“A house on the hill where no being stays. The windows are cracked and falling apart. The door has been locked for most of my time. Whatever lies within, collecting dust as it’s only company. Outside was the remains of a flower garden: plants withered and nearly nothing but dust. Old remains of flowers that the people nearby had carelessly trampled on. It was early morning. I was jogging past the house when I saw it. The faint candlelight filling the highest window of the home. Three stories high and the only window that wasn’t damaged by the rocks and stones. It was strange though. The house had been empty since who knows when. My curiosity outweighed my caution and I knew I wanted to enter inside. A rusty ladder on the side of the building I used to climb through the window. That was my way in. The room was what seemed to be a living room. It was on the second floor with two muddy armchairs, the colour of cherry-red. And on the floor was a small stuffed animal - a mouse, I guessed - a children’s toy. I exited the room and carefully trod to the third floor. It was one large room, an attic perhaps. And the candle sat on a small wooden stool. It had a fragrance of cinnamon and a small flame that battled the draughts of the house. As I stretched out my hand to touch the candle, my vision went black.” To this day it is said whoever touches the candle will simply be part of it. Part of the flame. And whoever sees the candle and ignores it…it’s a worse fate. Driven mad with curiosity until the day they can take it no longer and touch it. Beware.
