Speaker 1: I was finishing up my afternoon shift at the gas
station when the power flickered once twice, then diet for good.
The store went silent except the hum of the old
drink fridge winding down, and outside, the entire street had
begun melting into darkness. For a moment, I stood behind
the cash register, staring at the dead monitors, thinking about
how I'd be leaving this place for college in two weeks,
thinking about how small and heavy it felt to still
be here. By the time I logged up and stepped
into the fading sunlight, candle light was already blooming in
windows up and down Main Street. Tiny flames flickered behind
lace curtains and line porch railings, glowing against the dark
like cautious eyes. That was just what people did here
whenever the power failed. It didn't matter if it was
a two minute brown out or an overnight storm outage.
Candles came out fast. No one ever explained it to
me in words that made sense. I just grew up
knowing that when the lights went out, he lit a
candle for them. No one really said who they were,
no one wanted to. I've always gone along with it
habit mostly maybe a bit of fear too, if I'm honest,
But nothing deeper than that. Grandma was the believer. She
would hum under a breath, low and tuneless, as she
lit each wick in the living room. Her hands would
tremble as she moved from candle to candle, whispering prayers.
I never fully understood the prayers meant to keep us safe,
she said. I used to watch her and wonder if
she really believed in what she was doing, or if
believing was just easier than asking questions. No one had
answers for. All I knew was that every window in
our street would glow. By the time the first hour
of the blackout passed, every porch would have a candle burning,
and every family would stay inside, quiet, waiting for the
power to come back on. I joked the short distance home,
my trainers slapping the pavement in the hush, there was
just enough daylight left to make it home. Without the
street lights, the neighborhood felt swallowed by the sky, leaving
only small islands of flickering light in the windows. Every
porch had its candle lentence burning. Some families set out
mason jars with tea lights lining their walkways, flames bending
and trembling in the spring wind. It was beautiful in
a way if I didn't think too hard about why
we did it. No one was outside, not even porch
smokers or gossiping neighbors leaning on rails. Windows were curtain tightly.
The only movement came from the restless flames themselves, stretching
shadows across gardens and driveways. When I was little, I
used to think the candles made the town look warm
and alive. Grandma would tell me stories about how our
own mother lit them every blackout, whispering that they kept
the watchers calm. At school, teachers never spoke about it.
My friends and I would joke that the candles were
just a hillbilly blackout tradition, something to make us feel
special when power companies ignored us. But I still lit them.
We all did. Even the new families who moved here
eventually fell in line. No one wanted to be the
only house dark during an outage. Our house sat at
the end of Sycamore Lane, as sagging one story with
pealing blue trim. It was smaller than most, with two
thin porch posts wrapped in chipped plastic. Ivy Grandmarow said
she liked being at the edge, away from the busier
parts of town, fewer eyes watching at every move. She'd
whisper with a smile, though I never understood what that meant.
I pushed through the gate and up the front steps,
two at a time, the wood creaking under my weight.
My fingers shook as I thumbed the keys from my pocket.
I wanted to see a silhouette in the window, rocking
slowly in a chair, candle light pulling around a lined
face as she mouthed prayers into the quiet. That was
how it always was, even when the power returned. She
lit the candles burn down to wax puddles before blowing
them out, just to be sure. Inside the living room
smelled of lavender wax and melted paraffin. Dozens of tea
lights flickered along the windowsill, and the old bugshelves crammed
with worn cookbooks and yarn baskets. But there was no
humming to greet me, no whispered psalms or half forgotten
lullabies weaving through the candle lit shadows. Grandma was slumped
in a rocking chair, head leaning against the shoulder. Her
eyes were open, staring at nothing. The glow of the
candles lit her face from below, deepening every wrinkle into
something hollow and waxen. Her chest rose and fell in shadow,
uneven breath that rattled in a throat. Grandma, My voice
cracked as I crossed the room, dropping my bag by
the door, I crouched beside her, gripping her wrist. Her
skin felt cold and damp. She didn't blink, Her breathing
fluttered like a candle about to go out. For a
long moment, I knelt there, listening to the ticking of
the wind up clock and the bug shelf, and the
soft hiss of candlewicks burning low outside. The street was silent,
holding its breath under the blackout sky. Emergency services never
came out during a blackout. Whether it was due to
tradition or religistical reason, I never knew. But what I
did know was it was useless to try. My chest tightened,
I stood and moved to the candle shelf, pulling down
the box of fresh votives. If Grandma couldn't finish them
to night, I would. I didn't know what else to do.
All I could think was keep them burning, keep her safe.
Keep whatever weighted in the dark from thinking our house
was empty. I moved through the house with a box
of motives balanced against my hair, placing candles in every room.
The kitchen counters were already lined with wax stained sauces
from past blackouts, each ready to cradle her flickering flame.
I lit one beside the sink, another on the breakfast table,
near Grandma's half finished crossword. Her pencil rested diagonally across
the grid. It's a razor worn down to metal. In
the hallway, I set a stubby pillar candle atop the
shoe cabinet, its orange glows stretching toward the bedrooms. Shadows
danced across the peiling floral wallpaper, blooming and shrinking in
the shifting light. Each flicker made me flinch. I kept
listening for Grandma's voice, hoping she would call out to me,
ask what I was doing, or tell me I missed
the spot. But the house stayed silent, apart from the
quiet hiss of wicks catching fire at the bathroom door,
the checker breathing again. From the hallway, I could see
her chest rising and falling, slow and uneven, relieved in
the tightness in my throat. For a moment, I whispered
a quick prayer word she used to say when I
was scared of thunder. Keep her safe, keep them away,
Bring back the sun. The last candle sat on the
living room window ledge. I knelt and held the match
to the wick. For a moment, the flame flared bright,
illuminating the frost wet glass. My reflection glowed, their skin
pale under the candle's bloom. I moved to blow out
the match, but something beyond the window caught my eye.
A figure stood at the edge of the yard, where
the candlelight faded into darkness. She wore her cotton house
dress with a hymn that rushed her ankles, and her
hair was pinned back neatly from her face. The woman's
shoulders were straight, her head tilted slightly to one side.
Even from where I knelt, I could see her smile.
My heart thumped so loud I couldn't breathe. It was Grandma.
She raised one hand and curled her fingers in a gentle,
beckoning motion, inviting me out into the darkness beyond the candles.
My hands fumbard from my phone as I packed away
from the window. Emergency services were no help, but maybe
someone from the town knew what to do. The screen
lit up blue and empty, no bars, no emergency signal.
I tried again, pressing the numbers harder, as if force
alone could push the call through. Each veiled attempt made
my chest tighten until I felt I couldn't draw breath
at all. Come on, come on, my voice, shoot in
the quiet room. The only answer was the low hiss
of the candles burning along the shelf. I shoved the
phone into my pocket and turned a check on Grandma.
For a moment, I thought she was still there in
a chair. The shadows clung thick around the cushions, curling
into shapes I almost recognized. I stepped closer, hard, pounding
so hard I could feel it in my teeth. The
chair was empty. The front door stood open, letting in
a chill breeze that carried the faint scent of damp
earth and blown out matches. The candles by the entry
had been extinguished, wax pooling around blackened wicks. The smoke
coiled upward in thin gray ribbons that faded into the dark. Grandma,
My voice cracked. I rushed through the doorway and peered outside.
The street stretched silent under the blackout sky, only lit
by the flickering candles in windows and porches. I stepped
onto the porch boards, clutching the frame to keep my
knees from buckling. Grandma, I shouted again, louder this time.
My voice echoed off quiet houses, then fell flat. At
the far end of the street, shadows flickered at the
edge of the driveway. They were tall, thin shapes, standing
just beyond the candle light's reach. They didn't move, they
didn't speak, but I could feel their attention pressing against
my skin, pricking cold and sharp. As sleet lights glowed
behind curtained windows, I saw a neighbor across the street
pull back a lace curtain with two fingers, her eyes
wide and round in the dimness, our gazes met. She
shook her head once in a quick, desperate motion, before
letting the curtain fall back into place. Another window brightened
as someone flicked on a flashlight, only to click it
off immediately, leaving candle flames to flutter alone. Please, I whispered,
Though I didn't know who I was asking, I remembered
Grandma's old warning, the one she always made me repeat
before bed during storms when the lights flickered, Never go
outside drawing a blackout without a single lit candle. They
can't see you if you carry the light. My hands
were empty. I was standing barefoot in the dark, nothing
but silent watchers between me and the rest of the world.
I stepped off the porch, the chill grass flattening under
my bare feet. My eyes darted across the yard, scanning
for any sign of her. The shadows at the end
of the street still stood, silent and watchful. I forced
myself to look away, focusing instead on the ground directly
before me. Half way to the garden bed, a faint
glimmer caught my eye. I moved closer, hard, thooding against
my ribs so hard it hurt. There nestled among the
dandelion stalks and damp earth lay Grandma's old brass candle holder.
Its curved handle rested on a patch of flattened grass,
wax pooled and solidifying around the wick. I crouched and
touched it with trembling fingers. The wax was still warm,
the scent of lavender clung to it, soft and sweet
in the cold air. Tears prickled in my eyes. She
never let this candle go out, not once in all
my years living with her, constantly replacing it when it
got low. She kept it by a chair every night,
even when there was no black out, flame flickering against
the dark until dawn came back. I clutched the holder
to my chest and stood, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.
The street felt wrong in its silence. My gaze drifted
past the fences and rooftops toward the tree line at
the far edge of town, beyond the open fields, In
the dense clutch of old pines and bare boned oaks,
hundreds of tiny lights flickered between the trunks. Pin pricks
of gold hovered in the dark, steady and silent. They
weren't fireflies. The lights didn't barble bounce. Each remained thick,
instead a different height, some low to the ground, others
near the canopy, spread among the trees in careful, unnatural patterns.
My breath caught. I could almost see shapes holding them,
figures with edges blurred by shadow, each carrying a pale,
unwavering flame inside them. They stood in silent rows, face
in my direction, though I couldn't see their eyes. The
sight made my skin tighten until I felt I might
crawl out of it just to escape the feeling. I
realized then why it never made sense before growing up,
I always thought the candles were for us. They kept
bad things away and kept our homes safe until the
power returned. That's what everyone said, even if they never
explained how. But no one ever talked about the woods.
No one ever spoke about what the candles were keeping
it for. It was a gap I never noticed because
I didn't want to, because the thought with the lights
weren't barriers, but invitations felt too heavy to hold as
a child, so I never asked. None of us did.
A memory rose sharp and sudden. Grandma's voice low and
quivering as she cleaned and trimmed the old wicks. They
need light to find their way home. If we don't
give it to them, they'll look for another glow to follow.
I pressed the hand over my mouth, fighting the nausea
climbing up my throat. The candles weren't meant to keep
spirits away. They were to guide them back to wherever
they came from, to keep them moving past us without
the light showing them the path they'd find another source,
another warmth, another living glow, to carry them through the
dark and to night. The only other light left was me.
My breath rasped in my throat, shallow and quick, but
I forced myself to move slowly, rushing but only make
the candle flicker harder with how close I was getting.
If it went out, I knew I would not be
able to relight it in time. The closer I drew
to the tree line, the colder the air became. My
bare arms prickled with goose bumps, and sweat cooled against
the back of my neck. The pine trunks rose tall
and silent before me, their branches clawing at the dark sky.
Between them, the flickering lights spread deeper, forming rows and
clusters among the shadows. I paused at the edge of
the woods, the scent of damp needles and rotting leaves
curling into my nose, or trembled in the faint breeze
in small flame, bending toward the trees. I moved forward
in a single step, then another, careful to keep the
holder level. My hands ached from gripping it so tightly,
but I didn't dare loosen my hold as I crossed
into the tree line, the light shifted. They began to move,
drifting out from behind trunks and thickets. Figures emerged with them,
pale shapes that blurreded their edges. Their faces were smooth
and empty, with thin white skins stretched over blank hollows.
Each one emitted a small light from their chest, maybe
a representation of their soul, made manifest, looking like a flame,
standing tall without so much as a tremor. Each only
had one light in them. If I had come with
more candles for safety, they didn't make a sound, no footfalls,
no breaths, just the soft hiss of wax burning and
the faint crackle of my own candle. As I passed them,
I had to walk slowly, measuring each step to keep
from stubbing over roots or fallen branches. The candle's flame
pulled my attention, forcing me to watch it more than
my path. The ground was littered with pine needles and twigs,
each threatening to shift under my weight. Every time the
wick guttered from a trembling step, my chest clinched so
hard I felt my vomit from fear alone. The pale
figures pressed closer, creating a narrow corridor of flickering gold.
The heads turned to follow my movement, though they had
no eyes to see me. With my scalp prickled with
constant sweat. As I felt their attention tighten around me
a silent, suffocating curiosity, they parted her head, revealing a
small clearing deep among the trees. In the center stood
my grandmother. A thin cotton nightgown billowed faintly around her
ankles in the breeze, though her hair and arms remained
utterly still. She stared forward, eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth slack.
Her hands hung at her sides empty. A shape moved
behind her, taller than the others, dark enough to drink
in every shred of candlelight near by. Its forms shifted
with each step, Thin and bony, Its hand emerged from
the gloom, long and skeletal, skin stretched taut over jotting knuckles.
It extended its hand toward mine, palm up waiting. The
meaning pressed into my chest with the weight of stone.
It wanted my candle, my light, in exchange for Grandma's return.
A soul for a soul, or at least what it
thought was a soul. I tied to my grip, and
my knuckles burned, unable to breathe past the cold swell
in my throat. Even though I knew I wasn't giving
it my soul, I was still handing over my only light.
Without a flame, would I find my way back through
these trees? Without it would have become just another flickering
shape among the silent congregation. My grip loosened around the
brass holder. The flame wavered once before steadying again, bright
and calm against the dark. The skele little hand remained outstretched,
fingers curling in silent invitation. My chest felt tight enough
to crack my ribs apart. Every instinct screamed to turn
and run, but I forced myself to take a trembling
step forward. I extended the candle. The figure's hand closed
around the holder, skin crackling with a sound like frozen branches.
Breaking the instant my fingers let go, The darkness surged inward.
Shadows rushed past my face, cold and sharp, scraping against
my skin as if testing its warmth. I lunged for Grandma,
my fingers wrapped around a thin wrist, gripping bone under
soft skin. She didn't move at first, for a single
crushing moment, I thought I had traded a soul for nothing,
that I had lost both of us to the woods forever.
Then her arm twitched in my grasp, her chest rose
in a sudden, ragged breath. Her eyes flickered with awareness,
confusion clouding her gaze. As she turned her head to
look at me. The shadows shrieked without sound, rushing forward
with the sudden violent hunger. Without a candle, I no
longer blended in, and just like an immune system, they
went straight for me, as if I were an invader.
They clawed on my shoulders, scraping across my back, ripping
the thin fabric of my shirt with ice cold fingers.
I tightened my olden Grandma and pulled her forward, forcing
her feet to move across the pine littered ground. We
stumbled between the pale watchers, weaving through their silent ranks.
Branches snagged to my hair and whipped across my face,
scratching skin. Roar roots rose from fallen needles, catching my
toes and send me staggering with each step. Grandma gasped
beside me, half dragged, her thin legs, trembling with effort.
The woods stretched on endlessly, every tree the same twisted
silver in the wavering candlelight ahead. The shadows closed in
behind us. I could feel them brushing against my back,
pressing cold fingers to my spine. My legs burned with
each lunging step, muscles shaking so hard I thought they
might give out. Before he reached the edge of the trees,
we broke from the tree line into the open. The
house stood ahead, porchedlight, stark candles flickering weakly in the windows.
My legs gave out for half a step, and Grandma
stumbled beside me, her feet scraping uselessly across the grass.
The shadows poured from the woods, stretching over the lawn
and curling gasping streams. She sagged in my arms, her
head falling against my shoulder. Her voice was thin, barely
more than a breath. Leave me, she whispered, You have
to run, they're too close. No, I gasped, tightening my
grip around a waist. I'm not leaving you, please, she breathed,
tears spilling from her closed eyes. Go they only need one.
I tried to pull her forward, but her knees buckled.
It was a miracle. She made it this far in
her rage, and it didn't look like I would be
able to make the distance together. The shadows searched, reaching
for her first, curling black fingers around her ankles and calves,
creeping up a thin cotton nightgown. Panic burned in my throat,
heart and choking. The house felt impossibly far away, its
candlelight too weak to shield us from the coal tide
crawling across the grass. A door swung open across the street.
Mister Harris, our elderly neighbor, stood in his doorway, holding
out a pair of thick pillar candles, the flames strong
and steady in the wind. His eyes were wide, shining
with terror. Take it, he shouted. I let go of
Grandma's wrist for a split second, grabbing the candles from
his shaking hand, I rushed the second into my grandma's
hand as she was being dragged across the lawn. The
instant the flame passed into the grip, the shadows recoiled
with a snapping hiss. The shapes crumbled backward, folding in
on themselves until nothing remained but the night breeze bending
in the grass. I clutched the candle to my chest,
its warmth seeping into my frozen fingers. Grandma sagged against
my side, her breaths ragged but strong. The porch boards
creaked under our weight as I half dragged her up
the steps and into the soft circle of flickering light.
The first pale light of dawn bled into the sky,
turning the edges of the woods to washt out gray.
Street lights flickered back to life, humming with a familiar
low buzze. Power returned with a quiet surge, clocks blinking
twelve in every room. The candles still burned, the flames
small and stubborn against the morning light. I sat beside
Grandma's bed, dipping a cloth in warm water to clean
the scratches along her arms. Her skin was thin and
marked with bruises and cuts where the shadows that grabbed her.
She winced once, then fell silent again, staring at the
ceiling with heavy eyes almost done, I whispered, wrapping gaze
around the deeper cut near her elbow. My own hands
trembled with exhaustion, wrists blotched with purple where clawed fingers
had scraped away skin. The house felt empty, despite the
quiet wear of appliances coming back to life. The candles
burned on every shelf and table, the wicks curling black
above trembling flames. Grandma's gaze shifted toward me on focused
at first, Then her eyes cleared and she reached out
her finger tips brushing my wrist. Thank you, she whispered,
her voice roar and hoarse, thank you for bringing me home.
I swallowed the tight ache in my throat and pressed
a hand between mine rest. Now, I said, you're safe.
When a breathing slowed into a gentler rhythm, I stood
and gathered left over candles from the hallway. The sun
had risen beyond the fields, painting the window glass gold.
But I lit one last candle anyway and set it
on the sill. Its flame glowed against the daylight, a
thin orange tongue dancing in silence. I watched the tree
line beyond our yards, where the shadows still clung low
to the ground. The candle flicked once, its scent of
lavender curling warm into the room. Maybe this is how
it goes, that when life ends here, we're taken to
be one with those things. There's a chance I've disrupted
the natural flow of this town. All I know is
I've bought some more time for my grandma for when
she inevitably joins them in the next blackout.