Candlelight

A Man is locked in an airtight room with nothing but a lit candle between him and death.

[FOUND: Date Nov. 13 2014. Estimated authorship approximately around 1855. Property of the Government of the United States of America. ]

I don’t know how long my light will last, so I’ll write this quickly. Thankfully they left me a paper and a pen. And a candle. But it’s not a very long one. Just a stub, really.

It’s short, red and knobbed with wax. It must be scented, because the sickly-sweet fumes it’s puffing out like a steam engine make me sick with hunger over the thoughts of Christmas pastries and the tart taste of mulled cider. I’m so hungry, but at the same time I feel like throwing up because I’ve not had a proper bath in what must be weeks.

 It’s funny. The few minutes of light I have left I spend prattling on about baths and Christmas. My good friend told me once that you realize eventually sometime in your life that the little things do count.

  I don’t know how much longer I have until I’m plunged into complete darkness. I’m a starting to get a little scared; the candle is sputtering. All the better really, I suppose. This room is airtight. The candle is probably using up a lot of my air. Make my end quick and painless.

 I don’t dare snuff it out. There are worse ways to die than suffocation.

The candle is my connection to life, my partner in the dark. Even though it’s inanimate, we have one thing in common; as long as the light’s here, we’re both alive. How queer it is to have such a connection to a household object. It is literally my lifeline.

Let me tell you how I came to have such a profound connection with a tube of wax. I don’t know who will find this or even if it will ever be found, but just know that the only reason I write this letter to you, my reader, and not in deep pleading prayer for my soul is that you may be warned.

Do not stop to read this here. Get out, now. And quickly. Do not stop until you’ve reached the warmth and safety of sunlight.

Did you ever wonder why humans have an irrational fear of the dark? I pondered this question myself as a young boy and now I know, though I wish I never had. I’ll tell you just this; it’s not an irrational fear.

Whatever you do, DO NOT SNUFF OUT YOUR LIGHT. No matter how stifling it gets, no matter how unimportant it seems to be, don’t do it.  I promise you that if you do not heed my warning, you will most certainly die.

Also, guard it. Torches can be extinguished, lanterns broken. And candles die most easily of all; with a puff of air, a breath, it dies. This thing, that I’m hiding from; I know nothing else but that it lives in the dark, it kills anything else in the dark, and it breathes. It can and will blow out my candle if it gets the chance.

Even now I can hear it. The shadows stink of putrid breath, the airless room around me is penetrated at intervals with a death rattle. A prolonged exhalation, the kind a drowning man makes after he is saved and first fills his longs with fresh air. The kind a thirsty dog makes after running. But not human nor animal. None of God’s creatures could make a sound like that.

A sound like an echo, a gasp of surprise intensified by the claustrophobic walls of a dusty tunnel. Like someone hyperventilating, but thirstier, emptier. Without the life.

It grows steadily louder as the candle shrinks.

My skin is glistening with sweat as I write, as the air has become sweltering around me. For know the breathing has been isolated to the furthest corner of the room, where an empty crate casts a shadow. It’s nearly doubled in size since I’ve began writing.

Just know that It fears the light above all else. No, disregard that. It only fears the light. I don’t know why. But I’ve seen grown men armed with swords, knives and even firearms taken down without a sound. Without a struggle.  As if they’ve simply fallen asleep. But they’re not.

My expedition decided to call it the Breath. Because that’s what it does. It breathes, and it takes away the breath of others.

They’re all the same. The Bodies. From my seated position this very minute I can see a member of my party. Ghislaine was her name. Her hands are folded delicately on her torso, as if in sleep. If I were to go and touch her now, her skin would be warm and soft. Not a mark on her body. She, to all appearances, should be sleeping. There’s only one thing wrong. She’s not breathing.

She was the first to go; about two weeks ago, if I remember correctly. Nowhere to bury her here. She was simply walking into this very room when she tripped and the candle snuffed out. This is how we found her. Her heart did not beat, and she didn’t breathe. There was no explanation for it.  She looked so peaceful we didn’t want to disturb her.

The rest of my party, about forty of them, all shortly after. We eventually discovered the source of death; the breath. Some died on accident. Some on purpose. Some, I’m ashamed to admit, were left behind. But all bear the appearance of sleep.

I am alone, but for the breath.

My candle’s nearly gone now. It’s too late for me. I only leave this warning. Everyone I’ve ever cared about is asleep without breath. You will find my body the same, whether they discover our bodies in ten minutes or in a hundred years. We’ll be asleep. We’ll never wake up.

The breathing grows louder, more fevered. My time has come. Excuse the tear-marks on the page. It is a terrible thing to realize one’s destiny.

One last request I have for you before it’s over for me.

Lock this building up and burn it. It must be done at high noon, with not a shadow in sight. This is essential. If you value your life and the life of the human race, do what I say.

It’s clever. It can think. I’ve sealed the doors for now but someone will eventually find a way in.

My candle is but a speck in a pool of blood-red wax. There is hardly light to see what I’m writing. This is the last you shall ever hear from Henry S. Maripose, director of the Maripose expedition.

The breathing is all around me now. I can feel it closing in.  I feel the breath on my neck, hot and close. What a strange w

[Manuscript ends]

Author's Note

I'm Sorry for quoting Doctor Who.

Reviews

[Greyscaleinblue]

Nice, but I have read stories like this on creepypasta and I feel like they have done a better job at capturing my attention. It may be just because I've stayed up far too late, but it's something I've read before...