Josephine's Candle by Arpad Nagy Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast. A singular source of light shone between the pillars of the North Carolina pines; the cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but once more, the night flickered with a beacon from Josephine to Stanley, her forbidden love. *** Josephine’s father delivered his daughter, a virgin bride, in trade for land to Cyril Hyde, a man of known ill-temper and cruelty. With her tainted blood, Josephine’s father felt fortunate to get what he did for her spoiled soul. She was born a half-breed from her French mother and her slave lover. Her slave father met his fate with a noose; her mother followed soon after, but not before her body and soul had been broken at the hands of her husband, who exacted his toll for her transgressions. Knowing her worth lay in her ability to placate her husband, Josephine tried to be the wife Cyril wanted; obedient, subservient, silent, and free to use at his whim. Still, nothing she did could soothe his anger, and for nine years, Josephine bore the brunt of Cyril’s rage and disgust. Josephine’s life existed in the darkness, dissolved of all hope for happiness. That all changed one fateful summer afternoon when Cyril brought a carpenter onto the estate. Contracted to build new stables to house Cyril’s growing herd of prize stallions and mares, Stanley the carpenter would stay through the fall to complete his work. When Stanley first laid his eyes upon Josephine, charged with seeing to his lodging, the spike of love pierced his heart before his hammer struck the first nail. By the time the leaves of the oak forest turned color Josephine’s heart would belong to Stanley. *** The howls and barks of the dogs echoing from the woods behind her were a shock to Josephine. She realized then that leaving the letter for Cyril, begging him to forget her and let her go, had been a dreadful mistake. She had slipped away in the hush of the night while Cyril lay snoring, sprawled across the sitting room couch, spent from too much drink and the exertion of sex. But, it created Josephine's opportunity for escape. All that remained was for her to make it to the old trapper’s cabin hidden in the woods. Josephine pictured it in her mind, Cyril waking and stumbling to bed, looking to take another turn with her body, only to find their bed empty and her note on the pillow. Josephine knew that Cyril’s rage would make him sober and focused. Terror-stricken and panicked, Josephine ran as fast as she could, following the trail Stanley had marked out. The old trapper’s cabin was far enough from the estate and no longer on Cyril’s land that they were sure he had no knowledge of it.But now the dogs were on her scent. Cyril would kill her if he caught her. The only question was if he would use a rope, his hands or let the hounds tear her apart. Anticipating the possibility of a fouled getaway, Stanley had coached Josephine on masking her scent and losing her trail. First, she would have to slog her way through the slough; the muddier and smellier she could get, the better. Then she would follow the outlet stream to the river, jump in and let the current carry her to the flat pool. Their sanctuary lay hidden on the other side of the willow thickets tucked against the slope of the rising tamarack forest. The cold of the river cut through the panic, and Josephine focused on following the route. When she pulled herself from the river and scampered along the pebbled shore, she could no longer hear the dogs' barks or howls. Shivering and soaked to her bones, Josephine stumbled through the brush to the cabin. Pulling the satchel of supplies from their hiding place beneath the floorboards, she changed into dry clothes. Then, devouring a tin of sardines and crackers, she listened between bites for any sound. Too terrified to light a fire and exhausted from the stress of her ordeal, Josephine retreated to a darkened corner and covered herself with a blanket. She fell asleep dreaming of Stanley’s voice in her ears and feeling his strong hands on her shoulders. “Just two days, Josie. I’ll come to get you in two days.” Days earlier, after having finished his contract for Cyril and taking his pay, Stanley thanked him, said his goodbyes, and made for the town in search of another contract. In order to escape Cyril’s grasp, Josephine would have to vanish, and Stanley must be seen leaving town on his own. But he was secretly making arrangements with an acquaintance, a bootlegger. For the right price, the bootlegger would smuggle Josephine and Stanley safely away. *** Having planned only a short two-day stay at the cabin, the cache of foodstuffs was sparse, and by the fifth day, it was gone. Seven days had passed since Josephine had eaten anything more than the few berries that she found in the woods nearby. Afraid to venture far and miss Stanley, Josephine remained where she was. Too terrified to light a fire and signal her position by smoke rising in the sky, she sacrificed warmth for safety and kept herself huddled in the blanket. The small candle she set on the windowsill and lit each night was the only sign of her presence, telling Stanley she still waited. She did not understand how or why Stanley would abandon her. Josephine was certain Stanley loved her, despite her being half black and him white. She could not have known that Stanley was already dead. Josephine's husband, humiliated and angry, posted a bounty for information on his runaway wife and her forbidden lover. The bootlegger betrayed Stanley for a heavier sack of coins from Cyril. Stanley was quickly captured and his death was extreme in violence, but to his very end, he refused to reveal where Josephine waited in hiding. In the remaining weeks of her tragic life, Josephine went mad. The forest mushrooms she foraged twisted her stomach and poisoned her mind. In her madness, she saw Stanley everywhere — coming from the river or out of the woods. Her wailing for Stanley echoed off the cliffs and carried through the valley. It was the shrill cry of a woman gone insane. Her death came slowly from starvation and sickness. She lay curled in the corner, unrecognizable as the beautiful young woman, vibrant and full of life, only a few weeks ago, now barely more than skin and bones. The candle in the window flickered and smoked. It was the one thing Josephine had held onto, lighting the candle each night for her Stanley to find his way. It flickered and burned, flickered and burned as Josephine drew her final breath. *** “This better not be lame!” Devon said to his sister, Simone. “It’s not lame. It’s a lot of fun! You’ll see.” she answered. School was out for the summer, and the siblings were packing for their Adventurer’s Camp, a week-long excursion into the woodlands of North Carolina. It was Devon's first time camping. He was far more interested in spending his free days camped in their basement gaming than playing survivor out in the woods. Devon’s whining and pleading nearly got him out of it too, but his mother, an ACLU lawyer, denied his appeal. Making the excursion even more annoying was that his sister, who had attended the camp five years in a row, would be there as a camp counselor and guide. Translated, that meant she was a spy. “Marshal was there last year,” Simone said, “He did great, and I know he had fun.” “Marshal did not have a great time,” Devon answered. “When he came back, he told me that the camping trip was the whitest thing he’d ever done. Camping isn’t for Black people, Simone! We don’t camp!” “That’s racist,” she replied. “And ridiculous.” “You don’t know anything,” he argued back. “It’s not racist. First of all, we can’t be racist against white people, dummy. Second, it’s a compliment; camping is their thing; white people love to camp. I’m happy for them-they can have it.” “That’s very generous of you, Devon,” Simone replied, shaking her head at her brother in disappointment. “But it’s still inappropriate.” “You know what is racist?” Devon said, continuing his argument. “Have you ever watched a horror movie where kids go camping in the woods?” he asked. “If there’s a Black kid in the bunch, they die first. We always die first, and who makes those movies? White people!” “Not true; it’s usually the blonde cheerleader that dies first,” Simone answered. “But this isn’t a movie, Devon. It’s real life. You might even learn something, and if you’re not careful, you might even meet someone-a girl!” Devon paused at the mention of meeting a girl and was about to ask about what kind of girls would be at camp, then changed his mind. “Fine,” he answered, “But if something gets weird out there, you and I are the first ones on the bus! Let the white kids search for where the scream came from; we ain’t investigating shit!” Simone laughed, then said, “Well, there’s nothing to be afraid of out there.” But she paused for a moment as she double-checked that her flashlight had batteries and added, “Well, almost nothing.” Devon stopped in the middle of stuffing his pack and looked at his sister to check if she was smiling. She was a terrible liar and could never pull off a prank, but the faraway look in her eyes made him nervous. “What the hell does that mean?” Devon blurted out. Lost in her thoughts, Simone finished packing. “What. Are. You. Talking. About?” Devon asked in his habit of talking in one-word sentences when he wanted undivided attention. Dropping his pack on the floor, he sat on his bed, arms crossed, staring at his sister. “It’s only a ghost story Mr. Murphy tells around the campfire.” She explained. “But it scared you,” Devon said. “I can tell. You thought it was real. How come? Is it kids getting murdered? Kidnapped? Attacked by Werewolves?” Devon shot back with his rapid- fire questions. Simone shook her head. “Get your bag together, Devon. Mom’s dropping us off by four.” “Oh no!” he said in defiance. “You better tell me!” “It’s part of the experience. I’ll ruin it for you if I tell you now. Mr. Murphy does such a good job. He’s been scaring kids with that story for decades.” Simone explained. “Tell me the story, or I’m not moving,” Devon demanded. Simone looked at her brother and considered his stubborn streak. Once, when Devon refused to eat eggplant lasagna, their mother told him it would be served as breakfast, lunch, and dinner until he finished his plate. Living on juice and water for the entire week, Devon lost five pounds. Finally, his mother relented. “The story is about Josephine Krandle,” said Simone, beginning the story. “And some of it is true. There was a Josephine Krandle, from the time of the Civil War. The story starts with a poem. “Josephine Krandle lights her candle, waiting for the man who let her die. And deep in the woods on windless nights, you can still hear her cry. Alone in the cabin, she went mad, they say and pulled out all her hair And anyone that follows Krandle’s candle gets caught in her deadly snare So if you hear her call your name and see the candle’s flickering light Turn your back and run for your life, or she’ll snatch you in the night.” “And this lady was real?” Devon asked. “Wait! You said there’s almost nothing to be afraid of. Which means there IS something to be afraid of!” “Kids! You better be packed and ready!” Their mom’s voice called, “We’re leaving for the bus in five minutes and not a second later! I’m not fooling around!” “Simone!” Devon pleaded. “Mr. Murphy will tell it tomorrow night. He likes to get the kids spooked right from the beginning of camp,” Simone said. “Grab your stuff, and let’s go. It’s only a silly, regular campfire story,” Simone said, zipping up her pack, slinging it over her shoulder, and walking to the door. Devon eyed his sister, suspicious of her holding back. “It better be! I’m telling you right now; we ain’t meant to go camping! It is not our thing!” Devon announced while quickly stuffing his pack. *** “Oh, come on, Mr. Murphy! That wasn’t even scary!” one of the new girls sitting around the campfire called out. “Yeah!” Another voice joined in. “My brother came to this camp and said you had the scariest ghost stories. He said you made him too scared to leave his tent at night!” “Maybe that’s why he made it home,” said Roy “Old Man” Murphy. The grandfather leader of the troop poked the fire with a charred fire staff that had seen many seasons of campfires and kids. But, while the coals always glowed with the same red fire, the kids changed each year, and every new batch seemed harder to entertain and more challenging to scare-not impossible, but harder. “You kids ought to be plenty scared of a blood moon and a man-eating mountain lion!” Murphy snapped back in a huff, referring to the story he’d just told. “I want to hear about the Hendershot kid who disappeared,” said one of the older boys. Then standing up and jabbing his stick into the coals, the boy turned to his fellow campers, “It’s a true story. I Googled it before coming out here.” Mr. Murphy bristled, then pulled the collar of his flannel coat tighter across his chest as though hit with a sudden chill. “You don’t know nothin’ about that,” said the veteran leader. Grumbles and murmurs began sounding off amongst the circle of kids. Some looked surprised, others uncomfortable, but all were curious. “I heard he wandered off the trail and fell down some old mine shaft,” a voice announced. “Nah, that wasn’t it. I heard he fell down the bank and knocked himself out, fell in the river, and drowned,” countered another boy. “You boys don’t know anything!” a girl piped up. “My brother used to be a counselor at this camp, and he told me that one night the kid got up to pee, and when he turned around to go back to his tent, something was there, and it scared him stone stiff until the morning. The camp leaders couldn’t do anything, and then the kid took off running into the woods. Even though they saw where he went and sent search parties for weeks-they never found a sign of him. Hendershot vanished into thin air.” Roy Murphy pushed the logs apart, sending a column of sparks into the black sky. He listened to the arguments around the fire rise like a wave. Murphy knew it was better to let the kids squabble themselves into frustration and watch them march off to their tents in their small groups of allies without adding more speculation to the story. He would have left it alone if it wasn’t for that little punk trying to make his mark. “Come on, guys,” “Sticky,” the tall, sandy-haired kid said to his cohort. “It’s all just bullshit anyway. If it really happened, old man, Murphy would have said something, but all he knows is how to make a campfire.” The kids glanced at Mr. Murphy, who sat still, poking and spreading the fire around the pit to snuff it out, but the old man stayed silent. The kids rose from their seats and gathered to walk to their tents when suddenly old man Murphy was standing before them. The orange firelight reflected in his glassy, black eyes. Looking past the boys and staring off somewhere in the dark woods, Mr. Murphy spoke. “Josephine Krandle lights her candle, waiting for the man who let her die. And deep in the woods on windless nights, you can still hear her cry Alone in the cabin, she went mad, they say, and pulled out all her hair And anyone that follows Krandle’s candle gets caught in her deadly snare So if you hear her call your name and see the candle’s flickering light Turn your back and run for your life, or she’ll snatch you in the night.” The boys stood silent, looking at the catatonic Mr. Murphy and then at each other. “Stay behind the horseshoes if you go out, or she’ll snatch you in the night!” Old man Murphy repeated. Then, Mr. Murphy took a step toward “Sticky” and laid a hand on the child’s shoulder; Murphy leaned in and spoke. “I wouldn’t go being too brave now, Stanley. It’s probably bad luck to have the same name as the murdered love of Josephine Krandle.” “Sticky” Stanley stood silent, watching the old man disappear into the night. “I think my sister knows the truth,” Devon said, speaking up for the first time. “I mean, she knows about Krandle’s candle, but she might know the truth about the kid-if there even was a missing kid.” Sitting on the edge of a bench near the fire, Simone rocked slowly from her toes to her heels. Staring into the coals glowing orange with their final pulses of life, she saw the memory again. “It’s real,” she said, her voice cutting sharply through the quietness of the night. “Dustin Hendershot.” “Oh yeah?” said Sticky, “Why should we believe you?” he asked. “Because I was there. I was with Dustin when we-when we saw it.” Simone’s voice trailed off as her brother came and sat beside her. “Saw what, Sis?” Devon asked. Simone turned to look at her brother and the group of boys that had moved in close behind him. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to tell them, but before she could change her mind, the words spilled out of her. “Krandle’s candle,” Simone said. “After Mr. Murphy told us the story, the boys, Dustin, and his friends decided it was a mission to find the cabin. They dared each other to see who would chicken out from going to look for it. “It was already getting late when we found it,” Simone continued. “It was blind luck. We’d been hiking for so long that we’d emptied our water bottles, so we went down to the river, but it had rained for a couple of days before, and the water was dirty. Then that’s when the boys found it.” “Found what? The cabin?” Sticky asked. “The creek,” Simone answered. “We saw a creek, clear water running into the river. Then Dustin and another boy followed the creek further upstream to look for a deeper spot to fill our bottles.” Shaking his head, Devon asked, “Why would you even be out there, Simone?” Simone couldn’t answer that she and Dustin had fallen for each other. She remembered how Dustin wanted to keep it a secret. She was never certain why and Dustin never explained. Was it because he had a girlfriend back in town, or was it as she suspected — because she was black? “There wasn’t much left of it-the cabin.” Simone continued, “The rotten timbers were all over, and if it weren’t for the stacked stones of the foundation, you’d probably never notice it at all.” “That doesn’t sound like a big deal to me,” Sticky said, “So you found some old cabin in the woods, that doesn’t prove anything.” “That’s what we thought, too, at first,” Simone replied. “But then someone pointed out that the only parts still together were a few boards under the frame of what used to be a window. “We laughed at Dustin when he said it must be Krandle’s candle window, but even then, I knew something was wrong.” The story was coming from her automatically now. Simone looked back to the fire, and Devon saw that even with the amber glow of the coals casting light on his sister, her face was ashen. “Simone?” Devon asked, “Are you ok? What happened?” Simone turned to face her brother, water pooled in her eyes, and her lip quivered. She turned to the boys and looked at their slack expressions. “Dustin ran up to the cabin and the window,” Simone explained. “He turned back to us and shouted that melted wax was all over the window frame, and he waved us up to take a look. But none of us moved. I don’t know why, but we seemed stuck there as we watched Dustin walk around and step into the cabin.” “The sun was about to slip behind the hills, and I told him we should get back to camp before it gets too dark — I told Dustin he shouldn’t be in there,” Simone explained. The panic and fear in her voice increased as she spoke. “Dustin laughed at me and said there was nothing to worry about; it was only a broken-down old cabin. I remember him flapping his hand at me like I was overreacting.” Simone continued, “But then it suddenly got so cold. We all felt it. The air turned icy. We shouted at Dustin that we needed to return to camp, and it was getting late. But I only wanted us to get out of there, and when Dustin stepped out of the cabin — that’s when everything changed.” Simone pulled herself closer to the fire. The flames licked at the last of the coals, and everyone stood silent. The sarcastic sneer from Sticky vanished, and the rest of the boys stood, their eyes wide, mouths closed, and ears open, transfixed on Simone. “I saw it first but didn’t say anything. It didn’t seem possible. I told myself it was the sunset playing a mind trick.” Simone looked up, and now that she’d begun her confession, there was no stopping it. “I think it was Brad who saw it next. Then Estella. Dustin was only a few steps away when she screamed.” Simone said. “Who screamed?” One of the boys asked. “What did you see?” asked another. “Dustin turned around, and he froze stiff. We all did. We couldn’t move. We were all staring at the candle burning in the window.” Simone said, her breath ragged,, her words rapid. “That scream! That awful scream! It was Josephine, her ghost; her spirit was still there, still waiting for her Stanley to come and fetch her.” Simone began to sob. “But it wasn’t Stanley, Josephine’s lost love; it was Dustin standing there. It was Dustin who went into the cabin, and now it was Dustin that Josephine wanted.” “Holy shit-is this for real?” Devon asked. Simone seemed to have fallen into a trance; her eyes looked glossy and glazed as she stared into the glowing fire pit. “Simone!” Devon called out. “What happened? Simone!” Devon shouted and grabbed his sister by the shoulders and shook her. “We saw Josephine walk out of the cabin with the candle in her hand. She kept calling out to Dustin, but she was calling him Stanley, louder and louder, she screeched his name.” Simone said in bursts of tears and sobs. “She looked awful! Hideous! Her face was grey and blue, with shriveled skin and only a few strands of hair on her head. I’ll never forget it, and I wish I could.” “We ran, Devon. We ran through the woods as fast as we could, keeping to the trail, but each time we looked back over our shoulder, the burning candle kept following us. I don’t know how long it took, but we ran until we saw the light in the camp tower. Then I remembered what Mr. Murphy said at the end of the ghost story-stay behind the horseshoes!” “That’s what old man Murphy mumbled tonight when he left us,” one of the boys said. “Stay behind the horseshoes. But what horseshoes?” he asked, “What do the horseshoes do?” he asked, spinning around, his eyes searching the dark. “On the trees,” Simone answered. “All around camp. The horseshoes are nailed into the trees, and spirits can’t go past horseshoes; they can’t cross a line of iron.” Simone took a breath and continued. “I could see the edge of camp and started yelling to get past the trees. As soon as we crossed beneath the horseshoes, we turned around and called the others to hurry; we could see the candlelight getting closer." “Did everyone get past the horseshoes?” Devon asked his sister. Simone looked up at her brother, tears falling down her cheeks. “We all crossed and made it onto the camp field, except Dustin, but we could see he was coming and yelled at him that we couldn’t see the candlelight anymore. We thought the horseshoes must have scared Josephine away, that she’d given up the chase. We were all so relieved.” Simone explained. “But we were wrong. When Dustin turned around and took his final steps before getting to the horseshoes, the candle suddenly appeared right in front of him. Josephine came out of the woods, and all we could do was watch,” Simone paused and inched closer to the firepit, wringing her hands, her legs shaking. “We just stood and watched as she dragged Dustin back down the trail, screaming and kicking. That look on his face — the night she dragged him away was the night I knew that evil was real,” Simone said, wiping tears from her eyes. “We knew that no one would believe us if we told them what really happened, so we told our camp counselors that we got lost and separated. They searched for weeks but never found a trace of Dustin. He vanished.” Simone rose, turned away from the fire pit and the boys, and headed to her tent. Devon quickly jogged to her side. The group kept tight to their pack and moved along. The story frightened them and left them filled with questions that they tossed amongst each other. Then, Sticky halted the gang’s procession. “That’s some bullshit cover story,” he declared. “First of all, everyone knows that ghosts and shit aren’t real, and second, I bet Dustin fell in the river, and it washed him away, drowning him somewhere.” The boys looked up at him, not convinced but relieved that logic had entered the equation. “Yeah, I bet he drowned. A floating candle chasing you in the woods? Some old cabin and a witch or whatever? That’s not real,” said one of the boys. Not long after, Sticky lay awake in his tent. The night was still and windless. Dead. Hardly a sound carried, not a cricket’s chirp or a frog’s croak. Most of the boys, gullible and scared, had scattered from their cots and packed themselves together in one tent. Left alone, Sticky snickered at their fear. Finally, he started to doze off, but just as his eyelids fell closed, he heard a voice call his name. It was quiet, coming from outside-behind the tent. “Stanley…” No one at the camp called him Stanley and only the counselors and leaders knew his full name. Stanley “Sticky” Stickerson. “Stannnleeey…” The call seemed closer now, just outside the tent. “Simone,” Sticky said to himself. “It’s got to be Simone.” She’s a counselor and would know his name, he mused. “What do you want, Simone? I know it’s you!” Sticky called back from his cot. Simone didn’t answer but the voice continued calling out his name. “Stannnleeey….” Refusing to take the bait of childish pranks, Sticky flung the sleeping bag off and jumped to his feet. Then, grabbing his flashlight from beneath the cot, Stanley “Sticky” Stickerson stepped out of his tent. No one was there. No Simone. No kids. Only darkness. Turning around slowly, Sticky surveyed his surroundings. The voice had gone quiet. Someone was playing a gag on him; he was sure of it. So instead of turning on his flashlight, Sticky crept silently around his tent. That’s when he saw a fleck of light from the corner of his eye. Whoever was joking with him was hiding the beam of their flashlight behind a hand or tucked inside a sweater. But he saw it. He knew where they were. Moving stealthily, Sticky crept along behind his tent and stepped into the woods. “They’re not scaring me,” Sticky said to himself, “But I’m going to scare them! Just a few more steps to hide in the woods, and when I see the flashlight, I’m going to rush at them screaming from the woods. Ha ha, they’ll piss themselves.” Sticky smiled at having turned the tables on them. Leaning against a pine, Sticky waited for the light to give away the culprit’s hiding place. His fingers touched something cold and metallic. Something in the tree. His fingers followed the contours of the object tracing the metal line along a curve until its shape turned and fell back down the other side. At the bottom, his fingers touched the base, where he could feel the subtle form of a boot. A sudden jolt of fear struck his heart. It was a horseshoe, and Stanley was on the wrong side of it. “Stanley!” The raspy voice of a woman brushed his ear. Unable to stop himself, Stanley turned. The last thing Stanley saw was the flicker of a candle and the horrible face of a withered old woman. When Sticky didn’t show up for breakfast at the mess hall, the troop leaders went looking for him. A half-hour later, a full-scale search was underway. The only clue they found was a flashlight lying against a tree in the woods behind the tents. The name on the flashlight read, “Stanley Stickerson.” 💀💀💀 Arpad Nagy is a proud Hungarian-Canadian throwback romantic man who loves to write. After sustaining work injuries and being relegated to desk work, he dove into writing and has been doing so full-time since 2021. His passion is fiction writing, and his niche is romantic fiction, although he branches out into many genres. Nagy writes personal essays, memoirs, pop culture, and anecdotal stories about being a father, husband, and former careers as a chef, oil man, and civil construction. He is editor of four publications, three for nonfiction and one for short fiction at Medium, where he has nearly 400 published pieces. Links; Arpad Nagy – Medium arpad56nagy (@arpad56nagy) / Twitter Arpad T. Nagy (@arpad.t.nagy.5) | Instagram Arpad Nagy | LinkedIn Arpad Nagy (@[email protected]) - me.dm by Medium.com
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Podcast HostLinda Gould hosts the Kaidankai, a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |