Candles
The candle flame whirled to and fro casting a symphony of light upon the imposing white marble
walls of the grand mansion, which was perched atop the highest point of the Whitehills Estate.
Through the cascading torrent of rain, the midnight darkness pierced the mansion’s glass façade,
though failed to thrust itself beyond the candle light. The flame wavered upon an intricately detailed
slender stem, the bronzed edges licked with dried wax.
The Whitehills estate was known for a myriad of reasons, ranging from political ignominy and
prestige to being home to the wealthiest (and most scandalous) family in the land. Walter Whitehill,
the youngest living Whitehill, at eighty-nine years old, was the single most accomplished, wealthiest,
arrogant and egotistic (though quite deservedly) man in the entire country. He had settled wartime
conflicts between the most powerful countries in the world, and had also started them, although the
end always justified his means of getting there. All three of his sons died in battle and were
posthumously bestowed the highest military honours attainable, which essentially served to boost
Walter’s reputation. Walter’s wife, Mary Whitehill, however simply died of pneumonia ten years
ago; it hit him particularly hard, although she didn’t do much for his reputation.
The vast floor of the vestibule was much like a chess board; the squares were slabs of marble and
granite, equipped with decorative fissures; the pieces corresponded to the sculptures that gazed upon
the room; whilst the king and queen were embodied by Walter and Mary, who married fifty years
ago, this very night, in this very room. Many people were invited. Walter remembered the holding
the hand of his beautiful wife. Mary had long strands of fine, black hair running down her small,
delicate body and was wearing a long white dress. The love they shared intoxicated their very lives
with passion more heated then the sun itself.
Whitehill wiped his stringy grey hair from his rusting face and fixated his eyes upon the opposing
marble wall which towered over the main vestibule. The wall was garnered with elegant golden
detailing and bronzed and marble statues, which stood in their own ancient beauty along with the
colossal brass clock that was fixed to the wall. Whitehill himself was like this wall, repute with
various decorations to his name. Although Walter, beyond his arrogance, realised that all but one of
his honours were attached to Sir Walter Whitehill, not Walter Whitehill; and that was Mary
Whitehill. The large clock on the wall skipped a beat with a deafening silence.
With the candle casting light upon the eternally dark halls with a blood-red like radiance, Walter
passed through the endless flights of stairs. He was noticeably indifferent to the ominously sinister
world surrounding him, which was usually enough to make one’s blood run cold, but Walter
however, was simply impervious to horror.
Walter approached the large, heavy, thick wooden double doors that opened to his large bedroom.
Turning the weathered old brass door handle he pushed on the door, having to shift his own weight
(albeit quite low) to push open the door, which dragged its bottom across the floor. All of the
furniture in this particular room was constructed from ornately patterned wooden beams and gold
and silver plated metal crosspieces, struts and supports. In the corner of the room was a very large
(and dusty) wooden desk that was obscured by various memories; memoirs, documents, pages
thoughtlessly torn out of books, all recorded the comings and goings and ups and downs of Walter’s
life in the Whitehill mansion.
Turning towards the enormous window on the wall, Walter creaked on the floor boards, and slowly
made his way to the large pane of glass, which had an astonishingly large crack in it. He held the
candle up to the fracture, hoping to see a world outside the mansion, though only a kaleidoscopic
array of candle light was reflected back into his squinted eyes.
The pounding of the cyclonic wind shook the glass. Walter took a mere step back, and the glass
exploded towards him with a tremendous surge of torrential downpour of rain. Walter sped out of
the room into the seemingly un-ending corridor of which was totally consumed by the darkness,
except for a small section in which Walter was running with the old candle, flame in tow. The
deafening howl of the cyclone tore through the countless corridors and rooms in the house.
The corridors weaved around the mansion as is they were ribbons flying in wind; the crimson wall
paint melted off the walls it had clung to for centuries; a gale force of wind raced through the
passageways with no apparent destination; Walter was in a waking nightmare.
As he was running through the corridor, a slender figure stepped out from a side room and into his
path. He stopped. He was frozen with fear. The figure glided out of the doorway, the light of the
candle barely illuminating her ghostly features; it was Mary. Mary Whitehill.
Not a word was said. Not a word needed to be said. The two just gazed at each other, eye to eye, soul
to soul. The only changing feature of the entire scene was the flickering candle flame, casting light
upon the walls and a pool of melted paint; a scene only seen in the realm of fantasy.
Upon the extension of his hand (he only to caress her body once again) she faded into back into
oblivion. Walter dropped the candle (though not a sound was made) and collapsed to the ground,
unconscious, the candle wax was strewn across the wooden flooring, and the candle flame ignited a
fallen portrait of his eldest son. The burning portrait set fire to the wallpaper. Soon the walls were
being consumed by a blaze that stood out in the dark like the moon in a starless sky.
Walter never awoke, having been cooked alive in the Whitehills mansion. The flames engulfed the
palace and danced in a chaotic rhythm, under the descent of the rain, as Mary’s body was slowly
gradually reduced to cinders . . .