’Twas not the crazy old lady that killed her family. ’Twas the daughter. A young girl named Margaret, with the help of her pet dog.”

Margaret smiled and pet the beastly animal beside her. She released her hand, and the beast immediately jumped on Henry. He fell backward and hit his head. The angry dog carefully placed its mouth around Henry’s neck. Henry tried screaming, but all he could do was spit blood.

“Thank you for letting me in, Henry.” Margaret snapped her fingers, the last sound Henry would ever hear. He managed one last terrified look before Margaret’s pet dog closed its jaw around his throat.