Candlelight Vigil

The tomb door slammed shut behind her.

See you at sunrise.

Annalise repeated her little brother’s goodbye into the still, musty air with visible breaths. Each time, she found the words a bit more comforting and a lot bitterer. Of course, he would say that. This was not his duty.

She clutched the candleholder tighter and pushed forward into the dark. With each step, plaques bearing the names of her ancestors were illuminated and quickly shrouded again. She barely paid the ones nearest to the door any mind. Their births and deaths were long before her; she’d known none of them. Walking by them was no more difficult than strolling down the street on a warm summer’s day.

Arthur Whitegrove II

January 12, 1920 – March 30, 2005

Her great-grandfather. She’d been no older than five when he left them, but his stories and laughter still rang in her mind sometimes.

The candle flame twitched. She kept her pace steady.

Mary Anne Whitegrove

May 20, 1943 – August 3, 2017

Grandmama. She was a terrible baker, but her jokes about it made the cakes sweeter. They hadn’t baked a cake since.

The flame twitched again, and Annalise gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t waver so easily. She quickened her pace, though her destination was only a few feet away. She didn’t need the light of the candle to find it; the perfume of the flowers and incense guided her.

Paper crinkled under her foot as she came to a stop, and she grimaced. She’d apologize to Henry later for stepping on his letters, or maybe not tell him at all. He was already going to cry tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Why make it worse for herself and Mom?

The final plaque glowed in the warm light the candle threw, golden and gleaming. Yet, a spider-like chill crept up her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Colin Whitegrove-Hart

November 22, 1975 – December 15, 2023

Dad. Annalise swallowed that chill threatening to come up her throat and ruin everything as the candle flame burned brighter. It grew taller, and thicker, burning wildly for an instant before she dug her nails into her palms, and it fell down. It kept burning like it’d never pitched a fit at all.

She could practically hear her old man laugh and say, “That fire almost got as red as your hair!”

If he were here, truly here, she’d scoff and say he was just jealous. At least she had hair. Besides, he loved red hair. He’d married her mom, after all.

“Let’s do this,” she whispered to herself as she slowly sat down on the floor, her black coat spreading around her like a pool of ink. It blended so well with the pitch-dark of the tomb, that she thought she might actually look like a candle if someone could see her. A speck of orange emerging from the blackness, just as warm and fragile.

See you at sunrise.

As much as she wished Henry could be the one in her, his wails would’ve put the candle out before they could even close the door. Everything would be lost, then, and he’d cry even harder. She’d probably cry, too. So would Mom, and that would be more terrifying than all the eyes of the dead on her right now.

No, it had to be her. Not just because Henry was too emotional, too sad. She was the oldest, just like Dad had been when Grandmama died. He hadn’t been her firstborn like she was to him; he’d just been the only one to outlive her. Mom had arranged the funeral perfectly like she did everything, and Henry had written the letters and picked the flowers for Dad to take with him.

Now, Annalise had to guard his flame. While his soul used the cover of night to journey to the afterlife, she would protect it by keeping the candle alight. From what, she was never a hundred percent sure. She was sealed in a quiet tomb for the night, with only ashes and cobwebs for company. When Dad went through with his guard for Grandmama, she’d tried to ask questions. What had happened? Had anything happened? Did he see her leave?

But his eyes had been red and his throat dry, and he’d only patted her head and gone to sleep.

She glanced around a few times and scowled. Yeah, she was definitely alone. If anyone else had come in, she would’ve heard the heavy tomb door open. With a shrug, she pulled the candle close and opened her bag. Since she couldn’t sleep during the guard, she’d brought a book, a snack, and a thermos of coffee to last her the night. The clock on her phone read 11:00 PM.

She cracked into her book.

#

At midnight, the whispers started.

Annalise took a breath, the candle burning brighter and higher again in front of her. It was nothing. If she ignored them, the candle stayed lit; if the candle stayed lit, they couldn’t hurt her. They couldn’t hinder Dad’s departure.

She turned the page of her book, though she hadn’t even read it, and tapped her finger on the spine.

How can a dead person get ready for a trip? Her own voice drifted from the darkness, six years younger than the fifteen she had now.

She tapped faster and reread the page. She’d read this story a hundred times before. She’d hoped the familiarity would keep her strong. For once, the words felt droll and hollow.

The body doesn’t, sweet pea.

She plucked a speck of dust from her coat and the flame danced, higher but still burning proudly.

The body is…empty. Grandmama’s not in it anymore. But she’s not ready to leave just yet, so I have to make sure she’s got a safe road to travel.

The flame spat and the wind rattled outside, scraping along the stone of the family tomb. Annalise flinched and risked a glance up, locking eyes on the darkness where her grandmother’s plaque was. She felt ridiculous as soon as she did and pressed a hand to her pounding heart.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, looking away. “What did you expect to see? A freaking zombie?”

She reached for her book again, only to freeze as she looked at the candle. The flame was lower, a small pool of wax solidifying under it. What? How? She’d only looked away for a second!

She pulled it closer as if it were possible to soothe whatever tantrum it was throwing by holding it. She was only an hour in. She wouldn’t— She couldn’t fail this early!

What’s the candle for? the monster in the dark asked. It was still using her voice, his voice, their voices from that day.

It’s like a lantern or a…lighthouse. How did it so perfectly copy the smile in her father’s voice? It lights the way so Grandmama can find the other side. Once the sun rises, I’ll be back.

The candle’s flame had regained strength, but as soon as it did, a brush of warm air met her forehead. Annalise closed her eyes and took several breaths, uncaring about the hot, melting wax on her fingers as she clutched the candle. It was just a poor copy of the real forehead kiss from that day. It meant nothing.

The rest of the hour was silent.

#

At three, there were more than whispers.

Something seized her shoulders and she yelped, the grip strong and warm and unnervingly familiar. The flame before her started to lean over, flickering rapidly like a whip lashing. She shuddered and tried to keep reading her book.

Annalise, look at me.

She read the same sentence over and over again, white-knuckled hands trembling. Go away, she pleaded. You’re just pretending to be a memory.

Look at me!

The hands shook her, almost knocking the book loose, and she gasped. No, no, don’t falter! Don’t fail! Don’t acknowledge!

You shouldn’t have snuck in there, do you understand me? It’s dangerous! You could’ve— What if the door had closed behind you? We might not have found you!

She shook her head, only to realize with a chill that was exactly as she’d done back then. She couldn’t play into it!

The wax puddle grew, the flame dimming.

I’m okay, Dad. 

She wasn’t.

I didn’t see anything.

She had.

Like something bloated and rotten, an image floated to the surface of her mind. She tried to push it away, tried to replace it, but it demanded her attention. Whole and undivided, she was forced to see.

The family tomb lit golden with sunlight from the open door behind her, yet the very air had been icy and unwelcoming. If every grave had eyes, she’d thought they’d all be glaring at her, accusing her or anyone who dared to show their face that morning. Her shadow cast long across the floor, stopping only a few feet from where she sat now, cloaking the ugly truth.

A half-burned candle had stared back at her, its wick extinguished sometime in the night, trapping her grandmother’s spirit in the dark forever. The tension had grown thick and choking as she stared at it and felt that it stared back.

Go on, she thought it might whisper, tell your father. Tell him you know he failed.

She barely managed to choke down a sob. Leaning over the candle, hands pressed flat to the floor on either side of it, she ached. It bloomed in her chest, a poisonous weed that spread too fast for her to stop it; pain crept up her throat, along her spine, and over the back of her head until it pierced her eyes. They stung, threatening to shed tears and ruin everything.

The flame had steadied, but it was still so small.

Her father had failed, but she wouldn’t. She had to give him the peace he hadn’t been able to give Grandmama. After everything, he deserved that, right?

She wasn’t sure how long she knelt like that, just trying to breathe, protecting the flame with her own body. The voices in the blackness had turned into white noise for a bit, fragments of mocked memories that meant nothing. She opened her eyes and watched the small flame dance.

Put it out.

She sat up. That voice was Dad’s. Had the monster stopped using memories and decided frank confrontation was necessary?

She glanced around. “We don’t have much longer until sunrise. Are you going to show yourself?”

Sweetpea…

“Guess not.” She dusted herself off and reached for her book. “Have fun then.”

You know it’s me.

She ignored it and flipped open the book, taking a long swig from her coffee thermos.

Annalise Whitegrove, pay attention to your father.

“You’re not my father,” she replied with a shrug. She glanced at her phone and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Twenty minutes to go.

For five minutes, the monster didn’t speak.

I put your grandmother’s candle out on purpose.

She dropped the thermos, red blinding her for a moment like the flame had exploded outward. “Liar!” she screamed, jumping to her feet.

Those words had broken open the dam. How dare this thing in the dark accuse her father of that? How dare it say he had damned his mother intentionally? She started to pace around the candle, wishing she could see the monster, touch it so that she could beat it to a bloody pulp.

Her father had been good! He had been kind! He had loved his mother, and her, and their whole family! He’d been the guard for every one of his siblings he’d lost because Grandmama couldn’t stand to do it. He sang to her when she was sick until she laughed and coughed. He helped Mom in the garden and always praised her cooking, even if she burned it. He comforted Henry when he was still prone to night terrors and kept them all up.

Someone like that wouldn’t destroy his mother’s rest.

I’m not a liar. I put it out because she asked me to. Like I’m asking you to.

“Why?” she demanded, still pacing. She couldn’t believe she was entertaining this thing.

She felt she didn’t deserve the peace because she couldn’t guard for Pop, James, Lena, or Evie. She begged me to. I should have refused, but I didn’t.

“Then why won’t you let me refuse?” Annalise’s pacing slowed, her heart sinking to her stomach. The longer this thing talked, the more it sounded like Dad.

Ma’s all alone in the dark because of me, sweet pea. It’s only fair I keep her company. A laugh rang in the air, making all those tears she’d managed to force back rush to her eyes. The laugh was real and warm, despite the cold request. Misery loves company, right?

“Dad…” She fell back on the ground and stared at the candle, helplessly watching as it dimmed bit by bit. “That wasn’t your fault, though. Grandmama made her choice!”

And I’ve made mine. The voice was calm and steady, not a hint of fear. A presence grew around her, and she clung to it, wrapping her arms around herself like he used to. Make yours.

She glanced at her phone. Five minutes.

This was what he wanted? Truly? To be lost forever? Wouldn’t he rather be with Grandpapa and his siblings? Wouldn’t Grandmama rather have him there?

And what about her? Mom? Henry? If he let himself be swallowed by the dark, they’d never see him again either. The phantom love she squeezed in her arms would vanish completely.

She’d have to live with it, too, knowing she was the one who damned him. A bitter cycle could start, one where she also begged her children to snuff the light out because she deserved it. And if her family ever found out… Especially poor Henry…

On the floor, her phone showed only one minute left.

See you at sunrise.