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If you want to keep a candle from blowing out, you must protect it from the wind.
You can shield it with a hand, or by placing it into a tall glass jar, its walls clear yet impenetrable.
Or, you could simply keep the candle inside.
And even though Eddie Kaspbrak was a successful risk analyst in New York City, with a six-figure salary and a seven-figure penthouse—sometimes he still felt like a tiny little candle.
Especially when he went home.
⸺
Eddie drove back to Derry every year at the end of October to visit his mother. But it wasn’t because he was an autumn-trees tourist, and it definitely wasn’t because he wanted to spend Halloween in a small town.
No, it was because of Zaduszki.
When Eddie had first told his wife Myra about Zaduszki, she’d thought he’d made it up. Or that he was secretly in some weird cult instead of being a good Catholic kid like she was. But, no, it was a real holiday. And a perfectly good Catholic one, too.
“It’s just the Polish word for All Souls’ Day,” Eddie had told her. “And they take their souls very seriously.”
Eddie had learned this secondhand from Mrs. Markowicz, the old widow who lived down the street from his childhood home. She once told Eddie that, in the old country, on Zaduszki the night sky became a deep rust color from the sea of candles, thousands of them glowing red and orange and gold on the graves of the ancestors.
Here in Derry, though, on the evening of November 1, in the graveyard of St. Sebastian’s, there were only two small candles. They were set in decorative jars of red glass, placed carefully amid branches of spruce upon a granite tombstone.
FRANK KASPBRAK
1962 - 1992
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
HE IS WITH GOD IN HEAVEN
Eddie and his mother had cleaned the tombstone earlier that day, after morning mass. They scrubbed every speck of dirt until the granite glistened and shone like dark glass. They ripped weeds out of the frost-hardened ground, and ensured the grass around the gravesite was evenly mowed.
They went back home for dinner, and then they returned to the grave. Just as they had every year.
This year, it was a clear, cool night. Mother and son stood side by side, in dark woolen coats and in silence. Eddie’s mother’s arm wrapped around his elbow like a shepherd’s crook.
As usual, it was Eddie who broke the silence of their vigil. When he was little, his mother had admonished him if he spoke too early. But he’d learned over the years to realize how long it would take until it was safe to speak.
“Have you seen Mrs. Markowicz yet tonight?”
His mother gave a long-suffering sigh.
"She told me she might visit in the afternoon instead,” she said. “Didn’t want to be out at night. She says her vision is going.”
Eddie looked over the sloping hill of the east end of the graveyard, towards where Mr. Markowicz had lain for even longer than his own father.
If he’d known about Mrs. Markowicz’s troubles earlier, he would have offered to give the old woman a ride. But then, his mother didn’t like having other passengers in the car.
"I think I might like to visit Poland one day," Eddie muttered.
His mother tensed up. The candlelight flickered over her round, wrinkled face.
“For Zaduszki?”
“No, not necessarily,” Eddie said quickly. He didn’t want her to think he would abandon her. “I just figured I’d reconnect with my heritage. Our heritage,” he added.
"Oh, I don't know, sweetie," she said, her voice sweet like molasses. "Flying is so risky."
"Ma," he said gently, "statistically, driving up here from the city is more risky than a plane ride."
She did not like that.
" You're the one who moved all the way out there," she huffed, tightening her grip on his arm.
Eddie inhaled through his nose, unmoving. He knew that by ‘ you’re ,’ his mother actually meant ‘you and Myra.’ Although they’d moved into the city for Eddie’s career, it was Myra who had convinced him to take the offer.
Eddie had always thought Myra and his mother would get along, considering how alike they were. But that wasn’t the case. It was the same reason Myra wasn’t here now. Not that Eddie minded: the arrangement was preferable for all three of them.
His mother sighed again, once she realized Eddie had no reply. “Let’s go, Eddie dear. If we stay out too late, you’ll catch cold.”
To be fair, it was getting chilly. And the candles alone would not keep them warm. They were fragile things, after all, flickering in the autumn wind.
As they turned and began to walk back to the cemetery gate, Eddie thought he heard another set of steps in the grass.
Mrs. Markowicz?
Then, he could have sworn he felt a brush of a hand on his shoulder.
Eddie stopped and turned around.
“What is it?”
His mother had stopped with him, her arm extended but her hand still curled around his sleeve.
Eddie looked back. An easterly wind hastened through the dark branches of the trees. There was no movement but for the swaying branches and the flickering, pinprick lights of the two lone candles.
“Never mind.”
She took his arm once more, and they walked to the car.
⸺
Eddie’s mother always kept the house too warm. Because of that, plus the humidifier droning in the corner—ostensibly to help with his asthma—the living room felt rather like a terrarium of carpet and chintz.
His mother sat in her chair, listening to quiet Polish hymnals on the stereo. As for Eddie, he sat on the couch, sock feet placed firmly on the carpet (“posture, Eddie”), browsing an old family photo album laid on his lap. As he turned each page, the laminated sheets separated from each other with small, sticky, crackling sounds.
His mother never liked to talk much about his father, but on these few days of the year, he could usually get her to reveal bits and pieces. The key was to ease in slowly.
"Seems like a quiet night," he remarked.
She hummed. "Quieter than last night, at least, with those rascals running around at all hours."
His mother didn't like Halloween. To be fair, there were many possible reasons for this, and as he got older Eddie could understand a few of them more. It was the confluence of all her fears: of her only son being run over, kidnapped, or offered sugary, allergen-filled contraband.
But, to be honest, last night—hearing the laughter of children skipping down the sidewalk, passing their darkened house—Eddie felt like he was twelve again.
“At least it’s only once a year,” Eddie reassured her.
“I’m sure the pediatric dentists would agree,” she grumbled.
“You could always offer the trick-or-treaters powałki instead.”
But she extinguished the idea with a shake of her head. “Eddie. The powałki isn’t for the living. It’s for the dead.”
This year, he’d offered to help his mother make the small, yeasty, potato buns she always baked for the holiday. And she did let him cook and mash the potatoes, but she seemed more bewildered than anything that he would want to learn.
They brought some to the cemetery as an offering, but the rest of the large batch sat in a Tupperware. Most of them, Eddie knew, would slowly go stale.
“Your father always liked the powałki.”
Eddie’s finger paused and looked up at her; he’d been about to turn another page of the photo album. For the first time since he arrived in Derry, his heart lifted a bit.
“Really?” he asked in a soft voice.
But she would say no more. She muttered something about being tired, then shuffled upstairs to bed.
But Eddie stayed up, losing track of time, stewing in sweat and disappointment. He reached the end of the album, and closed it with a soft thump.
Suddenly, he heard a small sound.
Eddie flinched. But it was only the softest whirring of gears before the old clock—a carved wooden face that sat above the fireplace—struck twelve.
Still, with each chime, the hairs on his arms and wrist stood on end. An anxious chill passed through his body. The sweat on his neck cooled.
Eddie sat for a few minutes, hoping he wasn’t coming down with something. It would be the worst week for something like that to happen. But when nothing more occurred, he decided to head to bed himself.
As he passed by the darkened kitchen, he saw the powałki on the countertop.
He paused.
His mother never allowed food to be eaten outside of the kitchen. It would make a mess. It would attract ants.
To be fair, this made sense. It was the same reason why Eddie never ate at his desk at work. He always went to the ground floor deli and ate alone at a side table while reading the news. Sometimes, the bespectacled deli guy would talk to him.
To be honest, Eddie always hoped the bespectacled deli guy would talk to him.
He eyed the powałki again.
In one small act of rebellion, Eddie padded over to the counter, opened the container, and took one.
It was still warm in his hands.
He held the powałki like a talisman as he walked up the stairs to his room. Why he felt the need to, he didn’t know. Surely it had nothing to do with the fact that he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye as he ascended the stairs. Or that he felt another inexplicable chill as he came back from the bathroom.
Regardless, he didn’t feel comfortable biting into it, breaking the crust, until he was safe in bed. He ate it slowly, silently, savoring the soft and oily texture.
As he swallowed the last bite, Eddie checked the clock on his bedside table.
12:09 AM, November 2.
“Happy birthday to me,” he whispered to himself. He sank deeper into the covers, and his eyes fluttered closed almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
⸺
Eddie wasn't sure how long he’d been asleep, but when he surfaced to semi-consciousness, it was still quite dark.
And a figure was standing at the foot of the bed.
In the first moment, Eddie’s heart clenched in terror, absolutely convinced of his imminent, violent death. Oh, god, it’s really going to end like this.
Then, he realized who the figure resembled.
His father.
Eddie’s father was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. Eddie knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? He’d seen him buried, lowered into the cold ground.
So he wasn’t quite sure what to feel when he saw the ghostly image of his father before him.
“What the fuck,” Eddie breathed.
The ghost’s face flickered, as if lit from below by candlelight, accompanied by a small creak of wooden floorboards below it.
Eddie muttered frantically, keeping pace with his quickening heartbeat. “I must be out of my mind. I’m out of my mind—”
Do you see me?
Eddie’s throat closed up. He choked out, “I must be dreaming.”
You don't believe I'm here.
No, I don’t, Eddie thought to himself. He waited, and then, when the ghost didn’t respond, came to the conclusion that it couldn’t read his mind. So he voiced the next question that fell into his head.
"What is death like?"
The ghost raised its eyebrows. Its features flickered, as if on a time delay.
Death takes many forms , it said. Just like fear.
Eddie felt his jaw clench. “I'm not afraid of you, by the way. Even if you aren't actually my father.”
The ghost just smiled. You're a feisty one, Eds.
Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t been called that since he was still in school. He didn’t know that his father—if this was him—used to call him that.
If so, it would certainly explain why his mother didn’t like it.
Eddie sat up a bit.
“If you’re my father’s ghost, why aren’t you wearing a hospital gown?”
Eddie had never believed in ghost stories, but he’d thought ghosts were supposed to appear as they died. Instead, this ghost was wearing what Eddie remembered as his father’s usual attire: faded denim jeans, and a plaid button-up over a white t-shirt.
The ghost paused. His eyes looked tired.
That might be how your mother would remember me. But this is what you see. No one can deny you what you can see for yourself.
His voice wasn’t as deep as Eddie remembered, but it had exactly the same rough, lightly accented cadence that floated in his memory. Exactly the same dark moustache that would twitch when he smiled.
In the smallest voice, Eddie whispered, “Dad?”
Yes, Eddie.
“H-holy shit.”
Eddie’s heart cried out to reach out and touch him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t reach out and not know what he would feel—or wouldn’t feel. So instead, he kept asking questions, so many they stumbled out on top of each other. Chief among them was “Why now?”
But any simmering rage at being abandoned evaporated when it seemed his ghost-father was just as mystified. Apparently he’d been able to break through every year around this time, when the veil was thinnest between this world and the next.
But Eddie had never acknowledged his presence—until now.
Trust me, son, I’ve watched you here for — He paused. How long has it been?
“Twenty-seven years, since you died,” Eddie said immediately. He glanced at the clock. “I literally just turned thirty, so—”
He stopped himself.
“I’m the same age you were,” Eddie whispered. “When you died.”
His father stared at him with heartbroken eyes. They both let the silence stretch for a few minutes, no sound but the wind outside the window.
Eddie spoke first. “So—you’re not stuck here? No unfinished business you need me to finish?”
I must say, son, you’re taking this very seriously, his father said, smiling.
Eddie frowned. “I always take everything seriously.”
Yeah, you’ve always been that way. I remember, when you were little, you would sit in your stroller and stare into the middle distance.
Eddie hummed. That certainly sounded right.
I don’t have unfinished business. He eyed Eddie, then flickered again. But maybe you do?
Eddie felt a drop of sweat trail down his neck. Now it was his turn to answer questions, he guessed. He hadn’t been prepared for that.
“I always finish what I start,” Eddie said. He told his father about his career in the city, with a great salary and benefits, and that he was married to a woman with whom he shared at least one hobby.
But then he started to falter, as soon as he realized what a huge fucking asshole he must sound like. Bragging about his mortgage? His health insurance? His father had been a mechanic: he would be proud of Eddie for knowing how to fix his own car. In fact, he should mention that—
You’re married?
Oh. His father wouldn’t have known, if he could only come back on Zaduszki.
Eddie swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”
I’ve never seen her here.
“Yeah, well,” said Eddie, and then his mouth just kept going. “This tradition is more of a me and Mom thing, you know. Myra doesn’t really appreciate it as much, which is fine because I wouldn’t really expect her to, and—”
That’s okay, son. But are you happy?
Eddie knew he took too long to reply. He sat there, blinking in the darkness, feeling like the biggest moron in the world. Finally, he settled on something he knew was true.
“She takes good care of me.”
His father’s face fell, then flickered again.
“Don’t worry about me,” Eddie added quickly, a touch of resentment in his voice. “I’m fine! It's fine.”
His father’s eyebrows furrowed. Eddie gasped: it was like looking into a mirror.
No, it’s not fine.
“Oh, c’mon. Who in their right mind would be unhappy in my position?” Eddie said desperately. “You don’t understand.”
I think I understand more than you know, his father replied.
Eddie trembled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His father paused, putting his hands on the edge of Eddie’s bed frame.
Your mother has always been very worried about you, he said, carefully. And she just got more worried after I was gone, huh.
Eddie scoffed softly. “Ayuh.”
His father sighed, but then he lifted his arms out toward Eddie, as if to embrace him. But you got out and moved away. No thanks to me, but you did it. Found a job in New York City, no less. And you’re married. You have everything you could ever ask for.
Eddie flinched. He couldn’t help it. “No one gets everything they could ever ask for,” he muttered.
So what don’t you have? What’s wrong?
Eddie was flabbergasted. He sure was being direct—like father, like son, he supposed.
“What’s wrong ? I’ll fucking tell you what’s wrong. I'm thirty and I'm married and I’m professionally successful, but I still feel like there's a—”
He hiccupped. His throat was closing up again, and this time he knew it wasn’t fucking asthma.
“I feel like there’s a hole in my chest, and when I think about it too hard, I feel sick. Like only a piece of me is here. Like my goddamn… life force is leaking out.”
His father nodded slowly, folding his arms. Sounds like you need a patch job , he said, slowly. And to find the source of the leak.
Eddie coughed, and said, thickly, "If only there was a Pep Boys for emotions."
I believe that’s what you call a shrink, son.
Something between a laugh and a sob burst out of Eddie like a water balloon. Quickly, he covered his mouth, remembering his mother asleep in the other room. He realized his fingertips were wet: tears had begun silently falling down his cheeks, leaving thin trails like melting candle wax.
"Dad?"
Yes, Eddie?
His tears flowed once more. “Did you love Mom?”
That’s a complicated question.
Eddie slowly closed his eyes, and a fresh stream of tears followed.
I guess you could say , his father said—though his voice seemed to grow fainter by the word— that she took good care of me.
Eddie’s chest caved in, and he felt suddenly light-headed, extinguished, a wisp of smoke dissolving into the dark air.
I should’ve been there for you, Eds. His father rubbed his chin and moustache—he looked almost embarrassed. But I’m really glad I was here for you now.
Eddie felt a stab of affection pierce his heart. It was almost painful, perhaps because he wasn’t used to it. This thought pained him all the more.
He looked up at his father, whose image was definitely more translucent now.
“Wait, don’t go,” Eddie murmured, his voice soft and fragile like ash.
I don’t think I have much of a choice.
Eddie felt a faint, impossible rush of air against his face as his father heaved an interminable sigh.
But you do, my son. I’ll see you next year—even if you don’t see me.
After the image of his father faded into the gloom, straight-laced Eddie Kaspbrak, feeling more alone now than he ever had before, let himself melt into his pillow.
He lay there for a time, his mind smoldering in and out of consciousness.
Then, suddenly, as if pricked on by a sudden spark of life, he sat up, tore off the bedcovers, and stumbled to the window.
With a grunt of effort, he opened the sash. The chill of the midnight air struck his face like a slap—but then—
Eddie breathed in, then out. In, then out.
He closed his eyes. One thought rushed to the surface and broke through, gasping for breath—
I can’t live like this anymore.