Red candle night

Chapter 1 — Red Candle Nights

The first time I saw him, it wasn’t even in the flesh.

It was in the reflection of my cracked bedroom mirror, flickering in the glow of three blood-red candles from the botanica down the block.

That night, the rain had a rhythm — tapping against my window like it knew my business. The streets outside were empty, neon lights bleeding through the blinds, turning everything inside my room into shades of sin. My heart was heavy from too many ghosted calls, another rent notice folded on the counter, and the echo of a breakup I swore I was over. I was tired — not just body-tired, but soul-tired.

Mama always said, Don’t play with no spirits you can’t put back.

But the little velvet bag that came with the candles had instructions folded so small it looked innocent. Just a prayer in Spanish, a few drops of my own blood, and his name.

The problem was… I didn’t know his name yet.

So I gave him one.

“Malik.”

I whispered it slow, like the word tasted too sweet to spit out.

The candles flared — not like fire, more like the air itself was breathing. My mirror warped, my reflection stretching until my eyes weren’t my eyes anymore. The glass pulsed once, twice… and then he stepped through.

Six feet of shadow and smirk, gold chains glinting against a black hoodie. His skin caught the candlelight like it remembered fire. His eyes burned red for half a second, then cooled into this deep brown that looked like trouble wearing perfume.

“You called?” His voice rolled low, like a bassline from a car creeping slow down the block.

I froze. My mind told me to grab my cross, but my body… leaned in.

“Who… are you?” I asked, my voice barely making it past my lips.

He grinned, one side of his mouth lifting like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m whoever you need me to be.”

Outside, the rain stopped. Inside, my room felt smaller, warmer — like he was pulling the air into him, one breath at a time. He smelled like smoke and spice, the kind that gets stuck in your clothes and memory.

“I ain’t here to hurt you,” he said, stepping close enough that the candlelight danced in his eyes. “I’m here to make sure nobody else does.”

And just like that — I believed him.

That’s how Malik became my shadow — the one the streets couldn’t see, but everybody felt. My rent got paid without me asking. My boss stopped yelling. People who crossed me… disappeared from my problems.

But the thing is, every favor he gave me? It cost me something.

A memory.

A dream.

A little piece of me I couldn’t get back.

Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, his name in my throat, my mirror fogged like something had just left it. The candles would relight themselves. My heartbeat would skip in rhythm with his whisper.

He’d hold me like I was both prayer and punishment, his touch warm but hollow. And in those moments, I could feel the truth — this wasn’t protection. It was possession.

Because Malik wasn’t just my boyfriend now.

He was my addiction.

And deep down, I knew — I didn’t summon him.

He’d been waiting for me to open the door.

You’ve set the mood beautifully — gothic, urban, sensual, and eerie all at once.