Story 1008: The Black Candle Pact

It was whispered among the desperate—light a black candle, and you’ll speak to the dead. But in the scorched hamlet of Wroethe Hollow, where the air reeked of wax and decay, that whisper was gospel.

The villagers no longer buried their dead. They bargained with them.

Solomon Wraith stood in the center of the ruined chapel, his trench coat wet from the rain, his fingers blackened from extinguished candlewicks.

“This is the third village,” he muttered, “where the pact was honored.”

Behind him, Esmé Dreadmoor spun one of her spectral blades in her palm. “And the third where no one remains to regret it.”

All around them were wax figures—dozens of them—posed in prayer, hands clasped, faces half-melted. Some still breathed.

“Living wax,” Solomon whispered. “Cursed to remain warm, yet never awake.”

The altar at the front was cracked and bleeding black. Upon it sat a single candle, wick untouched, flame dancing although there was no fire.

It pulsed when they approached.