Nocte Candelis
by Jillian Diblasio
There are three rules one must follow if they are desperate enough to travel during the Night of Candles.
One: Always carry a brightly burning candle.
Two: Let no sound pass between your lips.
Three: Never look a wandering spirit directly in the eye.
Helena knew these rules since she was a small girl, though it never crossed her mind that she would one day have to heed them. The air had the crispness of an ending autumn, its cold tendrils filling her lungs with every step. Once colorful leaves had long fallen, strewn on the cobblestones below. The dried, dead leaves were all she could see aside from her boots as she took one step forward and then another. She dared not raise her gaze and meet the eyes of the wandering spirit walking towards her. It staggered in front of her, water dripping down its bare legs and feet. Guttural sounds escaped from its lips, as if it were gasping for air. It meandered aimlessly along the path, only knowing by some deep instinct to steer away from her brightly lit candle.
But Helena wasn’t concerned with this spirit. There was a sadness to it, a creature once full of life now forced to walk the earth in loneliness, in a pitch-black darkness only it could see. No, Helena was more concerned with the quiet steps behind her, the ones that had been following her for several blocks. This spirit was methodical, timing its steps so they fell in perfect sync with her own. It thought it had gone unnoticed. Helena, however, wasn’t deceived, though she pretended to be. What this spirit wanted was anyone’s guess. With her free hand, she clutched her deep red cloak tighter to her body as another autumn chill passed over her.
The path she walked was an old one, the cobblestones cracked and uneven. And it was dark. An all-consuming blackness full of despair and uncertainty. There was no light to speak of, save for her candle and the moonlight above to guide her. Yet despite this, she preferred this unsettling, lonely street to the main road. Anything but the main road.
Candles had lit every window of every building, with rosemary wreaths aligning every door. But even with all this protection in place, spirits were creatures of habit and, like the living, preferred the roads they were familiar with. There had been hundreds, if not more, a horde of shambling phantoms covering the once busy streets like cockroaches. In some places, it had been hard to tell where one spirit ended and another began, so entangled were they. Yet despite their numbers, they had parted a path for her like the Red Sea. It should have been safe with her candle.
But the noises had been too much for Helena.
They had scratched and clawed at the doors, the rosemary and salt stinging their spectral forms. For some, it had been a hiss on their solid, forming skin. For others, a wail of pain escaped them as their spectral forms shivered in and out of existence. Some had learned their lesson from being hurt once. But others were more persistent. They tapped and tore on windows, a screeching sound that penetrated the ears. Others cooed after their loved ones, hoping to lull just one resident into opening the door for them.
The lantern shook in Helena’s hand as she recounted those awful images and the ghastly sounds that had filled the main road. She thought of the sleeping drought sitting in the kitchen next to her cup of tea; a drought filled with the sweetest nectar that produced even sweeter dreams. She thought of her safe, warm bed with her husband, David, sleeping beside her. If only she had drunk her tea like every other Nocte Candelis.
If only…
She felt it before she had time to react. Her boot had caught on one of the jagged stones. Time suspended around her as her body continued to lurch forward, feet trying to right themselves. But it was useless; she was falling. Her free hand flew forward in an attempt to break her fall. With the other hand, her fingers were about to reflexively lose their grip on the lantern. However, something instinctively, a deep, primal fear greater than the fear of falling, forced her to maintain her grip. And then time resumed its normal flow, her knees smashing against the ground. The lantern clattered beside her.
A cry escaped her lips.
Her body stiffened, a deathly silence permeating the air. She dared not move or breathe. Once again, she was at the mercy of time, seconds feeling like minutes, hours. Until she heard the cracking of bones, and the spell was broken. Slowly, she turned her head towards the spirit who had been walking past her. Its feet were now stopped. And it had only moved a little way down the road. Her gaze darted towards her candle. It was still lit, but the lantern door had swung open in the fall.
The feet were now walking towards her again, faster than they had been moving before. And another set behind it: the spirit who thought it was clever had shown itself. This spirit was crouched low, the pace purposeful with the grace of a hunter and leather boots to match its prior life. Both once meandering spirits were suddenly given a burst of life just from hearing her voice. They rushed towards her. She scurried to her feet, nearly tripping as she tried to put distance between herself and them. But they were hungry, and they knew prey was nearby. The slower one reached a hand out towards her, fingers inches away from her face. She backed away, holding her lantern close to her body. The smarter spirit pulled ahead of the other, this hand reaching for her chest, where the candle lay.
Just as she closed the lantern door, the once corporeal-looking entities became flickering, misty images of their solid forms as they flowed in her. The coldness of them both struck her muscles and limbs, knocking the breath out of her. A passing image of her dying in this moment crossed her mind before she pushed the thought away. For a brief moment, the frigid sensation increased, both spirits desperate to cling onto any emotion to feed on. But that was all they would get from her. Helena emptied her mind, picturing a void with no sound, no color. Emptiness. Her breathing slowed, but each breath became fuller despite the freezing sensation in her lungs.
Two misty images passed through her body. They floated through the air for several feet before resuming their solid-appearing forms. Gasping sounds escaped them both, a sense of dissatisfaction hanging in the air. Helena wasn’t sure if the spirits still felt emotion or if she was merely projecting these ideas onto them. They resumed their slow gaits. Wanting nothing more to do with them, she quietly moved off the road. She would rather trek the rest of the way through the forest than run into anything else this night.
The cracking and creaking of the branches was louder than she would like. But she knew these woods well. To her right was the perfect rock to jump off. And just up ahead was the tree with the perfectly sized hollow to hide in. The brook was not much farther.
She could hear trickling from the brook before she could see it, its playful movement seared in her memory. Her steps quickened towards the familiar sound, a budding hope taking form in her chest. Every crunch of the leaves beneath her feet felt louder than the one before. She tried to stifle the noise, to step with cautious intent. But then a splash echoed through the forest. And then another. Her heart was racing now, and a queasiness settled in at the sound of rocks being thrown in the brook.
The candle flickered erratically from her movements, but she paid it no mind. Dark branches obscured her vision. She frantically pushed them out of her face, her hair. The branches hit her over and over in the back as soon as she let go, stinging her each time. But she did not care. Small limbs of dead trees and bushes grasped her cloak. Her hands wildly pulled, but it was for naught. The limbs refused to release her cloak, their wood fingers ensnaring the hand-sewn trim. Helena wrenched it free with all her strength, her once beautiful garment tearing at the seams. But she was now free, and the sound of the rocks hitting the water’s surface continued, louder with each step she took. Legs shaking, Helena forced her steps to slow as the trees cleared, the streamlet’s water reflecting in the moonlight.
He wasn’t facing her; he was too busy throwing rocks into the water below as he had often done to amuse himself. But unlike his bouncy personality in life, in death, his movements were mechanical. Limbs crooked, he bent at odd angles to pick up his stones, his bones cracking with each gesture. As he tossed the stone, an eerie, strained breath escaped his lips as if he were trying to laugh but couldn’t remember how. This was all that was left of Thomas.
Helena had always thought she would cry upon seeing her son again. But there was nothing but a sickly, dark seed growing inside her stomach. And from that pit came a coldness that stretched throughout her body. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Black spots clouded her vision. She thought of how she had cleared her mind when the spirits had passed through her before and took a deep breath. She allowed herself to latch onto an emptiness that was nowhere and everywhere at the same time. After inhaling deeply several more times, the spots cleared.
Hands trembling, she reached into her dress pocket. Her fingers clutched a hard, smooth surface. There was nothing unusual about the coolness or the firmness of it. But there was still a sense of wrongness in what she was holding, a poison seeping into her hand. A voice internally screaming not to touch it. Her fingers felt the jagged edges where she had broken it and remnants of dirt brushed against her hand. Slowly, she pulled out the rib bone, hands still shaking.
Perhaps he heard the crunching of leaves. Or the rustling of the branches. Or, perhaps, he knew instinctively that a piece of him was nearby. Whatever the reason, Thomas stopped carrying out his chore of casting rocks into the brook.
And looked directly in Helena’s eyes.
Instinctively, Helena turned the sharp edge of the bone in front of her.
“Thomas. Mommy’s here to help.”
Thomas’ mouth opened wide, a gaping void past his two stubborn baby teeth. His lips were curled into an attempted smile. And that horrible, strained breath followed before he ran towards her.
There was only a split second for Helena to think. He was coming towards her; she could stab him just as the druid had told her. He would be free.
But then, who would come to Helena’s aid when it was her turn to pass? Who would brave the town and the forest and who knows where at a chance to free her soul? Her mother? Her father? David? No one had dared to do this for her grandmother, her grandfather, or David’s sister.
She dropped the bone at her feet as Thomas reached her. His hand grabbed a bundle of her dress like he used to, his soul latching onto hers. She could feel him, his essence slipping into her own. With his other hand, he opened the latch to her lantern.
And blew the candle out.
Jillian Diblasio is a video editor and author of several short stories. Her work has been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine and Buck Off Magazine. She has participated in Telltale Games Writer’s Workshop, and her film work has been featured in various festivals, including Gen Con Indy Film Festival and AOF Festival. She currently lives in Prince Edward Island, Canada, with her husband and three cats.