The Lantern Debt

It was the autumn of 2011 when our small support team, under the banner of ‘Journey Together,’ decided to push the limits of our collective spirit. Our goal was grand: to take our group of adults with learning disabilities on a seaside trip to Normandy. To fund it, we held a sponsored event: a weekend campout in the gothic grounds of St. Aldhelm’s Cathedral in our own city. The cathedral, a towering monument of dark stone, was encircled by a sprawling cemetery where ancient yew trees twisted into grotesque shapes. Thirteen of us gathered that Friday evening: staff, volunteers, and our service users. Among them was my father, a stoic retired engineer who had always scoffed at the supernatural. His presence surprised me, but he claimed he wanted to see the ‘antics’ firsthand.

We pitched two large tents near the south transept, our laughter echoing off the ornate headstones. As dusk bled into night, a man named Bernard, who claimed to be a spiritualist, produced a polished wooden board from his bag. He set it on a folding table, its surface gleaming under the pale lantern light. ‘To make contact,’ he said, his voice unnaturally low, ‘we must perform the Rite of Unbinding. Each person must offer a personal object—a memory, a possession—to the spirits. Only then will they speak.’ A murmur rippled through the group. My father scoffed, but a few others, intrigued, placed items: a worn wedding ring, a child’s toy, a silver locket. I offered a small stone I’d carried from a beach in Wales. My father, with a sigh, placed his old brass pocket watch, a family heirloom, onto the table.

We gathered around, fingers resting on the planchette. The air grew still, the usual city hum fading to a muffled drone. Bernard began to chant low, ancient-sounding words. The planchette twitched. Then it flew across the board to ‘YES.’ A cold gust extinguished the lanterns, plunging us into darkness. Panic fluttered, but Bernard lit a single match, revealing the planchette stopped at ‘HELLO.’ A collective breath. My father’s face was pale in the flicker. Then, the planchette began to spell out a name: ‘A-L-I-C-E.’ Bernard’s eyes widened. ‘Alice? Who is Alice?’

A woman’s voice, thin and reedy, seemed to come from the very air itself. ‘Alice… the caretaker’s daughter… 1873. They buried me alive.’ We all froze. The temperature plummeted. I saw frost forming on the grass at our feet. My father’s jaw tightened. ‘This is a trick,’ he said, but his voice wavered. The planchette moved again: ‘BRING HER BACK. OR THE DEBT REMAINS.’ Bernard asked, ‘What debt?’ The planchette spelled: ‘THE LIGHT. YOU TOOK MY LIGHT.’ His face went white. He looked at the lanterns. ‘It’s the lanterns,’ he whispered. ‘She wants the lanterns. We have to relight them.’

We scrambled to relight the lanterns. As the flames caught, the voice grew louder, angrier. ‘NO! THE LIGHT OF THE LIVING. GIVE ME YOUR LIGHT.’ We looked at each other, terrified. My father, a man of science, stepped forward. ‘What do you need, Alice?’ A pause. ‘A life for a life. Or a soul to take my place. The lantern will be my vessel.’ We all stared at the old brass lantern that hung from a low branch. My father’s eyes met mine. He slowly took his pocket watch from the table and placed it back in his pocket.

Suddenly, the planchette whirled to ‘GOODBYE,’ and the voice vanished. The air warmed. We exhaled in relief. But then, a soft sobbing began from the direction of the cathedral’s main doors. We turned, and there, in the moonlight, stood a small girl in a Victorian dress, her face ashen, her eyes dark hollows. ‘You have my lantern,’ she said, pointing a trembling finger at the branch where the lantern hung. But the lantern was not the old brass one; it was a brand new, glowing lantern with a figure inside—one of our own, a young man named Liam, who had been silent the whole evening. He was trapped, his face pressed against the glass, mouths moving in silent screams.

We tried to pull him out, but the lantern was searing hot. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Take this instead,’ he said, holding it out to the girl. ‘It’s more valuable than any lantern.’ The girl’s hollow eyes fixed on the watch. She pointed, and the watch flew from his hand into hers. She clutched it, smiled a ghastly smile, and then vanished. As she disappeared, the lantern cracked, and Liam fell to the ground, gasping. He was alive, but his eyes were distant, as if he had seen something unspeakable.

We broke camp that night, leaving the grounds with the promise to never return. But we discovered that in the weeks that followed, the gifts we had offered were never retrieved. And we each began to have the same dream: a small girl holding a lantern, her face half-lit, whispering, ‘One debt paid, three remain.’ My father, in quiet moments, confessed that he had also taken a small stone from that beach, and that the pocket watch was a replica; the real one was buried in the churchyard. We realized then that the spirits were not done with us. They had accepted our offerings as down payments, and the final payment would be due on the next Halloween night, when we were all supposed to return. But none of us intended to. And yet, the lantern that Liam brought home now hangs in his living room, always slightly swaying, even when all the windows are closed, and at night, we sometimes hear the faint sound of a child crying, and the words: ‘I’m still waiting.’