November 22, 2025

The Morleys had only one rule after moving into the old house: never touch the candle on the mantel.

It wasn’t especially beautiful—just a stubby, beeswax thing sealed under a glass dome—but Mrs. Morley insisted it came with the deed and couldn’t be removed.

“It’s tradition,” she said. “The hearth candle keeps the house peaceful.”

Each night, the family noticed the candle burned just a little shorter. No one had lit it, and the dome remained sealed. At first they blamed faulty memory, tricks of light, even the kids.

But as the candle waned, the shadows in the corners of the house stretched. They crept past thresholds, hovered at the foot of beds, whispered names in the dark.

Mr. Morley tried to photograph the candle one night to prove a point—when he checked the image, there was no candle. Only four smoky figures and an empty pedestal.

By the time the candle was a mere nub, the baby stopped crying at night. The dog refused to enter the parlor. And Grandma, who remembered the old country, muttered Latin prayers as she salted the doorways.

On the final night, the family gathered in the living room. The glass dome lay shattered on the floor. The wick smoked, a curl of black rising from the last stub of wax.

The shadows stood up.

When new buyers visited the property the following spring, the agent smiled too widely.
“Lovely old house, peaceful history, and one charming local custom: light the candle on the mantel each night. Just tradition, really.”