Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It was whispered among the desperate—light a black candle, and you'll speak to the dead. But in the scorched hamlet of Wroethe Hollow, where the air reeked of wax and decay, that whisper was gospel.

The villagers no longer buried their dead. They bargained with them.

Solomon Wraith stood in the center of the ruined chapel, his trench coat wet from the rain, his fingers blackened from extinguished candlewicks.

"This is the third village," he muttered, "where the pact was honored."

Behind him, Esmé Dreadmoor spun one of her spectral blades in her palm. "And the third where no one remains to regret it."

All around them were wax figures—dozens of them—posed in prayer, hands clasped, faces half-melted. Some still breathed.

"Living wax," Solomon whispered. "Cursed to remain warm, yet never awake."

The altar at the front was cracked and bleeding black. Upon it sat a single candle, wick untouched, flame dancing although there was no fire.

It pulsed when they approached.

From the corner of the chapel came the voice.

"You shouldn't have come here," rasped the Scab Prophet, his body cloaked in patchwork skin, eyes milky, and arms covered in self-carved scripture. "The candle has chosen a new soul to burn."

He dragged his twisted frame forward. Around him, black candles floated midair, spinning slowly, dripping wax that hissed where it landed.

"Did you lead them into this?" Esmé asked, stepping forward, blade drawn.

"No," the Prophet whispered. "I merely translated. The pact was offered to me. I accepted."

Solomon held up a silver sigil. "And what was the price?"

The Prophet lifted his hands. Dozens of runes, gouged into flesh, glowed red.

"My body was the ink. The wax—the contract."

With a sudden lurch, the melted villagers rose, eyes blank, mouths stitched shut with candlewick. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, like marionettes under molten strings.

Esmé leapt into battle, blades flashing like moonlight, severing waxen limbs. But for every figure she struck down, another took its place.

Solomon lit his own black candle. "If flame is the key, let's speak to whoever's listening."

The air warped.

From the shadows behind the altar slithered a figure of living wax—faceless, crowned with candle horns, hands dripping fire. The Wickborn Lord.

"You summoned me, mortal," it whispered, its voice echoing in every direction.

Solomon's eyes narrowed. "I offer a trade. Knowledge for release."

The Wickborn leaned forward, curious. "Speak."

Solomon tossed the silver sigil into the flame.

A burst of light. A scream. The candle exploded.

The villagers collapsed, lifeless again. The Prophet fell to his knees, his scriptures bleeding ink instead of blood.

The Wickborn Lord shrieked, dissolving into waxy mist.

Only one candle remained—still unlit.

Solomon picked it up.

"This one we take with us."

Esmé frowned. "Why?"

He looked at her, tired. "Because I think someone else already lit theirs. Somewhere far worse."