The Lantern at Dusk

The house I’d rented in Haripur was a relic of another century, its red-brick façade crumbling in places and its wide veranda sagging under the weight of monsoon vines. My parents in Pune thought I was mad to choose such a place, but I craved the silence after the chaos of college in the city. My friends from the business school would come over after classes, and I’d show them the old computer I’d salvaged, the CRT monitor humming like a trapped wasp. We’d drink chai and dissect spreadsheets until the light failed, then they’d leave, and I’d be alone with the creaks and the shadows.

As my third semester loomed, my weakness in cost accounting became a crisis. My friends, especially Arjun, who had a head for numbers, insisted on group study at my place. We’d sit around the dining table, the eerie glow of the laptop screen casting long shadows, while Arjun explained break-even points and variance analysis. One evening, we were so absorbed that we only noticed the time when the clock struck half past seven. My friends scrambled to leave, promising to return early the next day.

After they left, the power cut as it often did at that hour. I fumbled for the emergency light, its pale beam barely illuminating the kitchen. I cooked rice on the small gas stove, the flame hissing in the dark. When I finished, I decided to go to the mosque for the Isha prayer, as was my habit. The village was already quiet, and the market was a ghost of itself when I rode by. I thought of buying some vegetables, but the shutters were down, and the few souls who lingered hurried away with heads bowed.

I turned my bike toward home, the road empty except for a stray dog that crossed my path. The streetlights were weak, their halos trembling in the humid air. As I approached my lane, a figure emerged from the gloom—a woman in a dark sari, her head covered, walking slowly, without purpose. I slowed, not wanting to startle her, but as I passed, she turned her face toward me, and I saw that her eyes were like beads of polished black stone, and her lips moved as she whispered something I couldn’t hear. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

The encounter unsettled me, but I dismissed it as a villager out late for some reason. I locked my bike and climbed the creaking stairs to my room. The emergency light was dying, casting a weak orange glow. I ate my rice in silence, listening to the usual sounds—the geckos chirping, the wind in the shrubs. But then I heard a different sound: a soft tapping on my window, like a nail against glass. I froze, the rice turning to paste in my mouth. The tapping came again, more insistent. I slowly approached the window and drew the curtain aside.

There, pressed against the glass, was a pale face with those same black stone eyes. The woman from the lane. Her lips parted, and she whispered, ‘Let me in.’ Her voice was barely audible through the pane, but it seemed to vibrate in my skull. I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. ‘Who are you?’ I shouted, but she only smiled—a thin, bloodless smile. Then she raised a hand, and I saw that her fingers were too long, with nails like thorns, and she pressed her palm against the glass, leaving a smear of—what? Oil? Blood? I couldn’t tell.

I grabbed my bike keys and made to flee, but when I reached the door, it wouldn’t budge. The lock turned without my turning it. I heard a faint laugh, thin as air. The emergency light flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. I fumbled for my phone, but its screen was dead, despite being fully charged. The tapping came from all the windows now, a symphony of knocks, and the room grew colder.

Then the tapping ceased. In the silence, I heard a new sound: footsteps, dragging, coming from the kitchen. They drew closer, and through the open doorway, I saw a silhouette—the woman, now inside, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. She began to creep toward me, her movements jerky, like a broken marionette. I pressed myself against the wall, and the last thing I remember was her leaning in, her breath like rotting meat, and whispering, ‘You left me waiting, beloved.’

They found me the next morning, huddled in the corner, my face ruined by the nails I had torn from the windows trying to claw my way out. The villagers said I was lucky to be alive, but the doctor said I’d gone mad. They sent me to a hospital in the city, and I never returned to that house. But sometimes, when the lights go out, I hear that whisper again, and I see those black stone eyes in every shadow. And I know she’s still waiting.