The Lantern Festival of the Hollow

My name is Mara, and I grew up in the port city of Valdez, where the fog rolled in off the bay like a damp blanket and the old salt warehouses creaked with memories. My family ran a small antique shop, and my grandmother, Lola Ising, was the only one who believed in the unseen. I thought she was just a superstitious old woman until the summer I turned sixteen, when strange things began to happen in our home.

It started with the lanterns. Every year, the city celebrated the Festival of the Hollow, a tradition left by the original settlers who claimed the bay was haunted by the spirits of drowned sailors. We lit paper lanterns and set them adrift on the water, hoping to guide the lost souls. But that year, the lanterns we made at home would not stay lit. We would light them, and the flames would flicker and die, as if something was blowing them out from the inside. My brother, Jun, laughed it off as a draft, but I saw the fear in Lola Ising’s eyes.

Then the notes began. Little slips of paper appeared in my schoolbag, in my jacket pocket, even under my pillow. They were written in a shaky, childlike hand, with messages like ‘I’m cold’ and ‘Why did you leave me?’ I showed them to my parents, but they dismissed them as pranks from classmates. But the handwriting was too old, too faded, and the paper felt damp, as if it had been pulled from the sea.

The final straw was the mirror. In our bathroom, there was a large, antique mirror that Lola Ising had brought from her hometown. One night, as I was brushing my teeth, I saw a shape behind me in the reflection—a small, hunched figure with long, dripping hair. I spun around, but nothing was there. When I looked back, the mirror was fogged, and on its surface was a word etched in the condensation: ‘Mara.’

I ran to Lola Ising’s room, my heart pounding. She was awake, as if expecting me. She took my hands and said, ‘It’s the Hollow, child. The lanterns we light are not for the drowned. They are for the ones who died in the fire—the ferry disaster of 1948. The souls are restless, and they have attached themselves to our family because your grandfather was the one who built the first lanterns. He tried to appease them, but he died before he could finish the ritual.’

She gave me an old key, rusted and cold, and told me to go to the abandoned lighthouse on the cliffs. ‘Place this key in the lock of the lantern room, and light the flame inside. But beware,’ she said, ‘the flame must stay lit until dawn. If it goes out, they will take you instead.’

I did not want to go, but that night, the notes grew angrier. They whispered from the walls, and the lanterns in our shop burst into flames, leaving black scorch marks. I knew I had to face the Hollow.

I took a flashlight and the key, and walked to the lighthouse. The wind howled, and the fog was so thick I could barely see three feet ahead. When I reached the lighthouse, the door was already open, swinging on rusty hinges. Inside, the stairs spiraled up into darkness, and I could hear a faint sobbing, like a child lost at sea.

At the top, the lantern room was empty save for a single, massive lantern, its glass panes caked with salt and grime. The keyhole was rusted, but the key fit perfectly. As I turned it, the lantern began to glow with a weak, blue flame. I found a box of matches and lit the wick within, and the flame grew strong and bright. But then I saw them—dozens of translucent figures, their faces pale and hollow, pressing against the glass from the outside. They reached for the flame, and I knew they were trying to extinguish it.

I stayed there all night, shielding the flame with my body, feeding it with oil from tins I found in the corner. The figures moaned and clawed, but I held my ground. Just before dawn, the lighthouse began to shake, and the glass shattered. But the flame did not go out. It grew into a pillar of white light that shot into the sky, and the figures dissolved into mist.

When the sun rose, I walked home, exhausted but alive. The notes stopped, and the lanterns in our shop stayed lit. But when I looked in the mirror that morning, I saw a small, pale face behind me, smiling with gratitude. I turned, and it was gone. I never told anyone, but I know the Hollow is still there, waiting for the next festival, when the souls will return. And I am the only one who can keep them at peace.