The Candle and the Flame

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. They saw it far off at first. Just a pinprick of light.

—What is that? She turned off her torch.

He was shining his light into a tree. He could’ve sworn he saw something moving up there, What’s what?

—Look, she craned her neck forward. There.

It was far away. He squinted, There shouldn’t be a light there.

—Right? You said no one’s lived there for years.

—I haven’t been here in years, he said, reaching for her arm. Come on, we should go back.

—Don’t you want to see what it is?

—No not really.

—Well I do, she said. I’m going to find out.

He watched her walk forward unafraid. He shook his head, looked behind, then back at her. Sophie, he ran toward her, wait!

—If you’re coming, turn off your torch.

Her bravado was what drew him to her initially. Now it drew them both toward that livid little flame.

The air was brisk and dry. October. After the bright torchlight, the dark was darker. He looked up. A half moon. Bright enough, he supposed, but too little light to see much by.

She walked ahead of him, crouched low, following that pinprick of light. The dead leaves would rustle under her feet, but faintly. Quiet as a hare. But he kept trampling on sticks. He could hear each snap throughout his whole body. Like vertebrae breaking. He tried to be quieter but he couldn’t see. When he looked down, his legs and feet looked just looked darker. A void atop another void. Bleak and blackness. Hey, he whispered, hey!

She stopped walking, Could you be any louder?

—Can’t I use my light?

—They’ll see you if you do.

They? He swallowed, Sophie, I don’t want to know who they are.

—Henry. She stood up, You told me about this cabin, you know. About Jackson McCabe. And his grand, romantic gestures.

—It’s not like he’s the first man to build a house for his wife and kid.

—No, she said, he isn’t. I know that. You know that. That’s why I want to see it for myself. Figure out why this shack in the middle of nowhere means something to you.

It is true. He had told her about the cabin. But it doesn’t mean anything to me, he thought. Nothing at all. The story Henry would tell was simple. Jackson McCabe built this two-storey cabin a hundred and fifty years ago for his pregnant wife. That’s all he knew. For him, Jackson McCabe’s cabin was a good enough way to spend an evening alone in the woods with someone he wanted to. It would start at a restaurant or a bar. He would tell the story, look at her, chuckle, say, When I was a kid I went out to that cabin and fell in love with the place. I wanted to be like just Jackson McCabe someday. Look down, bashful. Smirk. Shrug. Look back up at her and give a melancholy smile as if to say, oh well…

He thought it worked on the girls well enough. He thought they thought it was sweet. Chivalrous or something. Sweet. Tenderhearted. Elizabeth certainly had.

But there was more to the story. Much more than Henry would ever know.

Several years after he had built that cabin, years after his first and only child was born, he rode into town with his hat brim low. No one could see his eyes. After the boys had loaded his cart with grain and potatoes, the store clerk asked, But do you need anything for the boy?

No.

No? Well, but Mr. McCabe, what about the missus?

His voice was flat, My little rabbit, he said, drowned.

Oh dear Lord! And Jasper—the boy?

He’s gone too.

He drowned as well? Both of them?

He’s gone too.

The townsfolk sought to comfort him. Meals. Flowers. Anything we can do, Mr. McCabe, anything at all. The minister asked about the funeral. That was taken care of, Jackson said. But the soul of the mother and child? It’s done, he said.

But rabbits don’t easily drown, do they? They bite and claw in frenzy. They shriek and writhe and panic. The water froths. They scream. They sink. Only to float again.

Later, the minister went to pay his respects. He found no grave markers. No one had thought to look for grave markers. He asked Jackson McCabe where he buried his wife and child. The man just shrugged his shoulders.

Vivian O’Donnell wanted to see for herself, so she snooped around the cabin before knocking on the door. I’ve got a treat for ya, Jackson, one of me husband’s favorites. But Jackson didn’t answer the door.

This beautiful woman with long, golden hair greeted me. And she said to me, that woman, she said to me, Why thank you, Vivi—she did! The woman knew my name!

Jackson McCabe remarried? And so soon? Oh he re-something’d alright. D’you really think she drowned? Oh, she drowned alright. And the boy? Dear God, the boy…Do you think she was involved, this new woman? No doubt about that. No doubt whatsoever about that.

The next morning, Duncan saw drunk Old Michael running into town. His shirt was wet through. His eyes were clear and sober.

What happened to you, Ole Mike?

I just witnessed…I don’t know what I saw…I…

He was passing by the McCabe cabin last night, bottle in hand, talking with God. I saw they had a candle lit in the window. It was late, he said, far too late for guests and candlelight. And everything was still. Not a bird, not a wind, not a sound. Then I hear the water.

He couldn’t see too well, that much was true. But he heard something coming out of the lake. He could see it crawling on all fours. Fast but unsteady. Body convulsing. Arms and legs slipping. She kept falling into the mud and grass, but she kept staggering forward.

And she made the most awful sound, he said. Sounded like drowning, he said. Gurgling and trying to breathe. Retching.

But no one in the house heard it? The house was silent. What did you do, Ole Mike? I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t blink. I watched her crawl closer and closer to the cabin, closer and closer to that candle burning in the window.

She threw one hand up to the windowsill and clutched it, he said she lifted herself from the ground. With her standing before the candlelight, I saw it, he said. Her neck. Crooked like a tree root. Snapped like a rabbit’s.

Then she blew out the candle. I felt the wind gust around me. Someone came running. I could feel it.

Feel it?

The footsteps! Pounding the earth as if he were a giant.

He?

I didn’t move. I couldn’t see a thing now. But I heard it all. I heard it rush to the cabin and throw open the door.

What happened next, Ole Mike?

Screaming.

What did you do, Ole Mike?

I ran to here.

No one went to work that day.

The whole town approached the McCabe cabin with apprehension. They all stood around it for God knows how long before the minister, clutching his holy book for dear life, stepped inside the house. The crowd was silent. When the minister reappeared, his face was white as death. They asked him what he saw but the minister couldn’t speak.

Old Michael went inside. When he returned, he said, Necks snapped, the both of em. Necks like dead rabbits.

Reverend, what do you think? Was it a demon? Divine retribution?

I don’t know, he said at last. The Lord works in mysterious ways. But I don’t know.

No one in the town believed a murderer was loose. Everyone believed Old Michaels’ story. No official investigated the crime. No court sought a ruling. They all knew he was guilty. They all knew it was justice.

—Hey? Did you hear that?

—Hear what?

—That wasn’t me, Soph. I didn’t move.

—Courage, silly boy. We’re in the middle of the woods. We’re going to hear things.

They were near the cabin now. The candle had been burnt low but the flame was still bright. They could see inside the window, faintly. Everything seemed still. The cabin appeared empty.

—I don’t like this.

—Oh, Henry…

—We saw it, Soph, we did what you wanted to.

—Hey. If it is a bunch of kids, she smiled at him, we’ll scare the shit of them, yeah?

Henry smiled back but he heard the sound again. A twig snapped. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight. His chest became heavy and his heart started racing and it became difficult for him to keep his breath steady. He wanted to look behind but he couldn’t look behind him because if he looked behind and someone was there and he just knew someone was there and his neck felt tighter and his stomach felt sick and he wanted to vomit and he turned around to see—

Nothing.

Pitch black darkness. But was it empty darkness? Or was someone else there, and Henry just couldn’t see him?

Sophie was creeping to the cabin. Don’t, Soph. Stop.

This wasn’t at all like the time with Elizabeth. When Henry brought Elizabeth here, she was nervous and laughing and leaning into him. He had come out the day before to clean the place up and make it look presentable. Abandoned, yes, but not derelict. Not disused, as it was now. He brought her here well before the sun went down, too. They picnicked by the lake. When he lost himself in her eyes, she thought he loved her. And when he took her inside, there was chopped wood for the fireplace, a blanket, and she still thought he loved her.

Everything was different with Sophie. She was the bold one. What’s the scariest place you’ve ever been to, Henry? Her eyes were bright. I don’t know, he laughed, that’s not really my cup of tea, being scared. You’ve never snuck around? Trespassed? Just for fun?

So he told her about the cabin. Not all about the cabin. He wouldn’t want Sophie to know all about the cabin. It brought back memories he’d rather forget.

Sophie was crouched below the window frame. Henry watched as she raised her hands to the sill and drew up her eyes. She looked inside. She leaned to either side, seeing as much as she could. Then she stood up and turned back to Henry.

—It’s empty.

—Not so loud, Soph, he hissed.

—No one’s in there.

She switched on her torch and shone it on him. You should really see yourself right now, she said. Come on, let’s go inside.

Henry turned on his torch and scanned the trees around him, looking for—dreading he might find—another pair of eyes. Just trees. Past the trees, more dark.

—What are you doing?

—We shouldn’t be here.

—Knock it off, Henry. She laughed, You’re starting to scare me. She waved him over with her light, Let’s see what makes this place so important to you.

***

Henry stood behind her as she pushed the door open. The hinges squealed louder with each inch. It cut through Henry like a piercing scream.

They stood at the threshold. Their torches lit the main entry, where the candle was. Inside, the cabin was different than Henry remembered. Cabinet doors were hanging off their hinges or missing altogether. Liquor bottles lined the counter. Crushed beer cans and empty chip bags littered the floor.

—See? Nothing to worry about.

—There’s a second storey, Soph.

She turned to him. Eyes wide. Terrified. What? Clutching his arm, she whispered, What did you say?

Henry’s heart was racing.

She punched his arm, It’s just too easy, Henry. I know there’s a second floor.

—Sophie…

—You told me that already, remember?

—Yeah. Okay.

She walked inside, Get over yourself, Henry. And get inside. She went to the right, past the candle, rounded a corner, and disappeared from his sight. She would be close to the fireplace, Henry thought, as he stooped to pass through the doorframe. The floorboards protested under his weight. It made him anxious. Had they done that for Sophie?

Another chill ran through him as he shut the door behind them. If anyone was out there, he thought, they’d hear them coming inside…

The ceiling was low. His neck felt tight. The passages were narrow. He wanted to stretch out. He felt confined.

It had been years, but he remembered the cabin rooms well. Before he followed Sophie, Henry turned to the room on his left. He expected the rocking chair. He didn’t expect it to be broken. Or the tarps and sleeping bags. The empty cereal boxes. The bottles and cans and molded bread. Cockroaches scurried from the light beam. Were they really alone? He paused and listened for any movement above him.

—Get me out of here, he muttered and stepped toward the candle. He was trying to step lightly, but it didn’t matter. Every time he moved, the house groaned. He felt unwelcome.

—Henry? She sounded scared. You’ve got to see this.

The candle flame danced as he rushed past it. The floorboards continued to protest. He found her in the next room, standing in front of the fireplace. What do you think that means, she said, pointing to words written on the stone above the mantle. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

He looked down. He was standing on the blanket. The one he brought however many years ago…

…but are you sure it’s mine, Lizzie? Of course I’m sure, Henry. It was only one night, you mean to tell me—but, Lizzie, how do you know? Henry, please. I don’t know, Liz, I don’t think I can believe it…

—Sophie, we need to leave. But she was walking up the stairs. Sophie, he said. It’s time to go. Then he heard the floorboards creak above him.

Weight shifted.

Right above his head.

—Sophie! Soph, he shouted, someone’s up there—!

—God, Henry I swear! She was standing at the top of the stairs, shining her light around, No one’s here.

—No one?

—Just some old sleeping bags. More beer cans. She stepped onto the second floor, Lots of beer cans…

Henry began to walk up the stairs.

***

When he heard her scream, he nearly ran away but he rushed up the stairs instead.

—Sophie? Sophie!

She was squirming, A rat! A rat! Where did it go? Do you see it?

—Oh, Soph…His torch scanned the room. He didn’t see anything until he felt something brush against his leg. He jumped.

—See!

He watched it run down the stairs, Who knows where it is now.

Maybe that’s all he heard. Must’ve been. Maybe Sophie was right all along. Maybe he had worked himself up for no reason.

She shuddered, Let’s go.

—That’s what did it for you, huh? A rat?

She squeezed past him on the stairs. He could hear her smiling, Shut up, Henry. We’re leaving. Shouldn’t you be happy now?

He laughed and followed her down.

—I still don’t understand why this place is important to you.

Each step groaned as Henry stepped onto another. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked one last time at the blanket. The child would be about a year old, he figured. Maybe two. He didn’t know. Boy or girl, he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Elizabeth since she told him. She said she was keeping it, he said he was moving on. She said she didn’t want to raise a child alone. He said if she didn’t she knew what she could do. Henry, please…

He couldn’t remember how long ago that was. Two years? Three? More?

***

Sophie walked past the candle, We still don’t know who lit that, do we? Oh! What’s in there?

The front door stood open.

She squeezed past it. She peeked her head into the room with the rocking chair, shone her light in there, and looked around.

—Did you open that?

—What, the door? No, it was already open.

—Sophie. I shut it when I came in.

—Probably the wind.

There was no wind. Henry leaned past the threshold. He shone his light left and right. Still, he couldn’t see a thing. He searched for her hand. Come on, Sophie.

They walked side-by-side along the house. Henry kept scanning the dark. He thought he heard something near the water. He pointed his light toward the lake.

Henry, Sophie said calmly, it’s okay.

They were standing outside the window. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw something move inside the house. He jumped back.

—Liz? He stood there, motionless.

Sophie was shaking him, Henry? Henry, you’re scaring me.

He let go of Sophie’s hand and ran back inside. She cried, What are you doing?

—Lizzie, where did you go? Henry ran from room to room, torch in hand. He tossed aside the rocking chair. He threw open the remaining cabinet doors. He ran up the stairs and back down the stairs.

He saw the blanket.

He tossed it aside.

Approximately the length of the blanket was a trapdoor with an iron ring handle. Henry didn’t even ask himself how he knew it was there. He had to find her. So he grabbed the ring and flung the door open. The stairway below led to a maw of darkness deeper than the night.

Down the stairs, he could hear, faintly, the sound of sobs.

Hello? he cried, stepping down the staircase. Is anyone down there?

Of course someone was down there. Why else would he hear crying…Liz, is that you? But the sobbing he heard didn’t sound like Elizabeth when she cried. It was several minutes before Henry reached the end of the stairwell. The temperature kept dropping the further down he went. By the time he stepped onto the levelled dirt floor of the cellar, his teeth were chattering.

The cellar was vast. He didn’t know how vast. He couldn’t tell. The light of his torch got lost in the dark. He could still hear the crying far off. He tried to follow the sound but, then, it sounded as if it were coming from a different direction. The crying turned to a wail.

Walk to a wall, he thought, then walk the perimeter. He walked for God knows how long and never found a wall. He shouted into the dark, Is someone there? Liz?

Suddenly, the wailing ceased.

The empty, silent void. Henry tried to look around, for a clue. He was lost. The staircase wasn’t in sight and he couldn’t remember the way he walked from. He started walking in a new direction. He sat down on the earth, not knowing what to do.

Imagine yourself in near nothingness. Red earth beneath your feet. Dark, thick as pitch, surrounding you. Lost and alone. Or, at least, so you hope…

Henry had nearly asked himself, Why did I run back into the house? when he heard fussing start again. Short, shallow breaths, followed by pitiful sobs. The beginnings of a baby’s cries. He crawled to standing and followed the sound.

It’s okay, he cooed into the darkness. Henry’s coming, it’s okay. The fussing calmed down. He nearly stepped on the baby. From the halo of his torchlight, he saw movement and looked down.

The baby was lying on the ground, covered in blood and fluid. It was trying to open its eyes and shaking its little fists, kicking its legs. It began to sob. Henry did not notice the umbilical cord still attached until he picked the child up. Then he saw her.

Lying on the ground, dressed in a hospital gown, was Elizabeth. He noticed her legs first. Blood covered them. Down her middle, red stains were turning brown. Henry stood there, holding the child, stunned. She was lifeless. Her skin was mottled. Her lips were blue. Her eyes shut. With the child squirming close to his chest, he knelt down to her. What happened to you, he said, and brushed the hair out of her face.

Her eyes shot open. She looked straight ahead, into the darkness above her. She began to convulse. Elizabeth? Elizabeth! Quick, he shouted, someone help! Her mouth began to froth.

Suddenly, her back arched. It pained him to watch. Her teeth gnashed. Her fists clenched. Someone, please, anyone…Her back bent more. He heard the bones in her back crackle, vertebrae snapping. She screamed in agony. It pierced him like a knife. Then, she crumbled down, silent. Lifeless, once again.

When Henry stepped toward her his torchlight flickered. Tears were in his eyes, Liz, what happened to you? The baby giggled. He looked down at the bloodied newborn in his arms. In the spasms of light, the newborn face contorted. The brows furrowed. Its eyes darkened. The giggle became a laugh became a cackle, I know what you did.

Terror seized him. He dropped his torch. He dropped the baby.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder.

It was Sophie.

—Henry, what’s going on with you.

He was dumbfounded, dazed.

—And who is Liz?

Everything had vanished. The nothingness that had surrounded him was gone. He looked for the blood, the baby, her. He and Sophie were in a small cellar, no wider than the house. I…I don’t know, Sophie. I don’t know.

She led him up the cellar stairs. There were no more than seven or eight. How did you find this? she asked. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

They made their way outside. Sophie shut the door behind them.

When she led him past the cabin window with the candle and the flame, he stopped. Sophie turned around.

—But Soph, he said, facing the candle, who would’ve lit that?

***

The following morning, when Sophie sat in the police station wrapped in a blanket, she tried to explain what happened to Henry. She said, He got this look in his eye. She widened her own eyes, He looked terrified.

—And you two were out by the McCabe cabin?

—Yes.

—And you say a candle was lit?

—Yes.

—A lot of mischief out there.

—It was empty, she said. We were just looking around. The cabin. It was important to him, somehow. I don’t know…And we were leaving when he stopped at the window again. He was staring at the candle, and then…he started yelling the name Elizabeth again and again.

—And he had just raced through the house looking for Elizabeth?

—But it wasn’t her, she said. At the candle, I mean, it wasn’t her. He wanted to see her, I think. Whatever he saw next…he was screaming. Have you heard a grown man scream? It’s not pitiful. It’s horrifying. And I don’t know what happened, but the candle went out. It was so dark, you know, and he stumbled into me and knocked us both down. Then…he pushed me off him, yelled at me to run, and headed for the trees…I tried to follow him, but I couldn’t see where he went…So I ran to here.

They found Henry’s body in the lake later that day. He had been thrown into the water, only to float again. But it wasn’t a drowning, the coroner said and, looking Sophie up and down, concluded she couldn’t have done this. He asked Sophie to identify the body. She wept when she saw him. His neck. Snapped, like a rabbit’s.

***

—Elizabeth? Henry saw a hand clutch the windowsill. Elizabeth! Another hand. Elizabeth…

But it wasn't her.

He saw the head rise above the windowsill, limp and languid. The woman's neck was crooked, gnarled like a tree root. Long, thick, wet strands of hair clung to her sallow cheeks, her bone-thin body. Then she smiled at him, a toothless smile. She retched out the words, I know what you’ve done.

It sounded as if she were choking.

Then, she blew out that livid flame.

Everything was darkness. Wind gusted around him. He heard footsteps banging from inside the house, running up the stairs from the cellar. Henry was screaming. He stumbled backward. Sophie fell on top of him. He pushed her away. Run, he shouted. Run!

He tried to see but that candlelight left an imprint. He saw its outline jump as his eyes moved back and forth. He blinked but it didn’t help. He was staggering toward the trees.

He heard the door burst open.

The earth shook with each footstep. Whoever was behind him was nearing him.

Henry found a tree. He clung to it, sidled beside it, hid behind it.

Suddenly the footsteps ceased.

He held his breath. His heart was racing and he wanted to suck in air. He needed to listen but his heart was drumming in his ear. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. Should I stay and wait or should I take my chances and run? He didn’t know…

Have you ever hunted a rabbit? Henry certainly hadn’t. It’s no use chasing a rabbit, no matter how fast you are. Some would say just shoot the beast. Some might be right, but what if you missed? Waste of a bullet. No, the easiest way to hunt a rabbit is the simplest. You simply set a trap. You’ll catch your prey soon enough.

Once his heart slowed down he could listen. Nothing was out there, it seemed. He looked up. The half moon was shining, but it didn’t help him much. He stepped out from the tree. Squinting, he could make out a dark box in the distance. Perhaps he was further from the cabin than he thought. Maybe whatever was after him had lost his trail.

He took another step forward. Silence, still.

And what about Sophie? There wasn’t time to worry about Sophie. He had to worry about himself. She was safe, he thought, probably. Most likely. I didn’t even want to be here in the first place. She’ll be fine, he thought. Right now, all he should worry about was himself.

—Henry?

—Oh Sophie? Sophie, is that you? He whispered, Not so loud, Soph. Where are you? He was feeling his way toward the sound.

—Henry.

He muttered, Oh thank God. I was worried about you. So worried. Please, please help me. Where are you?

—Henry. I know what you did.

He ran from the voice. The ground began to slope. As he rushed downward his foot hit a tree root. He fell on his face, rolled down the hill, and landed with a loud splash in the shallow bed.

He smelled her first. The putrid rot of lake water. Then he heard her. Crawling toward him in the water. By the moonlight, he could see her. Her body was in throes, her legs and arms jerked forward but kept slipping. He tried to get away but she clutched his ankle.

Then he felt the footsteps stomp.

He was trapped and he knew.

She was crawling on top of him. Her crooked neck was above his. Her long, wet hair trailed over his face. He was trying to fight her off but he couldn't. Henry did not know his fate would be the same as Jackson McCabe and his fair-haired wife, but he did know what would happen next. He knew he was guilty. Her hands were clawing for his throat, and he understood it all. He was the candle and he was the flame. He thought of Elizabeth, of the child, the words above the fireplace, of Sophie. And at that moment, he knew.