The Lantern by the Frosted Pane

Three months ago, I was in my study, tracing the veins of an old map, when my cat, Jasper, began hissing from the top of the stairs. I went to see what had disturbed him. As I reached the landing, he launched himself at me, tumbling down like a furry avalanche. I caught him, his claws digging into my shoulder, and when I looked up, a tall, wavering silhouette stood at the top of the stairs, its outline bleeding into the dim hallway. Two ember-like eyes stared through me, not at me, as if I were merely a pane of glass. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft.

I have never been a believer in gods or sermons, but I have worn a small iron key on a leather thong around my neck since I was sixteen, a talisman my grandmother gave me when I moved to this old house. She said it would ward off the things that linger at the edges of sight. I have seen the figure four times since that first encounter. Each time, it is the same: a shadow with a human shape, but wrong proportions, too tall, too thin, with arms that end in fingers that stretch like smoke. And those eyes, glowing a deep, angry red, like the coals of a dying fire.

The second time, I was at my friend Mateo’s apartment, a cramped flat above a closed bakery. We were watching a grainy horror film, the kind that makes you laugh more than scream. Around midnight, we stepped out onto the fire escape for a cigarette. The city hummed below, but the alley behind the bakery was dead quiet. As I lit my smoke, I saw it at the far end of the gutter, a darker patch against the wet brick, those red eyes fixed on me. It stood there for a full minute, then simply evaporated, like ink dissolving in water.

The third time was in my own kitchen. I was cooking for my mother’s birthday, stirring a pot of soup, when I heard a faint, wet sound from the dining room, like a tongue clicking against a dry roof. I turned, and there it was, half-visible in the doorway, its head tilted as if curious. I dropped the ladle, splattering hot broth across my hand, but I didn’t feel the burn. I just stared, and it stared back, unblinking. Then it stepped backwards, and the doorway was empty.

Yesterday, I saw it for the fourth time. I was in my front room, reading a book by the light of a single lamp, when I felt a presence at the window. I looked up, and there it was, standing just outside, its form pressed against the glass like a black frost. It was looking outside, away from me, at the streetlamp that flickered at the end of the yard. Its lips, if they could be called lips, were moving, forming words I could not hear. I clutched my iron key, and as I did, it turned its head, meeting my gaze. For the first time, I saw something other than menace in its eyes: a look of sorrow, and a desperate plea.

I am not sure what it wants. But last night, I dreamt of a lantern, its light cold and blue, swinging over a snow-covered field. In the dream, I was walking toward it, and behind me, the shadow followed, leaving no footprints. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. My talisman had grown warm against my chest. I think it has been trying to tell me something all along, and I am finally ready to listen.