THE STORIES

The candle sits on the third step of the staircase, and it has been burning since the night the family left. The wax never shortens. The flame never shakes, not even when the windows are open.

In 1974 a boy named Aamir tried to blow it out. He says he felt something blow back. He says he heard his own voice, coming from upstairs, telling him to try again.

He didn't try again. He also never went back inside. But every year on the same date, the candle leans a little toward the door — as if it's waiting for him to change his mind.

"If a flame leans toward you, it isn't the wind. It's attention."

There is a radio in the back room that only works between 3:30 and 3:36 in the morning. Before that: static. After that: silence.

During those six minutes, a calm voice reads a list of names. Most of them belong to people who have never lived in this town. Every few months, one of them belongs to somebody who hasn't moved here yet.

The trick, the locals say, is to never hear your own name. So far exactly one person has heard theirs, and they were standing in the room at the time. The radio was unplugged.

"It doesn't predict anything. It just introduces you first."

Every guest who has stayed the night in the Hollow House reports the same thing: at some point, they wake up and count the people in the room. And the number is always wrong.

Not by much. Just one extra. Standing quietly. Doing nothing at all except being counted.

The polite thing to do — and this is the part everyone agrees on — is to close your eyes and count again. By the second count, the room is correct. Nobody has ever been brave enough to do a third.

"It only stays while it's being noticed. So don't notice it."