18/12/2025
As some of you know, part of our new focus is the supernatural. Christmas being the heart of Spooky Season to us and ours. Each day, I'm going to bring you one of my favourite seasonal scary stories. As told by me Josh 🦊
Like and comment if you like this stuff. I'll keep doing it 😀
The story of: The Candle Witch 🕯️🕯️🌲🌲🥶🥶
Beneath the hush of winter’s breath, where snow lay thick upon the earth and moonlight silvered every frozen bough,
there whispered an old and trembling tale—
a tale of wax, and wick, and wandering shadow.
They say that in the deepest woods,
beyond the tracks of deer and sleigh,
where the world forgets its footsteps
and even Christmas forgets to sing—
there in the cold and dark of the world
walks The Candle Witch.
Her name was lost a century ago.
Her story, has shifted like drifting snow—
told by firelight, rewritten by fear—
yet always, it begins with light.
Once, she was the maker of winter candles.
In a village warm with laughter,
she carved with care each block of beeswax
into shapes fit for a feast!
stars, bells, angels, feathered wings—
all glowing gold on Christmas Eve.
But her greatest craft was yet unknown.
For long ago, at Christmastime, a sickness swept the village.
Homes dimmed, embers darkened to ash, children whimpered in the night.
And though the snow was thick and the winds unkind,
she trudged door to door with candles clutched against her heart softly saying "Here. Light this. It will show them the way home."
The candles burned for those who faltered.
For some, the flame was gentle comfort.
For others, a silent, lasting farewell.
And soon the village, frightened and grieving,
turned its sorrow upon her—
blaming the wax, the flame, the witchcraft of her kindness.
One bitter night, beneath the ringing church bells,
they dragged her to the woods, and beneath the falling snow her candles were crushed beneath their stamping boots.
Her lantern shattered.
Her heart, too.
Yet the flame does not fear darkness.
And darkness does not always swallow flame.
The woods grew quiet.
The snow fell red.
And the villagers left her there—
the light snuffed out, or so they thought.
But on Christmas Eve, when the wind sighed just so,
a single spark flickered within the ruin.
It wove itself through branches,
and spun itself through shadows,
and gathered wax from the snow beneath her.
Until she rose—
pale as moonlight,
silent as frost,
crowned in candles burning bright.
Now, each year when winter’s grip is firm,
The Candle Witch walks those same forgotten paths.
The forest glows with wavering firelight:
a flame on every branch, a flicker on every stone, like stars fallen low enough to touch.
They say she listens for wandering souls—
not to steal them, but to guide them.
Children lost in the storm.
Travelers buried in snow.
Grief-struck hearts who cannot find their way home.
If she finds you, she will look upon you
with eyes like two dying embers,
and whisper in a voice no louder than snowfall:
Here. Light this. It will show you the way home.
And if you follow,
you will walk behind her through the dreaming woods—
through candle flame and winter hush—
until the dawn breaks and the path returns
to something familiar.
But beware, dear wanderer.
For if you refuse her offering,
if you turn away from her light,
the forest will grow colder,
the candles dimmer,
and the snow beneath your feet
will fall away into darkness.
For The Candle Witch has learned this truth:
Every winter must end.
But every light must be lit.
And every flame must be fed.
Somewhere in the snowy hush
of this long December night,
she walks even now—
lantern glowing, wax dripping,
moving through the trees
with quiet footsteps,
waiting for the one who needs her most.
Perhaps, friend and reader…
perhaps she waits for you.
