Light the candle. Set your intention. Guard your soul.
Episode 4: How to Set Your Altar
New Orleans, 2024
They say you can find whatever you want in the city, if you know where to look.
But the eerie buildings and narrow, silent streets have me thinking that maybe I’m in the wrong place. Or worse: I was never meant to find it at all.
No one is out this evening. Sure, there a few regulars—drunk men leftover from last night’s partying, but there’s no traffic, no crowds, none of the usual Quarter noise. I pass another For Sale sign, this time hanging crooked in front of a salmon-colored building. Might be the fourth building I’ve seen for sale today.
What happened here?
It’s like some kind of fever dream. Deserted buildings. Bounce music playing to no audience. It’s just…dead. Maybe it’s the overcast sky or afternoon drizzle, or maybe folks stopped prioritizing liquor and good-timing, but the French Quarter is empty. People are probably at home, saving their money. And I get it. Everyone feels burned out, underpaid, out of luck. Invisible.
I catch my reflection in a dusty window of an abandoned bar. My hair’s frizzy from the heat, sweat drips down my dark brown face. I’m what they’d call conventionally pretty—cute enough to get a pass but not enough to get noticed.
There’s nothing special about me. No stand-out talent. No voice like my best friend, Simone. No viral moment waiting in the background. But like Simone always said, if you don’t shine, you don’t exist.
It’s not enough for me to be okay. I have to be wanted. Watched. Remembered. I need something that can’t be ignored.
“Ghost tours! Come on over, ma’am. I’ll get you a good deal!” a green-haired man jumps out at me, way too eager. Normally, I’d bite. Haunted houses are my thing—I love everything spooky. But not today. I shoo him away. I’m in the Quarter for one thing only.
The ghosts will have to wait.
I take another left onto Royal, following the smudged instructions on a damp paper napkin. Simone had said this place wasn’t on any map. She said it only showed up for the people who needed it.
It had to choose you.
God, I hope it chooses me.
I walk a few more feet, looking over at the left side of the street for a yellow shotgun house. But there’s nothing. Not a residential house in sight.
Shit.
A slim woman in a long trench coat walks toward me, head down and moving too fast. She’s about to crash into me.
“Hey, watch it,” I say, just before she brushes past me hard enough to knock me off the cracked sidewalk. She looks back, her eyes blank and milky white. No pupils.
“Turn around!” she screams, then turns and continues on her way.
I stand frozen in the middle of the street, breath caught in my throat. Her words coil around me. Tight and cold.
I almost turn around. Almost.
But then I see it.
The yellow house.
Three steps lead up to a small porch. The ceiling and door are painted haint blue. And hanging over the porch, a black and gold sign swings gently:
The Candle Lady
The door opens easily. No chime.
I step into the stuffy parlor and stop cold. The air is thick and hesitant, like something holding its breath. Candles flicker on either side of me, some tall and steady while others melt into waxy puddles.
A long altar stretches along the far wall, draped in moss and wilted roses. White candles scatter across a delicate white cover, a single thick red candle is on the right. And a bowl filled with herbs sits in the center. The wallpaper—once vibrant red, maybe velvet, hangs in peeling strips, the color of old bruises. To my left, perched on a gold table is a hairless black cat. It stares up at me, eyes unblinking.
I don’t know whether I should call out or sit on the worn red couch and wait. So, I stand there, twiddling my thumbs like an awkward teenager.
But I don’t have to wait long.
A veiled woman steps out and sits at the round table. Her brown hands peek out from beneath a long, black shroud.
I still don’t move.
Something like an itch crawls across my cheek. Everything in my bones tell me to walk out. Now.
I ignore it.
Fear can’t hold me back. She helped Simone, so she can help me too. This is my chance.
“You may sit,” she says slowly, summoning me like the beginning of a spell.
I feel her eyes on me, studying me.
I don’t know how to begin—shouldn’t she already know what I want? Am I supposed to just ask?
She doesn’t lift her veil or bother to introduce herself. Just shuffles a deck of cards between her thick fingers.
“I’m here because…well, I know what you did for Simone,” I say. My confidence builds as the words tumble out. “I want my dreams to come true, too. I want to be famous…to manifest the life I deserve. So, I need your magic.” I tug at my hair, nervously.
I can feel her eyes slide across me.
“What’s your name, baby?” she asks, a raspy voice curling out like an invitation. “Tell me about yourself.”
Her tone wraps around me like a warm blanket. Familiar. Safe.
“Ava Lafleur,” I answer, measuring what to say next. But my mouth runs on without permission. “My parents died when I was in high school. I’ve been in New Orleans since college but I want to get out of here, move to L.A and become an influencer. I just need people to notice me. I need followers—I need to shine.” I let out a breath. The words just tumbled out so fast I couldn’t stop it.
Something like a grin forms beneath her veil. She stops shuffling cards and reaches under her table, pulling out a small paper.
“I remember Simone,” she says, her voice calm and nostalgic. “I’m glad... she’s happy.”
She slides the paper across the table.
How to Set Your Altar
The paper feels rough and old, the text handwritten in cursive.
I skim through it. There are examples of intentions and types of candles. A list of powerful oils and lastly just a simple set of instructions:
Light the Candle. Set Your Intention. Guard your soul.
I repeat the last one.
“Guard your soul? What does that even mean?” I ask.
The veiled woman extends her hand.
I hesitate.
Not because I’m afraid to touch her, but because her hand looks…weird. The skin is too smooth. It’s almost like her hands are younger than mine. It doesn’t match the aged voice behind the veil.
Finally, I take her hand.
“You are a beautiful girl with a bright future,” she says, her fingers brush against my wrist as she releases her grip. “The things you want will manifest—beauty, fame— but only if you follow my directions.” Her voice is low. “Changing your destiny leaves your soul open during the ritual process. You must ensure that nothing takes your soul during this time. Beware of the darkness.”
The cat jumps onto the table with a loud thump. I flinch.
“Don’t mind Octavia,” she says, stroking the cat’s ears. “She just loves attention. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I don’t answer. I fold the paper up, slip it into my pocket and back away from the table.
“Take the red candle from my altar, love,” she nods toward the wall. A gust of wind extinguishes the flame. “Follow the directions. Come back in two weeks.” She pauses, letting the words settle in the air. “Manifesting is a process. A ritual. Don’t forget.”
She backs away from the table and puts the cat down gently. “Now,” she says, her voice raising an octave. “That will be one-fifty.”
Hey—got with the Candle Lady. It’s on now!
I set the phone down and wait for Simone to text back. She’s been acting funny ever since she moved to Atlanta last year— wearing an afro and kaftans. Far from the ultra-bougie personality I grew to love. But I don’t blame her for changing. She’s got over 500k followers now. Brand deals. Even a song on the radio. Everything we used to talk about—all in just one year. Everything she ever wanted.
I guess she doesn’t have time for my broke ass anymore.
Whatever.
Time to set up my altar.
I take out the directions. It’s simple enough:
Clean off the table, set the red candle in the center. Place a bowl of powered Frankincense and dried hyssop into a wooden bowl next to candle.
It all seems too simple—nothing like the elaborate altar the Candle Lady had. But maybe this is just part one.
I pause. That warning cuts through my thoughts: Guard your soul.
She didn’t say how, only what might happen if I didn’t.
Ugh. Why didn’t I think to clarify?
Too late now.
It’s almost midnight, the time the directions said to begin.
I write my intentions on a torn notebook paper, and clear my throat.
“This altar is dedicated to inviting abundance and prosperity into my life. I ask for fame and prosperity to enter. Let the world see me…and love me.”
I glance down at the directions again and read the intention aloud: “I release who I was so I may become who I’m meant to be.”
Damn. That’s deep.
I say it again, softer this time. And just a second later, I swear I hear it whispered back.
The red candle light flickers, casting shadows across the back wall.
I wait.
Preparing myself for a sign…a shift…a tingling feeling. Surely there’s supposed to be something.
But nothing happens.
Even the room feels like it’s holding its breath with me.
I fight the urge to text Simone. Maybe she can tell me what to expect, but I don’t move. The instructions said to be still. Stay in the moment.
Maybe doing too much would open my soul to…darkness. I giggle. It sounds dramatic. Like a spooky warning added just for vibes. But I don’t test it. All kinds of strange things happen in this city.
What do I know?
I glance back at the candle. The flame sways, not from any gust of air in the room, but like it’s keeping rhythm with something I can’t hear. Red wax drips down the side—slowly, like it wants me to notice. It lands on the wood too thin, way too red.
Like blood.
The shadows on the wall stretch like long fingers reaching for me.
I blink and it’s gone—but the wall somehow looks darker where it stood.
It’s just the candle again. Just a flickering flame.
My lips tingle like something electric passed over them.
I fold my intention and hold it over the flame. The fire catches fast. The long edge begins to curl, eaten by heat. Tiny sparks float through the dark room like fireflies. They disappear into the air, escaping the flame. But the fire holds my gaze. I can’t look away.
My mouth opens. Words leap out—quick and strange. Not mine.
I…don’t know what I’m saying.
The flame flares in rhythm with the chant. Faster, brighter, louder. And then it stops.
I blink, eyes stinging.
Finally, my hand releases the burned paper. My fingers ache from the heat. My chest feels heavy like something was resting on it too long. The flame flickers again, sharp and pulsing.
I blow out the candle.
The room collapses into darkness.
Tonight, the Quarter is full. People are walking, talking, and dancing in the street. A man on the corner sells watches. A kid drums on a crate, collecting dollars from passersby. And in the middle of the street, a woman in a fur coat twirls with a bottle of gin in her hand.
I can’t help but laugh. Every corner of this place feels alive. And if I’m honest, I feel more alive, too.
The process…it’s working. My channel got 15k subscribers in just days, now I can finally make some money off my content. Just yesterday two local celebrities reposted my page. And I’ve been getting stares—the good kind— just walking down the street.
Everything has changed.
I can’t imagine what next month will bring. I can’t wait to be as successful as…
I don’t even want to say her name.
I reached out again. She left me on read. Meanwhile she’s on a “hiatus” teasing followers about her a new NFL boyfriend. Simone never even liked football players, “too short “she’d complained. She was more of a NBA groupie…but money changes things, I guess.
Damn. Can the Candle Lady help me manifest a man, too?
Turning onto Royal again, the house gleams in the moonlight. It’s not hiding tonight.
It welcomes me with open arms.
I walk up the steps and glance behind me. People wander past, oblivious to the power hiding in this house. The power to change your destiny.
Too bad they’re not chosen.
I step inside.
The Candle Lady is already seated at the table, still veiled in black lace. Octavia stretches in front of the altar like she’s daring me to come near.
“I’m happy to see you again, Ava” she says, gesturing for me to sit. I immediately notice that something is different.
Her hands.
Just two weeks ago they were smooth and youthful. But now, the skin is loose. Fine wrinkles snake across her long fingers. Sunspots bloom across her wrists.
She notices me looking and folds her hands beneath the table. “The process is working, I assume?”
“Yeah, it’s working. I got fifteen thousand followers now. It’s like all of a sudden, people are noticing me. People see me.” I get choked up and look away.
“Ava, all that you ask for will come to light,” she says, her voice raspy and frail. “Just continue to follow my directions.”
Octavia purrs, clawing at my shoes.
The Candle Lady spurts out a laugh, dry and sharp, like something shaken loose. A puff lifts from her veil.
“She does seem to be taken with you,” she croons, bending down to coax Octavia into her arms. “Come now, Octavia.”
Octavia lingers at my feet, brushing her long body against my legs. She looks up at me before leaping into her arms.
“Continue to say your intention and add one of the lines from the guide each time,” she says as she strokes Octavia roughly. “This time, come back in one week for your blessed oil. Then the process will be complete.”
Octavia squirms, but the Candle Lady’s arms tighten around her until she stops.
I nod and reach for my bag.
“No payment this time,” she says, her teeth glowing behind the veil. “Next week at our last meeting, you’ll make your final payment.”
The flame stretches toward the ceiling. The room hums with energy, like it’s waiting for something incredible. By now, I should be used to the flickering shadows, weird silence, and the feeling that I’m not alone.
But this feels different.
The ritual doesn’t feel like it’s for me anymore. It feels like it belongs to someone…or something else.
I speak my intentions again, this time adding a few choice words to manifest beauty and adoration. Then I say the last intention from the directions: “I give myself over to the person I will become. My soul to the manifestation of all that is for me.”
The words don’t simply leave my lips, they echo, circling the room like smoke. Something pulls at me, rough and quick.
And suddenly—
I’m above myself.
Floating. Watching my body fold the directions and hold it over the flame. My eyes below are blank, lips whispering too fast to follow. I reach out for my body, but my hand passes through my shoulder.
No weight.
The altar trembles as the paper blackens. The charred, red flakes scatter across the table like seasoning.
And just as I begin to panic, I watch myself lean in, blowing toward the candle. But the flame doesn’t move.
Instead, my head twitches unnaturally. My eyes blink uncontrollably and my mouth—something about it is all wrong. It’s like it’s struggling to open.
I call out to myself: Wake up! Move!
But my body doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
And then my lips finally part. Words slip out, cracked and strained, like something gasping for air.
Help me.
I make a sharp turn on Royal, my mind stuffed with fear and disbelief. What happened last night? Did I imagine stepping outside of my body?
This doesn’t feel right.
My feet take over, pulling me toward the house before I can protest. But as I approach the once gleaming house, my stomach turns. The yellow house is crumbling. Paint peeling, porch sagging. Mold creeps across the siding like an infection.
My mind finally catches up, taking in the street with new vision. The same boy from last time drums fast, like he’s building to something I can’t hear. The tin beside him is empty, untouched.
Silence.
The woman twirls in the street, fur coat filthy, laughing soundlessly as she clutches that old gin bottle to her chest.
The boy. The dancing woman. It’s the same scene as before, but it’s like they’re stuck in a loop. No sound. Just mimicry—acting. Like I’ve stepped into a silent movie.
My skin tingles. None of this…not the boy or the woman…is real. It’s all just an illusion and we’re all puppets on a stage.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the door handle. My body recoils at the thought of walking in. Every nerve screams don’t do it.
Something is wrong here. And not just tonight, something’s been off all along. But I can’t deny…things have changed for me. I’ve tripled my followers in just a week. Followers ask me about my clothes and makeup—someone stopped me in the street yesterday. I have fans.
I’m not invisible anymore. I’m somebody.
Could I give all of that up and go back to being a struggling waitress? Another smart girl shouting her dreams into the wind?
No.
I can’t go back to being regular.
There has to be a reason for all of this. The Candle Lady will explain it.
The door creaks open before I touch it. I step inside but freeze in the doorway.
The room is dark. Still. The candles are cold and the roses have withered to the stem. Even the moss looks sick, thick and dark green crusting over the altar like mold growing on something forgotten.
And at the table is the Candle Lady, her body slumped and off-centered. She’s still veiled, but her frame looks thinner, brittle even.
“Sit down,” she croaks. Her voice is ragged and phlegmy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was aging before my eyes.
I step forward and lower my body into the chair. My throat tightens with dread.
Octavia jumps from her lap straight down to my feet. Purring as she rubs against my ankles.
“I did everything you asked,” I say, my heart bouncing against my chest. “But weird things happened. I think I had an out of body experience. Is that supposed to happen?”
She coughs. A deep rattle vibrates in her chest. “Yes, you’re changing. Your soul is becoming what it needs to be. This is what you asked for, no?”
I hesitate. Is this what I asked for? I just wanted to be famous. To be like…
“Is this what Simone went through? It’s just…I see she got what she wanted, but something feels off. I reached out to her. No response. Have you heard from her?”
She coughs again. The Candle Lady tilts her head like she’s emptying something from her ear. But doesn’t answer right away.
“Everyone has a different experience,” she says at last. “You cannot compare. Simone will get what she manifested. It’s her time now.”
There’s something buried in her response. A secret or maybe a smirk I can’t see behind the veil.
She knows something.
It figures. Simone ditches me but keeps in touch with the woman who can give her everything.
Anger ripples through me.
“Alright,” I announce, reaching for my bag. “You said this would be our last meeting. What’s the payment?”
She creaks forward.
“You’re in such a hurry,” she begins, her voice too sharp for the moment. “Now that you have what you begged for—fame, beauty, recognition. Now that you’re becoming the woman you would’ve killed to be. The woman I’m supposed to be.”
My body stills.
“What do you mean by that?”
She doesn’t answer. She just holds out her hand.
I flinch.
Her hand is disgusting. The skin peeled off in strips, bone showing through. Each finger is stiff, frozen and bent at the knuckle.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, my voice small.
“Manifestation. The energy…transference has to come from somewhere,” she rasps. “Your success is directly linked to me.”
My mind begins to spiral. She’s decaying because of me? I can’t do this.
“Wait, I didn’t mean for—” I stop. Would I undo all of this just to save her? I…don’t even know her. Surely she knows what she’s doing. She’ll be okay, right?
“After I’m done, will you go back to normal? I mean, you won’t die from this, right?” I ask, my conscious weighing on me.
“Yes…after this, all will be well,” she says, then gestures to the bowl. “Put your fingers in the bowl.”
I dip my fingers in the deep bowl, emerging my fingers into the hot oil. I pull my fingers out, heat scalding my fingers. Red oil clings to my skin like bloodied wax, trailing down my wrist in slow, thick streaks.
I press my hand into hers.
And immediately I feel like I’m falling. The floor disappears and I fall fast into darkness. I scream, but there’s no sound. Just pressure and a gust of cold air wrapping around my throat. I shut my eyes.
When I open them, I’m sitting upright. At the table.
Facing myself.
Across the table, I see me—my face, my thick hair. My smirk.
I reach up, hands trembling to feel my face, expecting smooth skin. But it’s rough, wrinkled. Deep pits of flesh spread across my cheeks.
I yank the veil back as my fingers fumble over my face. I look at my hands, old and veined. My throat feels tight, my body heavy. My heart sinks beneath layers of black lace.
“No,” I gasp.
But the voice isn’t mine.
It’s hers.
Across from me, in my body, she smiles.
The candles reignite. The roses slowly spring back to life. The wallpaper bleeds back to red, plush velvet spreads across the small room.
“What’s happening?” I say, but my voice comes out wrong. It’s hoarse, aged. Not mine…but hers.
And then she speaks. My voice on her lips.
“I’m sorry, Ava. I really hoped it wouldn’t be you.”
My mind blanks. This can’t be happening. I try to get up, my eyes focused on the door, but my body—her body—doesn’t listen. My limbs feel locked in place, as if I’m tethered to this room.
“What did you do to me! Give me my body back!” I cry.
She looks at me with pity, my thick eyebrows sewn with regret, but then it drops, replaced with a cold stare.
“Destiny swap,” she says. “The life you’ve been given is much better than mine was. I just needed to build you up first—make you sparkle. Now everything is set. Everything we dreamed about…” her voice trails off. She looks down at her—my—hands, flexing the fingers like she’s checking how they fit. She straightens her posture. I watch as she dusts off her yellow blouse then digs through my bag, pulling out my favorite pink lip gloss. She swabs it across her lips, smacking them with a quick pop. Then she reaches for my compact mirror and angles it toward her face, straightening her hair just like—
“Simone?” I rasp. Her name stings on the way out.
She looks up.
“Am I that easy to spot?” she laughs, a deep unnerving belly laugh that is as much hers as it is mine. It turns my stomach. “The witch did it to me,” she continues. The girl you’ve been stalking online is not me. I guess that’s why she never responded to you, didn’t want you to figure it out. She swapped destinies with me a year ago. Left me to rot in that body. So, I waited. And when you showed up….I didn’t want it to be you. But I felt that rot creeping up on me. Felt like I was dying. I couldn’t go out like that. Even if it meant taking your soul, stealing my friend’s destiny.”
I can’t speak. My heart feels heavy, like it’ll drop into my guts any moment. I clutch at my chest. It burns.
She sees my panic.
“Oh—be careful,” she advises. “Calm down, you don’t want to have a heart attack. That body’s got some miles on it, and if it gives out before someone else comes along…well, you’re stuck. You’ve got about a year to pass it on. After that…”
She makes a croaking noise and shrugs.
I’m still too shocked to answer. I can’t even think of a response. I’m trapped in this dying body. Destiny swapped.
She moves to get up, scooping Octavia into her arms. “I tried to warn you. Told you to guard your soul. I never even got a warning.”
I look up at her helpless. Still confused.
At the door, she turns back one last time. “I’m truly sorry. But, you know how it is.” She pauses. “If you don’t shine—”
“—you don’t exist,” I whisper. Remembering her old saying.
She offers me a stiff smile as she places Octavia gently on the floor. She pats her head and disappears.
The door swings shut behind her.
The flames snuff out.
It was raining outside when the girl walked in. She was tall, thin. Average looking.
“What is it you seek?” I ask, softening the coarseness of my voice. I don’t want to scare her away. It’s been almost a year since my swap and time is not on my side. “Tell me about yourself.”
“My name is Taylor Chauvin,” she says, slowly. Her eyes go blank. “My dad is Arnold Chauvin, the real estate developer. I’m in love with this guy, a musician here in the Quarter but he’s…broke. His name’s Telly. He’s like twenty years older than me and my dad won’t approve. I know it sounds stupid, but I love him. And he loves me…the real me. Not my money. If I bring him home, my dad will cut me off. I don’t care about money—I mean, I do, I can’t imagine being like poor or whatever—but I choose him. Can you help Telly or show me how to help him? I heard you’re the one to do it.” She exhales hard and blinks, surprised. “Wow, I didn’t mean to spill all that…”
I nod, hiding my absolute delight. An heiress. Perfect. I slide the paper across the table:
How to Set Your Altar
“I can help you,” I say, topping each word with syrupy warmth. “Follow these directions carefully—add your intentions, and set up your altar at home. This will help you manifest the life you want—a good life with the man you love.”
She clutches the paper, not bothering to read it. Another win for me.
“The instructions are simple,” I add. “But you must follow them exactly. Light your candle. Set your intention. Guard your soul.” I wait. But she never asks what it means. She stares into space, no doubt planning a future with her man.
A future that will never exist.
Because I’m already planning mine.
I tap on the table to get her attention.“That will be three hundred dollars.”
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