The Lamp by the Pond

My name is Amara, and when I was twelve, my parents sent me to a small boarding school in the highlands of Kenya, far from our home in Nairobi. It was a place of red earth and eucalyptus trees, and the school, St. Cyprian’s, was an old colonial-era building with creaking floors and a long, dark corridor that divided the dormitories. I was there for my seventh and part of my eighth grade years, before my parents had to come and take me back. They said it was for my health, but I know it was because of what I saw.

The school had its own set of legends. We talked about the ghost of a nurse who wandered the infirmary at night, her uniform stained with something dark, and the story of three boys who had drowned in the pond behind the chapel, their bodies never found. But the one that haunted me most was about the lamp by the pond. It was said that a former student, a boy named Peter, had a strange attachment to that lamp. He would sit by it every evening, writing in a small notebook, until one night, he disappeared. They found his notebooks scattered, but he was never seen again. Some said he was taken by the thing that lived in the pond, and others said he had simply run away. But the lamp, an old kerosene one, remained, and it never needed to be lit—it would glow on its own, a soft amber light, even on the darkest nights.

I was a sickly child. I had chronic stomach problems, fevers that came and went, and a strange inability to eat that the school nurse called ‘nerves.’ I spent a lot of time in the infirmary, and the other students would whisper that the supernatural is drawn to the weak. They avoided me, as if my illness was contagious in the spiritual sense. I didn’t mind. I preferred to be alone. But being alone meant that I often found myself by the pond, not because I was drawn there, but because it was the only place where I could escape the noise of the other children.

One evening, after a particularly bad bout of fever, I slipped out of the infirmary. The windows of the main building glowed with study lights, but the path to the pond was dark. I carried a small flashlight, but its beam seemed to shrink, as if the darkness was pressing in. When I reached the pond, the lamp was burning. I had seen it from a distance many times, but I had never been this close. The light flickered, but it didn’t seem to cast any shadows. I felt a strange warmth, like being wrapped in a blanket, and for the first time in weeks, my stomach didn’t hurt.

I sat down on the stone bench that faced the lamp. The pond was still, black as oil, and I could see my reflection in the water—but only mine. The lamp, the trees, even the bench, they didn’t reflect. It was as if the pond only showed living things. I don’t know how long I sat there, but the bell for evening prayers rang, and I realized I had to go back before the duty master did his rounds. As I stood, I noticed a small notebook lying at the base of the lamp. It was old, with a worn leather cover, and the pages were yellowed. I picked it up, and I swear I heard a sigh, like someone letting out a breath they had held for a long time.

I took the notebook back to my room and hid it under my mattress. I should have thrown it away, but I couldn’t. That night, I dreamt of a boy standing by the lamp, writing. He looked up at me, and his eyes were empty, like the pond. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He pointed to the notebook, and then to his own chest, and then he faded.

For the next few days, I read the notebook. It was Peter’s diary. He had been a student like me, sickly, often alone. He wrote about the lamp, about how it seemed to call to him. He described seeing things at the edge of the pond—shapes that moved just under the surface, a whisper that told him to join them. His last entry was chilling: ‘I have decided. The water is warm, and they are waiting. Tonight, I will finally be free.’

A cold dread settled in my stomach. That night, I didn’t go to the pond, but I heard sounds from that direction—a splash, then laughter, a child’s laughter that I knew was not human. I pulled the covers over my head and prayed until I fell asleep. But in the morning, I found that the notebook was gone from under my mattress, and on my bedside table was a single, wet footprint, too small for an adult, and the faint smell of moss.

I told no one, but the incidents continued. I would find the lamp’s light glowing in my window from the pond, even though my room faced the other way. I would hear my name called in a soft, familiar voice, and when I turned, there would be a ripple in any puddle nearby. My health deteriorated; I was vomiting every meal, and the nurse said I was ‘wasting away.’ The other students avoided me more, their eyes wide with fear. One girl, a shy girl named Wanjiru, came to me one afternoon and whispered, ‘You’ve been touching the lamp, haven’t you? It marks you. Now it will never let you go.’

I was terrified. I knew I had to do something. That night, I decided to confront the lamp. I waited until the school was silent, then I crept down to the pond. The lamp was burning brighter than ever, its light almost solid. I walked to the edge of the water, and I spoke to it. ‘I’m not like you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be part of your forever.’ The light flickered, then dimmed, and I thought I saw, in the pond, a face looking up at me—young, but ancient. It smiled, and I felt a pull, a desire to step forward, to end the pain. But I took a step back, and I screamed. I screamed with all my might, and I ran back to the dorms, crying.

The next day, my parents arrived. They had been called by the school, worried about my health. My mother took one look at me and said, ‘We’re going home.’ I was so relieved, but as I packed my bags, I saw, on my window, a handprint, like the one Peter left in the notebook. I didn’t touch it. I just left, and we flew back to America that evening.

Now I go to a boarding school in Oregon, far from any pond. But the memories linger. And sometimes, at night, I still see that lamp glowing, not in the distance, but in the corner of my room. And I hear a whisper, a voice like a drowning boy, saying, ‘The water is warm. Come back to me.’ But I won’t. I can’t. Because I know now that the lamp isn’t just a lamp—it’s a doorway, and once you’ve seen it, it will always know where you are. I just hope it never finds the patience to reach all the way here.
}