The Lantern in the Cistern

My name is Elara, and I’ve always been fascinated by the stories that cling to our town like moss to stones. Not the sanitized versions told to tourists, but the ones whispered over coffee, the ones that make your skin prickle and your breath catch. I believed them all. Every single one. And I was right to.

My Uncle Bram, a sturdy man with hands like oak roots, had a story that chilled me to the bone. He was a caretaker at the old Calderwood Asylum, a place that had been abandoned since the 1940s, perched on a hill overlooking the fog-choked valley. The asylum had a dark history, and locals said it was haunted by the restless spirits of the patients who had been mistreated there, especially the women who had died in childbirth, their babies never seeing the light of day.

One night, Bram had to stay late to fix a faulty generator. As the sun dipped below the ridge, casting long, skeletal shadows across the decaying building, he found himself in the basement, a dank, concrete labyrinth of pipes and rusted boilers. He finished his work, the clang of tools echoing in the oppressive silence, and wiped the grime from his brow. The only light came from a single, bare bulb hanging from a wire above the stairwell. He switched it off, plunging the basement into darkness, and started up the narrow concrete steps.

He had barely taken three steps when the light blazed back on, stark and unforgiving. He stopped, puzzled, and turned to flick the switch down again. The moment his hand left the switch, the light snapped on once more, as if some invisible hand were toying with him. A cold prickle ran down his spine. He was not a man easily spooked, but this was unnerving. He called out, ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ His voice echoed back, empty.

He again flipped the switch off, and this time, the light did not immediately come back on. He exhaled a nervous breath and began to climb. But then, from the darkness above, he heard a sound that made him freeze: a soft, wet chuckle, followed by a fluttering noise, like wings beating against damp stone. He looked up, and his blood ran cold.

There, near the ceiling, hovering just above his head, was a woman. At least, it had the shape of a woman, but its skin was the color of a drowned corpse, pale and slick. Its hair hung in lank ropes, obscuring most of its face, but he could see its mouth, a slit that opened into a too-wide grin. Its fingers were impossibly long, tipped with black, curved nails. And it laughed, a low, gurgling sound, as it floated, its bare feet dangling, blood dripping from its thighs and pooling on the steps.

Bram let out a scream, a sound he didn’t know he was capable of, and bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst through the basement door, slammed it shut, and ran across the main hall, not daring to look back. He scrambled onto his old motorcycle, his hands shaking so violently he could barely grip the handles. He revved the engine and sped away, leaving the asylum and its horrors behind. He never returned, and he never spoke of it again, except to me, in a whisper, late one night when he thought no one else was listening.

I never forgot his story. It fueled my obsession. I needed to understand the nature of these creatures, these vengeful spirits. I spent years in the town’s library, poring over ancient texts and local folklore. I learned that the entity Bram saw was a langsuir, a vengeful spirit of a woman who died in childbirth or miscarriage. In some traditions, it is said that they can be created if eggs are not properly placed under the armpits of the deceased. And they have a particular hatred for men, for they blame them for their suffering. They were said to dwell in trees, waiting to strike any man who dared to trespass.

My grandmother, a wise old woman with a face like crumpled paper, told me that the only way to banish a langsuir is to cut it with a special dagger forged from the iron of a horse’s shoe, and that the creature can be trapped by nailing the point where it enters a tree. But she also warned me to never listen to their whispers, for they can lure you into a trap, and to never, ever sleep under a tree where they roost.

I dismissed her tales as superstition, but a part of me knew there was truth in them. My curiosity, my morbid fascination, turned into a compulsion. I had to see one for myself. I knew the asylum held more secrets, and I was determined to uncover them.

So, one moonless night, I drove my car to the ruins of Calderwood Asylum. The iron gates were rusted open, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds. I carried a flashlight, a notebook, and a small silver cross that my grandmother had given me, just in case.

The building loomed before me, its windows like empty eye sockets. I pushed open the heavy front door, which creaked on its hinges, and stepped inside. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. My flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing peeling paint, broken furniture, and faded photographs on the walls, their faces worn away.

I made my way to the basement, my footsteps echoing on the concrete. The stairs were exactly as my uncle had described, narrow and steep. I reached the landing where he had seen the creature, and I felt a chill, as if a cold hand had brushed against the back of my neck. I paused, listening. Nothing but my own breathing.

I descended into the basement, my heart pounding. The room was larger than I expected, filled with rusted pipes and old machinery. At the far end, I saw a strange sight: a small, cylindrical cistern, maybe three feet in diameter, set into the floor, its lid askew. I approached it, my curiosity overwhelming my caution. The cistern was dry, but there was a faint, coppery smell, like old blood.

I knelt down and peered inside. At the bottom, I saw something that made my stomach drop: a baby’s shoe, barely a palm’s width, half-covered in dust. And beside it, a fragment of a photograph, showing a young woman in a Victorian dress, her face scratched out. I reached in to pick up the shoe, but as my fingers brushed the metal lid, a cold, soft hand closed around my wrist.

I gasped and yanked my hand away, stumbling backward. The lid of the cistern slammed shut with a deafening clang, and then, from inside, I heard the muffled sound of a baby’s cry, followed by a low, guttural laugh. The light in the basement flickered, and I turned to run.

But the stairs were no longer there. In their place was a solid brick wall. I was trapped.

Panic set in. I spun around, searching for another exit, but the room seemed to have grown, the walls receding into darkness. The only light was my flashlight, which flickered erratically. And then, from the shadows above, I heard a fluttering, and a voice, soft and mockingly seductive, whispered, ‘You came for me, didn’t you, little one?’

I looked up, and there she was, the langsuir, descending slowly, her long hair writhing like snakes, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her eyes, if she had them, were hidden, but I could feel her gaze boring into me.

I clutched my cross, holding it out in front of me, but she only laughed, a sound like dry reeds scraping together. ‘That won’t help you,’ she hissed. ‘You are a woman, and I have no quarrel with you. But you are trespassing, and you have disturbed my child’s resting place. So you will stay with us, forever.’

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She flew at me, and the world went black.

When I woke, I was lying on the concrete floor, the cistern lid open beside me. I was covered in dust, but I was alive. I scrambled to my feet and found the stairs, exactly where they had always been. I fled the asylum, not stopping until I was in my car, driving home with shaking hands.

I never went back. I sold my house and moved across the country. But sometimes, at night, I still hear that laugh, and I feel that cold hand on my wrist. And I know, deep in my bones, that the langsuir is still there, waiting in the cistern, guarding the door between worlds. And if you ever find yourself in an abandoned place, and you see a single light flick on by itself, do not go to switch it off. Just run. Run as fast as you can, and never look back.