The Lantern in Her Palm

I never believed in the quiet sort of haunting until I stayed at my great-aunt Miriam’s farmhouse that autumn. The house was a relic of another century, with wide plank floors that breathed and walls that sweat cold dampness even in October. I was sixteen, and my parents had sent me to help her with the harvest, but really they needed a break from me. I didn’t mind. Aunt Miriam was a woman of few words, but her eyes held stories, and her hands were always busy knitting something gray.

That first night, we played cribbage at the kitchen table until the clock struck eleven. The oil lamp flickered, casting our shadows like giants on the peeling wallpaper. She beat me soundly, as always, and then declared it was time for bed. She insisted I take the upstairs bedroom, the one with the four-poster bed that smelled of lavender and dust. She would stay downstairs on the chaise lounge by the wood stove, she said, because her arthritis flared with the cold. I thought it odd, since the upstairs was warmer, but I didn’t argue.

I climbed the narrow staircase, the steps groaning under my weight. The room was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a cord. I had just settled under the quilt with a dog-eared mystery novel when the door creaked open. Aunt Miriam stood there, her silhouette framed by the hallway darkness. She held out a small, tarnished lantern, unlit. ‘You’ll be needing this,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I’m not leaving the hallway light on tonight. The moths get in.’ Before I could ask, she was gone, and I heard her settle downstairs.

I stared at the lantern, its glass sooty, its wick frayed. It was strange, because I hadn’t needed a light in the hallway, and the bulb in my room was bright enough. But I set it on the nightstand and went back to my book. That’s when I noticed the silence. The house, which had been full of creaks and sighs, had gone dead quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath. I turned a page, and the sound was like a gunshot.

Then I heard it – a soft scratching, like claws on wood, coming from inside the wall behind the headboard. It started slow, then quickened, a frantic scraping that made my skin prickle. I put down my book and pressed my ear to the wall. The scratching stopped. But then, from the other side of the room, by the wardrobe, came a whisper. Not words, exactly, but a breathy exhalation that sounded like my name. I froze. The air grew cold, and the lantern on the nightstand flickered, though it was unlit.

I tried to rationalize it – old house, wind, mice. But the whisper came again, clearer this time, a woman’s voice saying, ‘Margaret.’ That was my name. I had never told Aunt Miriam my full name. I scrambled out of bed, my heart hammering, and yanked open the bedroom door. The hallway was pitch black, despite the promise of a light. I fumbled for the light switch, but it clicked uselessly. Then I remembered the lantern. I grabbed it, shaking, and struck a match to its wick. The flame sputtered, then grew, casting a weak circle of light.

As I held it up, the light fell on the hallway walls. They were covered in old photographs, most of them faded and crooked. I had noticed them earlier, but now they seemed different. In each one, the faces had changed. They were not smiling relatives; they were gaunt, hollow-eyed, their mouths open in silent screams. I stumbled backward, and the lantern swung, throwing shadows that twisted into shapes. One of the photographs fell from its nail and shattered on the floor. I ran downstairs, calling for Aunt Miriam.

I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table, her knitting needles still in her hands. But she wasn’t knitting. She was staring at the empty chair across from her, as if someone were sitting there. ‘She’s back,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘Who?’ I asked, my voice cracking. ‘The one who lived here before us. The one who died waiting for her husband to come home from the war. She never left. She likes to play games, but they always end badly.’

The lantern in my hand flickered, and I saw the indentation on the cushion of the empty chair, as if a body had just risen. Then the front door, which I knew was bolted, creaked open. A draft swept through the kitchen, extinguishing the lantern. In the darkness, I heard Aunt Miriam’s voice, cold and distant: ‘I gave you the lantern so she wouldn’t see you. But you lit it. You broke the rules.’ I felt a presence behind me, breath on my neck. I turned, but there was nothing. Only the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, one by one.

I never spent another night there. I returned the lantern to Aunt Miriam, who wrapped it in a cloth and placed it in a drawer. She never spoke of that night again, and neither did I. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that hallway of screaming portraits, and I hear the whisper of a name that isn’t quite mine. The lantern sits in my own attic now, unlit, because I know some lights should never be turned on.