The Basement Lantern

In the spring of 1972, my husband Arthur and I were scraping by in a small town, searching for a place that wouldn’t bleed our wallets dry. Arthur had just landed a job at the ironworks plant, and we needed something close, dirt cheap, and tolerable. The ad in the local paper promised a basement apartment for a rent so low it made us suspicious. But we were desperate.

The house was a sprawling, decaying Victorian on the edge of town, its porch sagging under the weight of neglect. An elderly woman named Mrs. Kettlewell greeted us at the door, her eyes clouded with age but her grip surprisingly firm. She led us down a creaking staircase into a narrow corridor, the air thick with dust and the smell of damp earth. At the end of the hall, she unlocked a heavy oak door and gestured us inside.

The apartment was a single cramped room, a curtain dividing the sleeping area from the living space. A tiny kitchenette huddled in one corner, its sink stained with rust. Two small windows set high in the wall let in only a smudge of gray light. The whole place felt like a tomb. But the rent was rock bottom, and Arthur’s commute would be a short walk across a weed-choked field and over the railroad tracks.

When I asked for the bathroom, Mrs. Kettlewell’s face tightened. She led us back out into the dim hallway, where a single naked bulb flickered overhead. To the right, a heavy curtain concealed a recessed alcove. She pulled it aside to reveal a cracked porcelain sink and a stall shower with a rusty head. ‘The toilet’s down the hall, through the laundry room,’ she said, pointing to a door at the far end. ‘Shared with the upstairs. But the water pressure is good.’

We took it. The first week was a blur of boxes and adjustment. Arthur loved the closeness to work, and I tried to ignore the way the floorboards creaked overhead at odd hours. But it was the basement itself that began to unsettle me. The light in the hallway was always weak, and the shadows seemed to cling to the corners, never quite dissipating. One evening, while Arthur was working late, I decided to explore the storage area at the back of the basement. It was a maze of old furniture and forgotten belongings. In a dusty corner, beneath a moth-eaten quilt, I found a lantern. It was made of brass, tarnished but intricate, its glass panel cloudy. A small brass plate read: ‘For Mrs. Kettlewell, with love, 1923.’

I brought it back to our apartment, thinking to clean it up as a decoration. But that night, as I lay in bed, I heard a faint scratching from the lantern’s direction. I got up and lit the wick, which was still dry. The flame cast an eerie, sickly green glow, and I swear I saw movement in the shadows it threw—a shape that was not my own. I extinguished it quickly, my heart pounding.

The next morning, I told Arthur, but he dismissed it as my imagination. ‘It’s just an old lamp, Marie. Probably just dust in your eyes.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling. That evening, while Arthur was at work, I lit the lantern again, this time holding it up to the window. The glass was so cloudy I could barely see through it. I rubbed the glass with my sleeve, and to my horror, I saw a reflection in the glass—a woman’s face, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide and white. She was not me.

I dropped the lantern, and it clattered to the floor, the glass shattering. The light died, and the room went dark. I stood frozen, listening. From the hallway, I heard slow, shuffling footsteps. They stopped right outside our door. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, I confronted Mrs. Kettlewell about the lantern. She stared at me with her milky eyes, and her voice came out a rasp. ‘So you found it. That was my sister’s. She used to sleep down here when we were young. She had fits, you see. The doctors couldn’t help. She died in this very room. They say her spirit still tends the lantern, keeping it lit so she can find her way back.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Why would she need to come back?’ I asked. Mrs. Kettlewell leaned closer, her breath cold. ‘Because she never made it to the light. She’s still searching for someone to take her place.’

That night, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the bed. Arthur was away on a night shift, and I curled up on the floor, the shards of the lantern still scattered in the corner. I must have dozed off, because I woke to the sound of the shower running. I crept to the bathroom curtain and pulled it aside. The shower was on, water beating against the tile, but no one was there. I turned to leave, and I saw a wet footprint on the floor. It was small, like a child’s. And it was fresh.

I ran down the hall to the storage area, to the spot where I had found the lantern. In the dim light, I saw the outline of a girl, transparent and shimmering, kneeling in the corner. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognize. She turned her head, and her face was the one I had seen in the glass. She pointed at me, and then she pointed at the space where the lantern had been.

I understood then: she wanted me to take her place. She wanted me to become the keeper of the lantern, trapped in this basement forever. I backed away, stumbled over a crate, and fell. The girl vanished, but the humming continued, growing louder. It seemed to come from all around me.

I scrambled to my feet and fled up the stairs, out of the house, into the cold night air. I ran to the nearest payphone and called Arthur, sobbing. He came home to find me huddled on the porch, shaking. I told him everything, and he held me, but I saw the doubt in his eyes. He didn’t believe me. Not fully.

We moved out the very next day, without even a month’s notice. Mrs. Kettlewell didn’t object, just watched us leave with a knowing sadness. I never told Arthur what I saw in that basement, but I couldn’t let it go. A few weeks later, I went back to the house, hoping to retrieve some mail. The basement door was unlocked. I crept down the stairs, the air heavy with memory. The hallway was quiet, the lantern shards gone. In the storage area, on the old trunk where I had first found the lantern, there was a new object: a small, brass key. And tacked to the wall above it, a note in spidery handwriting: ‘The lantern is lit again. She is waiting.’

I never went back. But every night since, I hear that faint humming, and I see the girl’s face in the mirror, just for a moment, before it fades. And I know that somewhere, in that basement, a lantern burns with a green flame, and its keeper is always searching for a soul to take her place.