The house was colder now.
Not in temperature. Not something a heater could fix.
This was deeper—something in the walls. Like the bones of the place had gone hollow. Like it had given up pretending to be a home.
And something else had moved in.
The matchstick still sat on the table.
Unburned. Untouched.
Mason hadn't moved it. Didn't dare.
It wasn't fear exactly—it was respect. Like you would show a snake coiled in the corner. Beautiful. Deadly. Patient.
Day Four.
He didn't sleep.
Couldn't. Wouldn't.
He'd started drinking coffee again. Cup after cup. It didn't make him sharper. Just jittery. Paranoid. His nerves were stretched so thin he thought he could hear light bulbs hum.
He sat in the kitchen all night, waiting for something to happen.
And, right on time—
3:14 a.m.
Three knocks.
Not at the door.
Not at the window.
From the hallway closet.
Mason sat frozen in the chair. The coffee in his hand trembled just enough to ripple.
Then—
Three more knocks.
Slower this time.
Heavy.
Intentional.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The door creaked open all by itself.
In the dim light from the hallway, he saw it.
The box.
Sitting on the closet floor like it had walked there.
Closed again.
He didn't approach.
Not yet.
He waited until the sun came up. Let the silence stretch. Let the room warm slightly.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward.
Knelt beside it.
Opened it.
Inside—
A candle.
Thick. White. Wax untouched.
Next to it: the same note.
THREE DAYS.
He took the candle and placed it beside the matchstick on the kitchen table.
Didn't touch either.
Didn't speak.
But he could feel them now.
They belonged together.
And they were waiting.
By noon, the house smelled like smoke.
Thick, rich, impossible-to-ignore smoke.
But nothing was burning.
He checked every room. Every outlet. The attic. The basement. The vents.
No fire.
No heat.
Just the smell.
Like something had caught fire in a memory and decided to bleed into the present.
The air got heavier.
His clothes clung to him like ash.
He sat down across from the table again.
Stared at the candle.
Then the matchstick.
Then back to the candle.
He whispered, "No."
But his hand twitched toward the match.
The doorbell rang at 3:00 p.m.
He didn't answer.
Just listened.
No second ring.
But he found another package on the porch. This one smaller. Black box. Sealed with red wax.
He opened it carefully, half-expecting something to bite.
Inside:
A charred piece of wood.
A single black feather.
A photo.
This time, a picture of his childhood home.
It was on fire.
Not figuratively. Not old.
The photo showed flames licking up the siding and smoke pouring from the roof.
But Mason had never seen this photo before.
And his childhood home never burned.
That he knew of.
That night, he dreamt in flames.
Emily stood in the hallway.
The black tile beneath them cracked and split, fire glowing underneath.
The door marked EMILY'S ROOM swung open without sound.
Inside: a room filled with candles.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
All unlit.
She turned to him and said,
"Light just one."
Mason said nothing.
He turned to run.
But the hallway was gone.
Only fire remained.
He woke coughing.
Smoke in the air.
Real this time.
He rushed to the kitchen—but nothing was burning.
No flame. No candle.
But the smell choked him.
His eyes burned. His throat closed.
And then he saw it:
The matchstick was gone.
Only the candle remained.
Still unlit.
Mason stood in the middle of his kitchen, breathing through his shirt like it would help. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood—but there was no smoke. No heat. No visible flame.
And the matchstick was gone.
Just gone.
Not misplaced.
Taken.
The candle still sat on the table. Its wax untouched. Its wick curled slightly at the tip, as if it had almost burned. As if fire had hovered close, just shy of setting it alight.
Mason stared at it, heart thudding.
He didn't want to touch it.
But part of him knew he wouldn't have to.
It would light itself when it was ready.
He opened every window.
The air outside was better, but not by much. The wind had an acrid edge now. Even the trees looked darker somehow. Like the color had been drained from the world, leaf by leaf.
His phone buzzed.
First time in days.
It lit up with a message from an unknown number:
"WHERE THERE'S SMOKE."
That was it.
No name. No number.
He didn't reply.
Didn't have to.
Seconds later, the screen went black again.
No signal.
The message had vanished like it had never been there.
He tried to distract himself.
Cleaned the kitchen. Washed dishes twice. Rearranged the pantry. Took all the batteries out of the smoke detectors and put them back again.
Every few minutes, he caught himself glancing at the candle.
It sat there like a loaded gun.
Silent.
Still.
Waiting.
At 5:00 p.m., the power flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then held.
He froze.
Listened.
A low hum filled the house.
He checked the walls. The outlets. The ceiling fan.
Everything buzzed just slightly—like a swarm of invisible insects crawling behind the drywall.
He unplugged everything.
It didn't help.
The humming wasn't electrical.
It was alive.
That night, the candle moved.
He had gone to the bathroom—just five minutes, tops—and when he came back, the candle was on the floor.
Upright.
Sitting in the exact center of the living room.
Still unlit.
He didn't touch it.
He whispered into the room, "I didn't light it."
No one answered.
But from somewhere upstairs, something laughed.
He tried to leave.
He grabbed his coat, his wallet, and his keys and stormed toward the front door.
But when he opened it—
Fire.
Not real fire. Not heat. Not flame.
The illusion of it.
Walls of heatless light dancing in the yard. Flickering in the trees. Curling around his car like it was being devoured.
And in the middle of it all, standing perfectly still, was the man in the suit.
The visitor.
Same pale skin. Same folded hands.
But now, he held something.
The matchstick.
Unlit.
In his other hand, he held the photo of Mason's house.
Burning.
They locked eyes.
The man raised the match.
Held it just inches from the picture.
Didn't speak.
Just waited.
Mason shut the door.
Fast.
He locked it.
Then every other door. Every window.
Pulled the curtains.
Turned off the lights.
Lit every other candle he had—kitchen candles, bathroom candles, old Christmas leftovers from under the sink.
But not the white candle.
Never the white candle.
It stayed where it was—in the middle of the living room.
Untouched.
Unburned.
He stayed awake all night.
Wrapped in a blanket, knife in his lap, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the creeping certainty that the house had become something else.
Not haunted.
Not cursed.
But claimed.
He kept expecting the door to open. The match to strike. The fire to come roaring in.
But it didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, just before dawn, something even worse happened.
He heard a knock.
From upstairs.
He hadn't gone upstairs in days.
Since before the dreams.
The knocking came again.
Three times.
Slow.
Measured.
Mason stood, shaking.
The white candle flickered for the first time.
Not lit.
Just swayed.
Like it felt something coming.
He didn't go upstairs.
He sat back down.
And waited for morning.
At sunrise, he found a message etched into the fog on the kitchen window.
TWO DAYS.
He stared at it until the sun burned it away.