By candlelight and caregiving…

There’s something oddly poetic about spending your days caring for the living—and your nights conjuring the dead.

By morning, I’m a caregiver. Soft-voiced, steady-handed, and ready with a smile, holding a warm blanket or coaxing with a gentle redirect. I help people navigate the small rituals of daily life: brushing teeth, preparing meals, reminiscing about a world that feels both near and far.

It’s quiet work. Tender. Sometimes heavy. Always sacred.

One of my patients, wise with years and a soft smile that could weather storms, once gave me a piece of advice that’s stayed with me like a pressed flower in a book. She said:

“When you get married, you and your partner have to dream and grow together.”

Simple, profound. Life Lesson 101. I tucked it away in the attic of my heart.

Another patient of mine, who just celebrated her 100th birthday this past November (yes, one hundred and still full of spunk), taught me without words. I started picking up on the serene rhythms of her life, like how she’d cook her eggs sunny side-up and poke the yolks just a little so they melted into the whites. Now I do the same. It’s these subtle inheritances that stitch the living to the living.

Then the sun sets, and something shifts.

I light a candle. I open my laptop. And I walk straight into the dark.

By night, I’m a writer of horror and mystery. Spinning tales of haunted mirrors, lost girls, flickering lanterns in fog-drenched woods. My brain shifts from “did she take her meds today?” to “what’s lurking at the foot of the bed?” without missing a beat.

It’s strange, I know. My browser history is an interesting cocktail of “how long can a body stay preserved in salt water?” and “best moisturizing lotions for seniors.” Duality, my friend.

But somehow, both worlds make sense to me. Being a caregiver has taught me how to pay attention to the things people say and don’t say, to the way fear looks when it’s real. And that attentiveness? It’s the marrow of good storytelling. My horror has heart because I’ve sat with the real thing. I know what it means to hold someone’s hand when they’re afraid.

Some days, I wonder if the ghosts I write are echoes of the quiet sadnesses I absorb during the day. The unspoken griefs. The memories that tremble just under the surface.

Other times, I think maybe I’ve just always belonged to the in-between. One foot in the here, the other in the haunted. I’m not sure I chose this life. I think it chose me.

But either way, I’ve made peace with the liminal.

Horror writers, in our own strange way, are caregivers too. We tend to fear. We hold the reader’s hand and say, “It’s okay, I’ve been here before.” We pull the shadow into the candlelight and say, “Look. It’s not so scary now.”

So yes, I spend my days tending to the living, and my nights writing about the dead.

And in between?

I drink too much coffee and Bai Cocofusions. I pick up habits from centenarians. I question my search history. I try not to fall asleep with a LibreOffice doc open on my face. I remember the words of the wise. And I keep showing up—heart open, pen in hand, light low.

It’s a strange life. A beautiful one. A haunted one.
But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Until next time. Keep your lights low, your beverage of choice warm, and your shadows friendly.

With love & a little moonlight,
Abigail