The Cobalt Lantern

In the winter of 2020, I was preparing for the final engineering certification exam that would determine my future as a marine engineer. The exam center was in Visakhapatnam, a city that reeked of salt and diesel, and I had chosen a lodge that promised cheap rates and proximity to the port. The building was an old colonial relic, its paint peeling like sunburned skin, and the name, ‘The Harbor Rest,’ was lit by a single flickering sign.

I checked in on a Tuesday evening. The receptionist, a gaunt man with yellowed eyes, handed me a brass key attached to a wooden fob. He smiled without warmth. ‘Room 7, top floor. Good view of the harbor.’ I took the stairs, each step groaning under my weight. The corridor smelled of damp and stale tobacco, but my room was surprisingly clean, if sparse. A narrow bed, a desk cluttered with old registers, and a window that overlooked the cranes and ships.

My exam was in three days, so I planned to study. But sleep came easily, and I woke to the glow of a lamplighter moving across the harbor. The clock on the nightstand read 1:00 AM. I noticed a lantern on the windowsill, an antique thing with a cobalt blue glass. It wasn’t there when I arrived. I shrugged it off, assuming the staff had placed it for ambiance. I lit it, and the flame burned an eerie green.

That was when the first noise came—a low, guttural hum, as if the building itself were breathing. I dismissed it as the wind. But then, from the corridor, I heard the shuffling of bare feet, slow and dragging. I pressed my ear to the door. The sound stopped. I opened the door a crack. The corridor was empty, but the hum grew louder, originating from the room next to mine—Room 8, which the receptionist had said was empty.

Curiosity got the better of me. I stepped out, my bare feet cold on the linoleum. Room 8’s door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. Inside, there was no furniture, only a thin layer of dust. On the far wall, written in what looked like dried tar, were words: ‘The Lighter’s Keep.’ The hum seemed to come from the wall itself. I touched it, and it was warm, pulsing like a heartbeat. A wave of nausea hit me, and I stumbled back to my room.

I tried to sleep, but the lantern’s flame flickered, casting dancing shadows. By morning, I convinced myself it was a nightmare. But when I rose, the lantern was still lit, though I had blown it out. And on my desk, written in the same tar-like substance, were the words: ‘They know you’re here.’

I went to the receptionist, demanding to know about Room 8. He stared at me blankly. ‘Room 8? There is no Room 8. The rooms go 1 to 7.’ I argued, but he insisted. I ran back up. The door was now sealed with fresh paint, and there was no number on it. The hum had not stopped.

That night, I closed and locked the door, but the lantern began to glow brighter. I tried to extinguish it, but the flame grew. The room grew cold. From the window, I saw a figure standing on the dock, staring up at me—a tall silhouette with long arms, holding a lantern identical to mine, but with a red glow. The figure raised its arm and pointed directly at me. The hum became a drone, and the floor vibrated.

The next day, I nearly left. But the exam was too important. I studied, ignoring the lantern, but it followed me. Every time I set my notes down, the tar would appear on the margins, writing cryptic messages: ‘He watches the water,’ ‘The ship has no captain.’ I began to see dark shapes in the corners of my vision.

On the final night before the exam, I couldn’t sleep. The lantern’s flame turned a deep indigo, and the room filled with the smell of molding ropes and salt. I heard a knocking on my door. It was rhythmic, three taps, then two. I opened it, and the corridor was empty. But at the far end, the figure from the dock stood, holding up a key. It walked toward me, its steps echoing. It stopped at my door, and I saw its face—a waterlogged mask of human features, but eyes of hollow white.

It spoke, in a voice like water draining. ‘You found my lantern. Now you must keep it.’ It pressed the key into my palm, and I felt a burning cold. When I looked up, it was gone.

I didn’t take the exam. I packed my bags and drove straight home, the lantern wrapped in a cloth, still glowing faintly. I tried to throw it into a river, but the water turned black and the cloth didn’t burn. I buried it deep in my garden, but that night, I woke to find it on my bedside table, the blue glass pulsing.

Now, I write this from my room, three years later. I never sailed again. The lantern sits on my desk, its flame perpetually lit, and I hear the hum nightly. Sometimes I see the figure in reflections. It speaks in riddles about the sea. I think I’m going mad. But this morning, I found a map drawn on my floor, with a single line leading to my current house. And in the middle of that room, I found a message in the tar: ‘We’re coming.’