The Wick-Keepers of Burrow Mump

The mist came up from the Levels like breath from a drowning man—thick, cold, and desperate. Sarah Blackwood watched it roll across the flooded fields from the window of the taxi, her fingers pressed white against her phone. No signal. There never was, this close to Burrow Mump. "You'll be wanting the old Blackwood place, then?" the driver asked, his Somerset burr thick as the fog outside. He hadn't looked at her directly since she'd given him the address at Taunton station. "Yes. My aunt's cottage." "Ah." A single syllable, weighted with something Sarah couldn't name. "Didn't know old Meg had family still living." "I didn't know her well," Sarah admitted. "My mother left Somerset when I was a baby. We never came back. "The driver made a sound that might have been understanding or might have been something else entirely. Through the windscreen, the conical hill of Burrow Mump rose from the marshland like a drowned cathedral's spire, the ruined church at its summit barely visible through the gathering dusk. Sarah had seen pictures, of course, but nothing had prepared her for the wrongness of it—the way it seemed to pull at her vision, drawing her eye even as her mind recoiled. "Your mum had the right idea, leaving," the driver said quietly. "Some families, they're bound to this land. Bound proper. But some get free." He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, and his eyes were sad. "Shame you came back. "Before Sarah could respond, the taxi turned down a narrow lane barely wider than the car itself. Bare willows pressed close on either side, their branches scraping the windows like skeletal fingers. The cottage appeared suddenly, hunched and dark against the grey sky, its thatched roof sagging like the back of an old horse. The driver wouldn't take her money. He simply shook his head, set her suitcase on the muddy path, and drove away faster than the narrow lane should have allowed. Sarah watched his taillights disappear into the mist, then turned to face her inheritance. The cottage was older than she'd expected—far older than the Victorian era she'd assumed from the solicitor's vague descriptions. The walls were cob and stone, the windows small and deep-set like suspicious eyes. Above the door, carved into the lintel, was a symbol she didn't recognize: a circle with seven lines radiating outward, each line ending in a small cup or bowl. The key was where the solicitor had said it would be, under a loose stone by the door. Inside, the cottage smelled of herbs and smoke and something else—something like standing water and old earth. Sarah fumbled for a light switch, found none, and had to use her phone's torch to locate the oil lamps. In the flickering light, Aunt Meg's home revealed itself slowly. One main room served as kitchen, dining area, and sitting room, with a narrow staircase leading up to what must be a bedroom. But it was the walls that caught Sarah's attention. Every available surface was covered in drawings, diagrams, and what looked like maps. The Somerset Levels spread across one entire wall, marked with symbols and notations in a spidery hand. Burrow Mump sat at the centre, and radiating out from it were seven lines, each ending at a point marked with the same cup symbol from the door lintel. Sarah moved closer, her shadow dancing across the map. At each of the seven points, Aunt Meg had written names and dates. The Blackwood name appeared again and again, stretching back centuries. At the point closest to the cottage, she found her own family line: Margaret Blackwood, 1947-2024. Sarah Blackwood, 1989-The dash after her birth year yawned like an open grave. A sound outside made her spin around—a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled through mud. Sarah went to the window, cupping her hands against the glass to peer out into the darkness. The mist had thickened, pressing against the cottage like a living thing. And in that mist, lights were moving. They bobbed and weaved across the flooded fields, pale blue and sickly green, dancing in patterns that hurt to watch. Will-o'-the-wisps. Corpse candles. Sarah had read about them, the folklore of the Somerset Levels, but seeing them was different. They moved with purpose, with intelligence, and they were coming closer. She stepped back from the window, her heart hammering. On the table, she noticed for the first time, was a leather-bound journal. Her aunt's handwriting filled the pages, the entries growing more erratic toward the end. January 3rd, 2024: The lights are restless tonight. The bargain holds, but barely. I am old, and the wick grows short. I have written to Sarah. She must know. She must choose. January 15th: No response. Perhaps it's better. Let the line end with me. Let the darkness take what it will. February 2nd: Candlemas. The most dangerous night. I have prepared the wicks, but my hands shake. How many years have I done this? How many years have the Blackwoods stood watch? Since the beginning. Since the first bargain. Since we learned what sleeps beneath the Mump. February 28th: I am dying. I feel it in my bones, in the way the lights call to me. They know. They're waiting. Sarah, if you read this—run. Run as your mother did. Don't light the wicks. Don't keep the watch. Let it end. The journal fell from Sarah's hands. Outside, the lights had reached the garden. They pressed against the windows, and in their glow, she could see shapes—human-shaped, but wrong, their limbs too long, their movements too fluid. Marsh spirits. The drowned dead of the Levels, drawn up from their watery graves. A knock at the door. Three slow, deliberate strikes. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. The knock came again, and with it, a voice—wet and hollow, like words spoken through water. "Wick-keeper. The candles must be lit. The watch must be kept." "I don't understand," Sarah whispered. "Your blood knows. Your bones remember. Seven wicks for seven gates. Seven flames to hold back seven hungers. This is the Blackwood burden. This is the Blackwood gift. "Sarah's hands were shaking as she looked around the cottage. Now that she knew to look, she saw them—seven candles, each as thick as her wrist, placed at intervals around the room. They were made of something that wasn't quite wax, something that gleamed dully in the lamplight like rendered fat. And each one had a wick that looked disturbingly like braided hair. "What happens if I don't light them?" she called out. The silence that followed was worse than any answer. Then, slowly, the cottage began to shake. The mist outside thickened, darkened, and the will-o'-the-wisps flared brighter. In their light, Sarah saw what lay beyond them—a darkness so complete it seemed to devour the world, a void that pulsed with ancient hunger. The voice came again, and this time it was many voices, speaking in unison. "The Mump is a barrow. A burial mound. But what was buried there was not dead. Only sleeping. Only waiting. Seven gates were made to hold it. Seven families were chosen to keep the watch. Six have failed. Six lines have ended. Only the Blackwoods remain. "Sarah ran to the map on the wall. Six of the seven points were marked with red X's, the dates recent—all within the last five years. Only the Blackwood point remained unmarked. "What happens if all seven fail?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. "It wakes. It rises. It feeds. "The cottage shook harder. Plaster cracked and fell from the ceiling. Through the windows, Sarah could see the darkness spreading, consuming the landscape. The flooded fields were disappearing into it, the distant lights of other homes winking out one by one. She thought of her mother, who had fled Somerset and never spoken of it. Who had died young, of a cancer that ate her from the inside out. Had that been her punishment for abandoning the watch? Or her reward for escaping it? Sarah's hands moved without conscious thought, reaching for the first candle. It was cold and slightly damp, and the wick felt wrong against her fingers—too soft, too much like real hair. She found matches on the mantle, struck one, and held it to the wick. The flame that caught was not the warm orange of normal fire. It burned blue-white, cold and bright, and the moment it lit, Sarah felt something inside her chest respond—a pulling sensation, as if the flame were drawing on her own life force. "Yes," the voices outside whispered. "Yes. The watch continues. "One by one, Sarah lit the seven candles. With each flame, the pulling sensation grew stronger, and she understood with horrible clarity what the candles were made of. Not wax. Not tallow. But something rendered from the Wick-keepers themselves. The fat and marrow of those who had kept the watch, rendered down and reformed, their hair braided into wicks. Aunt Meg's candle. Her grandmother's. Her great-grandmother's. All the way back to the first Blackwood who had made the bargain. And when these candles burned down, when the wicks were consumed, new ones would need to be made. The seventh flame caught, and the darkness outside recoiled. The cottage stopped shaking. The marsh spirits faded back into the mist. But Sarah could feel it now—the connection, the binding. She was tied to this place, to these candles, to the thing that slept beneath Burrow Mump. She could feel its dreams pressing against the gates, could sense its hunger, vast and patient and eternal. The journal lay open on the floor where she'd dropped it. She picked it up with trembling hands and turned to the last entry. March 1st: I am out of time. The candles burn low. I have perhaps a week, perhaps less. I have failed to prepare a successor. I have failed in my duty. But perhaps that is mercy. Perhaps it is better to let the darkness come than to condemn another generation to this half-life, this slow consumption. Sarah, my dear niece whom I never met—forgive me. I tried to spare you. I tried to let it end. But the blood calls to blood. And if you have come, if you have read this, then you have already made your choice. The moment you crossed into the Levels, the moment you stepped through the door, you were bound. The only question now is whether you will keep the watch willingly, or whether you will be forced to it. Know this: the candles must never go out. Not all seven at once. If they do, the gates will fail, and what lies beneath will rise. You must tend them, feed them, keep them burning. And when they burn low, when the wicks grow short, you must make new ones. The process is in the book on the shelf—the one bound in grey leather. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. But someone must keep the watch. Someone must be the Wick-keeper. And we Blackwoods have always paid our debts. Sarah looked at the seven candles, burning with their cold, hungry light. Already, she could see that one was shorter than the others—Aunt Meg's candle, burning down to nothing. How long did she have? Months? Weeks? She went to the shelf and found the grey leather book. Inside were instructions, written in the same spidery hand that covered the walls. Diagrams of the human body, showing which parts to harvest, how to render them down, how to braid the hair into wicks that would burn slow and cold. The process took months. It had to be done while the keeper was still alive, still tending the flames. A slow self-sacrifice, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a new candle to add to the watch. Sarah's phone buzzed—a single bar of signal, just enough for a message to come through. It was from her girlfriend, Emma. Hey babe, hope the cottage isn't too creepy! Call me when you can. Love you. She looked at the message for a long time. Then she looked at the candles, at the map on the wall, at the darkness pressing against the windows. She thought about running, about fleeing as her mother had done. But she could feel the binding now, could feel the way it had sunk into her bones the moment she'd lit the first wick. If she ran, the candles would go out. The gates would fail. And the thing beneath the Mump would wake. How many people lived in Somerset? Hundreds of thousands. How many in England? Millions. And if the darkness spread beyond the Levels, if it couldn't be contained...Sarah deleted the message without responding. Then she turned off her phone and set it on the table. She would need to learn the watch, to understand the rhythms of the candles and the gates. She would need to prepare herself for what came next—for the slow rendering, the gradual transformation from keeper to kept, from guardian to fuel. Outside, the mist began to thin. Dawn was coming, pale and grey over the flooded fields. The will-o'-the-wisps faded with the darkness, and the marsh spirits retreated to their watery graves. But Sarah could still feel them, waiting. Watching. Patient as the thing beneath the Mump was patient. She went to the window and looked out at Burrow Mump, rising from the marshland like a warning. The ruined church at its summit caught the first light of dawn, and for just a moment, Sarah thought she saw something moving in the shadows beneath it—something vast and ancient, stirring in its sleep. The candles flickered behind her, their cold light reflecting in the window glass. Seven flames. Seven gates. One keeper. Sarah Blackwood, last of her line, turned away from the window and began to read the grey leather book. She had a watch to keep. She had a debt to pay. And when her candle burned low, when her wick grew short, there would be no one to take her place. But that was a problem for another day. For now, the flames burned. The gates held. And the darkness, for one more night, remained at bay. In the grey leather book, on the very last page, she found a final note in Aunt Meg's handwriting: The bargain was made in blood and bone, in the old days when the Romans came and disturbed what should have remained sleeping. Seven families bound themselves to keep the watch, to hold the gates, to burn themselves down to nothing so that others might live in ignorance and safety. It is not fair. It is not just. But it is necessary. You will hate me for this, Sarah. You will hate your mother for running, and you will hate yourself for staying. But know this: every day the candles burn, every night the gates hold, you save countless lives. You are a hero that no one will ever know. A martyr to a cause that must remain secret. The Wick-keepers of Burrow Mump are the last line of defence against an evil older than history. And you, my dear, are the last Wick-keeper. May your flame burn long. May your sacrifice be remembered, even if only by the darkness you hold at bay. Welcome home. Sarah closed the book and looked at the seven candles. Aunt Meg's was already noticeably shorter, its flame guttering. She had perhaps a month before it went out entirely. A month to learn how to make a new one. A month to come to terms with what she had become. Outside, the Somerset Levels stretched away into the morning mist, beautiful and terrible and hungry. And beneath Burrow Mump, something ancient dreamed of waking, held back only by seven cold flames and the slow sacrifice of a woman who had come home to die. The watch continued. The watch would always continue. Until the last Blackwood burned down to nothing, and the darkness, at last, was free.