Creative writing club prompt: In an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, a single candle burns in the window every night. No smoke rises from the chimney, no footprints mark the snow, and no one claims to live there. One night, you decide to find out who lights it. Timed, 30 minute limit.
For as long as I can remember, it had been empty. There was an odd silence about the place, and were I ever to wander away from the treeline towards it, my father would bring me to heel with a click of his tongue. Heâd save the stern look for once I was back at his side, never taking his eyes off the cabin until it was out of sight. I never needed a second warning.Â
After he was gone, I didnât walk those trails much. I had a life, a family. A little boy. I tried to be softer with him, and I never took him to the places my father used to take me.Â
And then one night as I was smoothing back the hair on my sonâs forehead to kiss him goodnight, I saw a flicker of light outside. A stark contrast to the ocean blue of his nightlight, an orange flame just beyond the pane of glass. A candle burning in the window of the house across the street, hot, thick wax trickling down as the flame fluttered, wavering in the wind.Â
Except there is no house across the street. And when I got closer to the window, the light was gone. With it, I could feel a chill growing inside, because the house hadnât been just any house. It was that same damned cabin from the woods. Â
I left that night. Pulled on a jacket and slipped on some shoes and started driving, not bothering to leave a note for my wife or to take another look at my sonâs sleeping face. I drove until the roads were rough, until the trees were gnarled and wild, reaching out for me and threatening to come crashing down. I drove until I hit the end of the road, and then I got out and began to walk.
Even in my worn-out sneakers, even with a few inches of freshly fallen snow on the ground, it didnât take as much time as Iâd thought to reach the cabin. I couldâve followed it blind, and with no moon, I very nearly did. The only light cutting through the trees was, at the end, the candle.Â
Iâm in that cabin now. Everythingâs covered in a dusting of snow from where the roof caved in, and the floorboards have been given over to the termites, in the places where they havenât rotted through. Thereâs a candle burning in the window, covered in melted wax but somehow as tall as the first time it was lit. It doesnât give off much heat, or smoke, but I can hear it burning away. I can hear something else, too, just below the flicker and hiss. My father mumbling in his low, drunken drawl, some song, some half-remembered lullaby.Â