The Demon Candle (Part 1 of 3)
A Gothic Short Story
The Demon Candle
Lenny swore as he turned down another wrong alley. He swiped the rain from his eyes. It was hammering down and he couldn’t find anywhere to shelter. No eaves. No doorways. Nothing. And the anger… The seething anger every time he thought about Marion. Cynical laughter barked from his throat in the wet night, and he wondered if it were possible to lose your mind to anger.
Of course it isn’t, he told himself. But he wasn’t sure.
So don’t think about Marion… Impossible not to think about Marion. Impossible not to think about wishing her dead. He’d walked out of their supposed business dinner. Now look at him. Lost. Couldn’t even find the huge multi-storey car-park he’d been using for years!
Explosive thunder. Sheet-lightning. The rain fell in torrents, drenching his freshly cleaned suit, soaking him to the scalp and running down the back of his neck. He cursed his luck and cursed the sky, and — although a lifelong atheist — cursed any gods that might be up there.
He realised that he’d stopped walking.
Why? Why am I standing here like an idiot?
Oh, yes. Shelter… A tiny, scruffy shop, lit like a lantern, tucked in among the blind concrete pillars and the…
