The Lamp in the Corridor

My name is Arjun and I live in the hill town of Nainital. At nineteen, I’ve heard my father, Vikram, recount his strange encounter from 1994 countless times. He and my mother had been married for two years then, and they’d traveled to the remote village of Mana near the Tibetan border for a cousin’s wedding. The village was a cluster of stone houses huddled against the mountains, and the wedding festivities were being held in a large courtyard decorated with marigolds and flickering oil lamps.

Around 8 PM, as the night chill began to seep through the thin air, my father started feeling a sharp pain in his stomach. He blamed it on the local food and decided to retreat to the guest house they’d been assigned, a low, sprawling building that had once been a military rest house. It sat on the edge of the village, a short walk through a narrow, rocky path lined with prayer flags that snapped in the wind. He gave my mother an apologetic smile and promised to return once he felt better.

The guest house was almost empty, save for an old caretaker who seemed surprised to see him. The man’s face was wrinkled like a dried apricot, and his eyes had a distant, unfocused look. He handed my father a heavy iron key and pointed to a room at the far end of a long, dark corridor. The corridor was lit by a single electric bulb that flickered ominously, and the walls were stained with dampness. My father entered his room, lay down on the narrow cot, and quickly fell into a restless sleep.

He woke with a start at 10 PM, the pain fading but a strange unease settling in his chest. He decided to return to the wedding, but as he started down the corridor, he noticed that the solitary light bulb was dead. The corridor was now plunged into almost complete darkness, with only the faintest glow from a small window at the far end. He fumbled for his lighter, but it was out of fluid. He would have to walk in the dark.

Just as he took his first step, he saw it: a small oil lamp, of a type he’d seen in old temples, resting on a ledge at the end of the corridor. Its flame was steady and unnaturally bright, casting long, dancing shadows. He thought it odd, but he moved toward it, hoping it would guide him. As he approached, the flame seemed to grow brighter, and for a moment, he felt a sense of calm.

Then he noticed the shadow. It was not his own. It was cast on the wall to his left, a tall, hunched figure with long, thin arms that seemed to stretch far beyond normal proportions. He froze, his heart pounding. The shadow did not move with him; it remained still, as if waiting. He took another step, and the shadow shifted, moving to the wall in front of him, now closer. It was as if the source of the light had moved behind him.

The lamp was still on the ledge, directly in front of him, but his shadow now fell ahead, and it was not his. It was the shape of a woman, with hair that seemed to flow like black water, and one arm raised as if pointing at the main exit. He tried to move his own arm, but the shadow’s arm did not mimic him. It remained pointing, its finger elongated into a thin, bony digit.

A chill ran down his spine, and he understood: the lamp was not a help but a lure. He glanced back toward his room, but the darkness had swallowed it. He was trapped in the corridor with a lamp that cast a shadow that did not belong to him. He squeezed his eyes shut and repeated a prayer he remembered from his childhood. When he opened his eyes, the lamp was extinguished, and the corridor was pitch black. He felt a cold breeze, and then, a whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves, passed his ear. It said, in a language he didn’t know, but understood, ‘You should not have come here.’

He didn’t run. He couldn’t. He stood there, paralyzed, until the sound of distant wedding music reached him, and the light from the window seemed to strengthen. He forced himself to walk, step by step, past the ledge where the lamp had rested. He never looked back. When he reached the courtyard, he was pale and shaking. He told my mother he had a bad dream, and never spoke of it again for years.

But later, when he finally told me the story, he always ended with the same detail: as he left the guest house, he glanced one last time down the corridor. The lamp was back on the ledge, its flame burning calmly, and his shadow was sprawled on the floor, prostrating itself before it. And in that shadow, he swore he saw the shape of a man, identical to himself, but with eyes that were empty and black, staring directly at him. He knew then that the lamp had taken something from him, a piece of his shadow that would never return. To this day, my father avoids small lights in dark corridors, and he tells me to never walk toward a solitary flame, no matter how welcoming it seems.