Day Six.
The mirror whispered it.
TOMORROW.
But tomorrow was now today.
And Mason could feel it in every part of the house—like the walls were holding their breath, like the air itself had weight. Even his bones ached with the knowledge of it.
The countdown had run out.
He was living inside the final square of the calendar.
The black candle waited.
Still wrapped in red ribbon. Still untouched.
It stood where the white one had burned all night—at the center of the kitchen table, wax unblemished, wick clean.
Mason didn't move it.
Didn't unwrap it.
He just sat across from it, like he was waiting for it to blink first.
At one point, he whispered, "What happens if I don't light it?"
The house creaked.
Just once.
Right above him.
Like something shifting in the ceiling.
Like something... listening.
He drank his coffee cold.
He hadn't made it.
It was already sitting on the counter when he woke up.
He didn't question it.
Not anymore.
The house had started giving him things. Not as gifts. As warnings.
The cup had the number 1 written on the side in black Sharpie.
No explanation.
He poured it down the sink.
It smelled like roses.
The birds didn't sing that morning.
He noticed it first around 9 a.m. The usual chirps and squawks and caws were gone—replaced by silence and wind.
A different kind of quiet.
Not peaceful.
Vacant.
Like the world outside had stepped back, leaving Mason alone in the center of something sacred—or cursed.
At 11:14 a.m., the phone rang.
For the first time in days.
He stared at it.
The screen didn't light up. No caller ID. Just the ringing.
Sharp. Electric. Too loud.
He picked it up with shaking hands.
Put it to his ear.
Silence.
Then static.
Then a voice.
Low. Familiar.
Not the whisper. Not Emily.
His own.
"Light it."
And then—
Dial tone.
He took the ribbon off the candle.
Not because the voice told him to.
Because the house was vibrating now—quietly. Subtly.
A hum running beneath the floorboards and through the air vents, like some ancient engine revving up. The sound had nowhere to go, so it built inside his skull.
He unwrapped the ribbon carefully, inch by inch.
It fell away with a soft sigh, like silk falling off a wound.
And beneath it—
Scratches.
Dozens of tiny etchings carved into the wax.
Names.
Some he recognized—people from town.
Some he didn't.
And at the very bottom of the candle, nearly hidden in the base:
Mason Wilder
He nearly dropped it.
Instead, he placed it back on the table.
And stepped away.
By afternoon, he started seeing things in the mirrors.
At first, just flashes.
Someone behind him.
Someone watching from inside the reflection, like the glass was its own world now.
But as the sun dipped lower, the images grew sharper.
One mirror showed Emily.
Staring.
Another showed Mason.
Older.
Broken.
Alone.
Another one—
He smashed it before he could understand what he was seeing.
The glass didn't cut him.
It just disappeared.
Like it had never existed.
At dusk, the final delivery came.
No knock. No box.
Just a handprint.
Pressed into the window beside the front door.
Charred black.
Fingers long and strange, like something not made to belong here.
Next to it, etched into the glass with fingernail-deep scratches:
TONIGHT.
He sat in the center of the house.
Surrounded by darkness.
Every candle in the place had burned out.
Even the ones he hadn't lit.
The wicks had curled to ash, the wax pools cold and unmoving.
All except one.
The black candle.
Still waiting.
Still whole.
Still silent.
The sun disappeared without ceremony.
No golden hour. No last burst of color.
Just a dull fade, like the world was unplugged.
Mason sat in the quiet, the black candle on the table in front of him, the box beside it.
He didn't speak.
He didn't pray.
He just stared.
And when the clock hit 3:14 a.m., the house exhaled.
Every light bulb in the house exploded.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
One after another—hallway, kitchen, bedroom—tiny concussive snaps that threw sparks and left him in perfect black.
Then silence.
And then—
Footsteps.
Upstairs.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
His hands were frozen on the edge of the table.
The candle still unlit.
The footsteps grew louder.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Coming down the stairs.
One at a time.
Wood creaking.
Air thickening.
And then the voice returned.
Not a whisper this time.
Clear.
Right behind his ear.
"Light it."
He stood up.
Reached for the match.
It wasn't in the box.
It was in his hand.
He didn't remember picking it up.
But he held it now.
And somehow—he wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Because the fear had done its job.
It had hollowed him out, carved him into the shape of someone who could do this.
He struck the match.
The flame bloomed instantly, tall and steady.
He lowered it to the wick of the black candle.
It caught.
The fire wasn't like before.
This one hissed.
It moved fast—greedy and hungry, licking up the wax like it had been starving.
The names carved into the candle began to glow red.
One by one.
Vanishing as they burned.
Mason stepped back as the heat spread through the room, though the air didn't warm.
If anything—it got colder.
The flame turned blue.
Then violet.
Then black.
Something screamed upstairs.
Not Emily.
Not the visitor.
Not even human.
It howled through the walls, rattling the floorboards, shaking the glass.
Mason fell to his knees, covering his ears.
The candle flared.
So bright it hurt to look at.
The scream turned into laughter.
The laughter into a hiss.
Then—
Nothing.
The candle went out.
The house fell silent.
No creaking.
No whisper.
Just Mason.
And the dark.
He stood, legs shaking.
Looked at the candle.
Nothing remained but wax melted into a perfect ring—shaped like an eye.
He turned to the window.
The handprint was gone.
The mirrors—blank.
His name—burned away.
He was alone.
And for the first time in days—
He felt awake.