The Lantern at Kilometer 41

We arrived at the small mountain town of Karsang just after nine in the morning, the air so thin and cold it felt like breathing ice. The lodge, a creaking wooden structure named ‘The Rusty Spade’, clung to a hillside overlooking a valley that seemed to go on forever. After a quick meal of rice and dried fish, we decided to explore the nearby Deo Caves, a series of limestone tunnels that were said to be a gateway to the underworld. We spent hours crawling through the damp, dark passages, our headlamps throwing jagged shadows on the stalactites that hung like teeth.

By evening, we were starving. We found a small restaurant that served a strong, local wine and grilled goat. As we ate, a woman at the next table struck up a conversation. She introduced herself as Ingrid, a botanist from the lowlands, here to study the rare mosses that grew on the cliffs. She told us about a viewpoint called ‘The Sleeping Giant’, a peak that offered a panoramic sunrise if you were willing to hike two hours in the pre-dawn dark. We were tired, but the idea of seeing the sun paint the mountains orange was too tempting. We agreed to meet her at the lodge’s entrance at four in the morning.

After a few rounds of the wine, we stumbled back to our room. It was already past eleven, and my two companions, Mark and Yuki, were soon snoring in their bunks. I lay in mine, but sleep wouldn’t come. My legs ached, my mind raced. I pulled out my tablet and mindlessly scrolled through photos, hoping to tire my eyes. The only light in the room came from the balcony door, a dim yellow bulb that cast a long, wavering rectangle across the floor.

I must have dozed off, because I woke with a jolt. The room was darker, the balcony light had gone out. I checked my tablet – it was 3:47 AM. I was about to close my eyes again when I noticed something on the screen. A photo I didn’t remember taking. It was a selfie of me, but my face was twisted in a way I couldn’t recognize, and behind me, over my shoulder, a figure was standing in the shadows – a tall, thin shape that looked like a burnt tree. I blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by my normal gallery.

I chalked it up to a glitch and decided to get ready. I pulled on my jacket and boots, and woke Mark and Yuki. They grumbled but got up. We met Ingrid outside, who had a large lantern, the old-fashioned kind with a glass globe. She smiled, her face half-lit by the warm glow. ‘Ready to see something beautiful?’ she said. We started up the switchback trail, the town lights fading below us into a black sea.

The path was rough, rutted with roots and loose stones. Ingrid set a brisk pace, as if she knew every step. We tried to keep up, our headlamps cutting weak cones into the dark. After about an hour, my lungs were burning. We stopped to rest by a large boulder, and Ingrid turned off her lantern. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. We all fell silent. Then I heard it – a faint, rhythmic scraping, as if something heavy was being dragged through the underbrush. It grew louder, then stopped. I looked at Mark and Yuki, but they seemed not to notice, chatting about the trail.

I asked Ingrid about the sound. She just shook her head and said, ‘Probably a wild pig.’ But her eyes darted into the darkness. We pressed on. The path began to wind through a dense grove of pine trees, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out the sky. It was then that the trail markers, small white arrows painted on the rocks, started to appear in odd places – on the underside of a branch, on the back of a man-sized boulder. Ingrid noticed them too, slowing down, shining her lantern at each one. ‘This is wrong,’ she muttered. ‘We should be coming out onto the ridge by now.’

I looked at my watch. It was now 5:30, but the sky remained black. No hint of dawn. Yuki tapped my shoulder and pointed at the ground. There, on the dirt, were dozens of small, dark pebbles arranged in a circle. In the center, a crude doll made of twigs and string. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the altitude. ‘Is this part of the trail?’ I asked. Ingrid’s face was pale. ‘No,’ she said. She turned her lantern ahead, and we saw the path itself vanish into a wall of thick, gnarled roots, like a bramble that had grown overnight.

We had to turn back. But when we did, the trail behind us was gone too, replaced by the same bramble. We were trapped. Panic rose. Mark started pushing at the roots, but they were like iron. I looked at Ingrid, who was staring at the lantern. The glass was fogging up from the inside, and the flame was turning a sickly green. She muttered a name under her breath, something that sounded like ‘Talunasan.’ She looked up, and her eyes were wet. ‘I’ve been here before,’ she confessed. ‘Years ago, a group of students came here. They never made it to the peak. They were found days later, in the caves, their bodies covered in moss.’

Then the scraping sound returned, close, and I saw movement in the roots. Twisting, crackling, something was coming through. A limb emerged, black and slick, like a branch wrapped in wet leather. Then another, until a creature stood before us – tall, thin, with skin that looked like bark, and no face, only a mess of thin, writhing tendrils. It reached out a hand, and from its palm, a small lantern, just like Ingrid’s, but with a blood-red light. The tendrils began to curl, as if beckoning us.

Yuki screamed, and we fled blindly through the bramble, branches tearing at our clothes. It seemed to give way, and we stumbled out onto a small clearing. The sky was still black, but above us, the stars were gone, replaced by a swirl of green lights. My watch read 6:15, but there was no sunrise. Ingrid was gone.

We ran until we reached the lodge, our lungs burning, and collapsed in the parking lot. The owner, an old man with a leathery face, saw us. He looked at us, then at the sky, and said, ‘You went to the viewpoint, didn’t you?’ We nodded. He shook his head. ‘That was the wrong peak. You went to Kilometer 41.’ He pointed to a faded sign we had passed on the way in, but had barely noticed. It said ‘Sleeping Giant Trail – 41 km.’ Below, in smaller letters, almost worn away: ‘Do not follow the lantern.’

Back in our room, I opened my tablet. The gallery was full of photos I had never taken – pictures of us on the trail, but in each one, a shadowy figure with a lantern stood just behind us, growing closer in each shot. The last photo showed Ingrid’s face, her eyes wide, her mouth open as if screaming. And in the reflection of her own lantern, I saw the creature, its tendrils wrapping around her neck.

It is now a year later. I have not returned to Karsang. But sometimes, late at night, I hear the faint scraping sound outside my window, and I see a flicker of green light. And I know that wherever I go, the lantern at Kilometer 41 is still lit, and it is waiting.