The Amber Lantern

My grandmother, Elara, never spoke of the Amber Lantern without a tremor in her voice. It was a story she reserved for the deepest hours of winter nights, when the wind howled like a living thing and the snow piled against the windows, sealing us in with her past.

It happened in a village nestled in the Carpathian foothills, a place called Pripet, where the forests were dense and old, and the people were wary of the dark. My mother was six years old then, a girl with pigtails and a curiosity that often led her astray. The villagers were simple folk, farmers and shepherds, and they lived by the rhythms of the season. But there was one among them that did not fit the rhythm: a woman named Mariska.

Mariska was a widow, her husband had died in a logging accident years ago. The shock had unhinged her, and she wandered the village with a jittery laugh, playing tricks on the children and talking to the air. But there was a method to her madness, for she would never approach the old Bellweather house, a crumbling manor that stood at the edge of the village, its windows like dark eyes staring out from beneath a sagging roof. Mariska would point at the house, her finger trembling, and warn anyone who would listen: ‘Do not go near the Bellweather house on a moonless night. The amber lantern burns, and the door opens, and what comes out is not human.’

The villagers dismissed her warnings as the ravings of a broken mind. They would shoo her away, shake their heads, and tell their children to ignore her. But the children, including my mother, were fascinated and terrified in equal measure.

One summer, the heat was oppressive. The village sweltered, and the nights offered no relief. The villagers, in their own tradition, dragged their cots and mattresses out into the courtyards and open patches, sleeping under the stars to catch the slightest breeze. My grandmother’s family did the same. They laid out their bedding on the packed earth of their yard, the stars blinking above, and one by one they drifted into uneasy sleep.

But Elara, my grandmother, had always been a light sleeper. At midnight, she was roused by a sound, a faint scraping, like a key turning in a rusty lock. She sat up, her heart racing. The moon was a sliver, and the darkness was almost absolute. She blinked, her eyes adjusting, and then she saw it: a light moving in the direction of the Bellweather house. It was an orange glow, soft and sickly, as if a lantern with a stained glass pane. It bobbed and swayed, and she could make out a figure holding it, a hunched and shuffling shape.

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warmth of the night. Mariska’s warning echoed in her mind, and despite her reason, she she felt an instinct to wake her husband.

‘Hush, woman,’ he grumbled, turning over. ‘It’s just a night watchman or a late traveler.’

But Elara couldn’t shake the dread. She watched as the light approached, growing larger, until it stopped at the gate of their yard. The figure was her own father, but not her father. His face was obscured in shadow, but his movements were jerky, as if he were puppet on strings. He carried a lantern, its glass coated with a yellow film, and the flame inside danced with an unnatural greenish hue.

He called out to her, his voice hoarse, but the words were not his. They were a plea, a warning, a lament. ‘Beware the one who wears my face,’ he croaked. ‘He knocks twice, then enters. He will wear your skin to keep warm.’

Then he turned and shuffled back into the darkness, leaving Elara trembling in the warm night.

She woke her husband, insisting, but by the time they rose, there was nothing to see. The village was quiet, the Bellweather house dark. Her husband humored her, but she could see the doubt in his eyes.

The next day, the village was abuzz with a strange occurrence. Mariska was found dead, her body in the Bellweather house, her face frozen in a mask of terror. And in her hand, she clutched an amber glass lantern, dark and cold. The villagers said it was a heart attack, but something in their eyes said otherwise.

The village decided to burn the house, to cleanse it. They piled wood in the main hall, and set it alight. The flames roared, and the villagers stood back, warmth on their faces. When the fire died, the house was reduced to rubble, but the lantern survived. It lay in the ash, unmarked, the amber glass intact, the wick still turned to a stop.

Elara took it as a keepsake, thinking it might bring them luck. She brought it home, polished it, and placed it on a shelf in the parlor. But ever since, strange things began to happen. Her husband grew distant, his eyes sometimes glazing over as if he were listening to something far away. And at night, Elara would hear a knocking at the door, twice, always twice. And when she looked through the window, she saw the figure of her husband standing outside, even though he was asleep in their bed.

She came to believe that the house had exacted a price, that taking the lantern had bound her family to whatever dwelled there. She wanted to destroy it, to smash it against the rocks, but every time she touched it, she felt a cold indifference, as if it were laughing at her attempt. She buried it in a chest, wrapped in cloth, and swore never to open it again.

But the knocking continued, twice every night, and her husband’s health declined. He started sleepwalking, and more than once, she found him at the edge of the forest, staring into the dark, muttering about the smell of smoke and wax.

Finally, on a new moon night, she confronted him. He turned to her, and his face was not his own. It was a mask of faces, stitched together, each one a villager she had seen at the burning. and he said, ‘I need your skin to keep warm. It’s cold in the amber.’

She screamed and ran, and in the morning her husband was gone. She searched the village, but no one had seen him. She went to the spot where the Bellweather house had stood, and she found the lantern uncovered, glowing with an amber light. She fell to her knees and wept, for she knew he was gone, and whatever had taken his place would never return.

She fled the village with my mother, never looking back. They settled in a distant land, and she never spoke of the lantern again. But I know she kept it, for I saw it once in a steamer trunk, wrapped in linen. I was tempted to open it, but she stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

‘Some lights are meant to stay dim,’ she said, her voice as cold as the amber glass.

I never touched it again. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a knocking at the door, twice, always twice. And I look out the window, and I see a figure standing there, holding a lantern of amber, its face a blur of sorrow. And I know tonight, on a moonless night, if I open the door, I might not come back. So I don’t open it. I wait. And the knocking stops. But I feel its eyes on me, in the dark.

And I wonder if Elara ever truly escaped, or if she just brought the lantern with her, igniting our lives with its silent curse.