The Lantern Girl

I was nineteen when I moved into the old Millbrook Apartments with my girlfriend, Maya. It was December, and the city of Verona was drowning in an unseasonably cold rain that seemed to seep into everything. I worked the evening shift at a hardware store on Main, and Maya worked mornings at a diner, so we barely saw each other, but it was ours, that cramped studio with the radiator that clanked and the window that whistled. That night, I was walking home from work, my boots soaked through, carrying a bag of takeout from the Chinese place—two orders of lo mein and a soda. The streetlights cast blurry halos in the rain, and the sidewalks were slick with fallen leaves. I was about to cross into the alley that ran behind our building, a shortcut I always took, when I heard it: a sound that didn’t belong. It was a thin, reedy cry, like a kitten trapped somewhere, but it was too human. I stopped, my heart thumping. I told myself it was just a cat, but I knew better. I edged toward the mouth of the alley, which was narrow and dark, the only light coming from a flickering sign above a pawnshop. There, huddled against a dumpster, was a little girl. She was maybe six or seven, with matted hair and a threadbare nightgown that clung to her like wet paper. She was shivering so hard I could hear her teeth chattering. I crouched down, keeping my distance, and said, ‘Hey, are you okay?’ She looked up, and her eyes were too big for her face, and they were solid black—no whites, no irises. I blinked, and she was normal, bloodshot blue. She said, ‘I’m lost.’ Her voice was small, but it carried a weird weight. ‘Where’s your mom?’ I asked. ‘She’s waiting for me,’ she said, pointing deeper into the alley. I didn’t see anyone. I looked back at her, and she was smiling, but it was wrong, too wide. ‘Can you take me to her?’ I hesitated. The rain was picking up, and the alley felt like it was closing in. I didn’t want to be there, but I couldn’t leave her. So I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It swallowed her, but she clutched it like a lifeline. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s go find your mom.’ I took her hand. It was icy cold, and her fingers were like little bones. We walked deeper into the alley, past the dumpster, past a stack of rotting pallets. The crying sound started again, but this time it wasn’t her. It was coming from everywhere, like the walls were weeping. I stopped. ‘Where is she?’ The girl pointed to a door I’d never noticed before, a rusted steel door with a faded painted number: 13. ‘She’s in there,’ she said. I didn’t want to open that door. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But the girl tugged on my hand, and her grip was unnaturally strong. ‘Please,’ she said, and her eyes were black again. I reached for the handle, and it was freezing. The door swung open, and inside was darkness, but not just darkness—it was tangible, like a thick, wet blanket. And from within, a voice that was my mother’s, but she’d been dead for five years. It said, ‘Come in, honey. I’ve been waiting.’ I pulled back, but the girl yanked me forward, and I stumbled over the threshold. The door slammed shut behind me. I was in a hallway that looked like the one in my apartment building, but twisted. The walls pulsed like a heartbeat, and the carpet was soaked with something that smelled like copper. The girl was gone. My jacket was lying on the floor, empty. And ahead, at the end of the hall, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, with a face that shifted like smoke. It had the girl’s smile. It said, ‘You gave me your warmth. Now you stay.’ And then it started to sing, a lullaby I’d never heard, but somehow knew. I backed up, but the door was gone. The wall was smooth, and the hall stretched in both directions, endless. I ran. I ran until my lungs burned, but the hall never changed. The singing followed me, growing louder, more distorted. And then I saw a door, one I recognized—my apartment door, number 7B. I threw it open, and Maya was there, sitting on our couch, watching TV. She looked up and smiled. But her eyes were black, and the TV was showing a static image of that girl, standing in the rain, holding my jacket. ‘You’re home,’ Maya said, but it came out in the girl’s voice. ‘You brought her with you.’ I screamed, and then I was back in the alley, standing in the rain, my jacket gone, the takeout bag still in my hand. The girl was gone. There was no door, just a brick wall. I ran back to my apartment, my hands shaking. Maya opened the door, looking tired. ‘You look like you saw a ghost,’ she said. I told her everything. She held me. But that night, I woke up at 3 AM to find her standing by the window, staring out at the street. She turned and smiled at me, too wide. ‘The little girl says she’s still waiting,’ she said, in the girl’s voice. Even after that, we never spoke of it. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a crying sound from the alley, and I see a small figure under the streetlight, wearing my jacket. And I know she’s still there, waiting for someone else to give warmth.