The flame wasn’t just alive—it was hungry.
It devoured the darkness, twisting and flickering, casting shapes on the walls that seemed to breathe. Rumor had it the Candlemaker’s shop didn’t exist in any way that made sense. No name, no hours, no sign. It simply appeared when needed, waiting for someone desperate—or foolish enough—to walk in.
One night, Sarah, a journalist chasing a good story, found herself in front of it. Skeptical and intrigued, she saw the shop as the perfect subject for an exposé on urban legends.
The door creaked open, the bell’s sound fading unnaturally fast. The air inside was thick with the scent of wax and something burnt, like a lingering warning. Shelves lined the walls, filled with handmade candles, each unique and strange. At the center stood the Candlemaker. Old and gaunt, his piercing eyes seemed to read her every thought, his hands scarred from years of working with hot wax.
“A seeker, I see,” he rasped. “Skepticism burns bright in you. Perhaps a candle to illuminate the truth?”
Sarah forced a laugh. “What is this place? Some kind of art installation?”
The Candlemaker said nothing, only gestured to the shelves. Her eyes landed on a small black candle streaked with crimson. Something about it drew her in.
“And this one?” she asked, holding it up.
“That candle reveals your death,” he warned. “Light it only if you dare to see the end.”
She scoffed, paid for the candle, and left, ignoring his parting words: “Beware… doubting the flame stokes its hunger.”
Back in her dim apartment, Sarah placed the candle on her coffee table and poured a glass of wine. “Just a story,” she muttered. With a flick of a match, the candle’s flame sprang to life, flickering unnaturally. Shadows danced on the walls, moving in ways that didn’t match the room. As the wax melted, an image began to form in the flame.
She saw herself standing on a narrow bridge, night cloaked in shadows. A grotesque hand reached from the darkness, gripping her ankle and dragging her into an abyss. Her breath hitched. The vision was so vivid, so horrifying, she screamed. As suddenly as it began, the flame went out. The room fell silent.
Nervously, she laughed it off. “Must’ve been the wine,” but her hands trembled.
The next day, strange things began to happen. Whispers when she was alone. Shadows that moved in her peripheral vision. Then, she found herself standing at a bridge she didn’t recognize, the one from her vision.
“It’s just a coincidence,” she told herself. “Just a stupid candle.” Her voice wavered.
That night, terror became unbearable. She packed a bag, ready to leave the city. But as she zipped her suitcase, the air grew heavy. The lights flickered. Shadows stretched across the walls, and a figure began to take shape. The hand from the vision. Now connected to a monstrous, shadowy form.
“This isn’t real!” she screamed. “You’re not real!”
The figure’s clawed hand grabbed her ankle. She kicked and fought, but it dragged her toward the open window. Outside, the bridge loomed, impossibly replacing the cityscape. She screamed as she was pulled into the darkness.
And then… nothing.
Back in the Candlemaker’s shop, the door creaked open again. Another customer entered, drawn to the shelves of strange candles. Among them sat Sarah’s black and crimson candle, unlit now, yet a faint, anguished scream echoed from its wax.
The Candlemaker smiled faintly as he turned to the new customer. “The flame tells no lies,” he murmured. “But doubt it... and it consumes you.”
