The Lamp That Shone on Nothing

My brother Mateo and I were twelve and ten, spending the summer at our aunt’s farm in the highlands of Mindanao. Every year, the whole family would converge there, but this year it was just the two of us with our parents. The farmhouse was old, built by our great-grandfather, with a wide veranda that looked over a valley of coconut palms and a river that glinted like a knife. At night, the only light came from a single kerosene lamp that our aunt kept burning on the porch. She said it was to guide the spirits of the land, and she always reminded us: never leave the circle of that light after dark.

But we were kids, and the dark was a playground. One evening, after the adults had settled into their drinking and laughter, Mateo and I slipped out the back gate into the jungle that bordered the farm. Our cousins, Pio and Nene, were supposed to meet us there, but they never showed. We waited by a moss-covered stone marker that was older than the farm itself. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting fruit. Mateo had brought his flashlight, but the beam only made the shadows seem deeper. Just as we were about to give up, we heard a sound—not quite a voice, not quite a rustle. It was a soft, wet slap, like a fish being thrown onto a rock. We called out for Pio and Nene. Nothing answered. We walked a little further, past a grove of bamboo that creaked like old bones. That’s when we saw it: a small, grass-covered hut, half swallowed by vines. It wasn’t there before. We had never seen it. And from its door came a faint, flickering light, not the steady glow of our aunt’s lamp, but something dimmer, sicklier, like a candle drowning in oil.

We should have run. But Mateo, being older, said, ‘Maybe they’re inside.’ And because I trusted him, I followed. The hut’s door was a plank of wood that swung open with a groan. Inside, there was no floor, just packed earth. In the center sat a single wooden stool, and on the stool was an old brass oil lamp, the kind you see in museums. It burned with a dark flame, almost invisible, and it cast no shadows. The walls were covered with drawings—stick figures, but with too many fingers, and their eyes were scratched out. Mateo whispered, ‘Who lives here?’ And the flame flickered, as if it had heard him. Then, from the ceiling, a drop of something cold landed on my cheek. I wiped it away. It wasn’t water. It was thick, and it smelled like copper.

We backed out of the hut, but the forest had changed. The path we’d come from was gone. Instead, there were three identical paths, each leading into darkness. We picked the middle one, but every time we took a step, the ground felt wrong, like it was breathing. After a while, we realized we were walking in circles. We passed the same stone marker, the same bamboo grove, the same hut. But this time, standing in the doorway was a figure—a woman with long black hair, but her face was smooth, like a mannequin’s. She held the brass lamp, and its flame now burned bright, but it illuminated nothing. The trees, the ground, even our own bodies were untouched by its light. She raised her arm and pointed to the path on the left. Her fingers were too long. Mateo grabbed my hand and whispered, ‘Don’t look at her.’ But I couldn’t help it. I looked at her face, and where her eyes should have been, there was only darkness, but I felt her gaze. She was smiling, but her mouth was sewn shut.

We ran. We didn’t care where. We ran until our legs burned, until our lungs screamed, until we burst through a thicket of ferns and found ourselves back at the farmhouse. The porch light was on. The lamp was burning. Our aunt was standing at the steps, her arms crossed. She looked angry, but then she saw our faces, and her expression softened. She said, ‘You saw the lamp.’ Mateo nodded. She sighed and said, ‘That lamp is not for you. It is for the one that lives in the woods. It has been there since before the farm existed. Every year, it lures a child, and we keep it satisfied by leaving that lantern on. But you went to it. Now it knows you exist.’ She looked at me, and her eyes were filled with a sorrow that I didn’t understand. ‘It has marked you. Like it marked me, when I was young. And it will come back for you, unless you give it something else.’

We didn’t sleep that night. We lay in our beds, listening to the sounds of the forest, which now seemed louder, closer. At midnight, the porch light went out. I heard a shuffling outside our window, and when I looked out, I saw the woman from the hut standing in the yard, holding the brass lamp. Its flame was now a pale blue, and it cast a long shadow behind her, though the moon was hidden. She stood there for hours, as still as the trees. She didn’t move until the first light of dawn. When she left, she left behind a small, dark stain on the grass, shaped like a handprint. Mateo and I never spoke of it again. We went home the next day, and we tried to forget. But sometimes, at night, I hear the soft slap of something wet outside my window, and I know she’s still waiting. The lamp is always lit, even when it’s not. And one day, it will shine on me again.