The Lantern in the Fog

My name is Arjun, and this happened during my second year at a small engineering college in a city that never felt truly awake. That December, our college hosted a cultural fest, a grand affair that dragged on from dawn to dusk. I had volunteered to help with the arrangements, so I left my paying guest accommodation at five in the morning, my breath fogging the cold air as I walked the mile to campus.

The fest was a blur of color, noise, and chaos. Students from nearby colleges performed dances, sang songs, and recited poetry. The air smelled of fried snacks and diesel from the generators that hummed relentlessly. By seven in the evening, the last act had ended, and the crowd dispersed. A group of us went to a small restaurant across the street, where we ate greasy dosas and laughed at the day’s mishaps. At nine, we said our goodbyes, and I set off with two classmates, Rohan and Meera, who lived in the same direction as me.

We walked for about twenty minutes, chatting about trivial things, the streetlights flickering overhead. Then their lane branched off, and they waved goodbye, leaving me alone to continue on the ‘Shortcut Road’—a narrow, unpaved path that cut through a large, abandoned stretch of land. This road was infamous; it was flanked on one side by a massive, overgrown playground where no one played anymore, and on the other by a high compound wall that enclosed a thick grove of banyan and neem trees, owned by the municipal corporation. The locals said the place was haunted, but I had never believed them. I had walked this road a hundred times, but never this late.

It was 9:30 PM. December in our city is not freezing, but it gets a damp chill that seeps into your bones. Mist began to rise from the ground, thin and wispy, curling around my legs like something alive. A power cut had darkened the entire neighborhood, so the only light came from a weak, hazy moon that struggled to pierce the cloud cover. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my phone, but the battery was dead—I had forgotten to charge it in the rush of the morning. I cursed softly and kept walking, trusting my feet to know the way.

The silence was heavy. There were no crickets, no distant dogs, not even the rustle of leaves. The fog thickened, reducing visibility to a few meters. I felt a prickling on the back of my neck, as if someone was watching me. I stopped and listened, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. I told myself it was nerves, that the fog played tricks on the eyes, and I walked faster.

Then I saw it: a faint, orange glow ahead, bobbing gently. It looked like a lantern, swaying as if carried by someone walking. I slowed down, squinting. Who would be out here at this hour with a lantern? Perhaps it was a watchman, or a beggar, or someone from the nearby shanties. I called out, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ but there was no answer. The lantern stopped moving, just hovering in the fog about fifty paces ahead.

I hesitated. The rational part of me wanted to turn back, but the only way home was forward. The road was long and winding, and I didn’t know how safe it was to go back through the dark. So, cautiously, I took a step forward. The lantern moved again, keeping the same distance. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I started to jog, but the lantern also picked up speed, staying just out of reach. I broke into a run, but it was no use—it always kept that precise, maddening gap.

Panic began to grip me. I realized I was no longer on the familiar gritty path; the fog had disoriented me, and I had veered onto a patch of dead grass near the compound wall. I turned to find my bearings, but the dim shapes of the playground and the wall looked alien in the mist. The lantern was now closer, about twenty feet away, and I could see it clearly: an old-fashioned oil lamp with a tarnished brass base and a glass chimney, the flame inside burning steady despite the wind. But what held the lantern—I could not see. It seemed to float at shoulder height, as if held by an invisible hand.

A voice, soft and indistinguishable, seemed to whisper my name, but not from the lantern’s direction. It came from behind the wall, from the grove. ‘Arjun…’ I spun around, heart pounding. There was nothing but the dark, tangled trees, their branches like skeletal fingers. The whisper came again, closer, ‘Arjun… come closer…’ The voice was feminine, almost soothing, but it made my skin crawl.

In an instant, the fog condensed into a shape—a woman in a white sari, her face obscured by long black hair. She stood between me and the lantern, her head tilted. I stumbled backward, but my foot caught on a root and I fell. She glided closer, her bare feet not touching the ground. I tried to scream, but my throat was clenched. She leaned in, and a bitter, earthy smell filled my nose. A whisper brushed my ear: ‘You should not have used that road.’

Then, the lantern dropped to the ground with a clatter, and the glass shattered. The flame died, plunging everything into blackness. I scrambled to my feet and ran, blind, tripping over unseen obstacles. The fog dispersed as quickly as it had come, and the stars reappeared. I burst out of the shortcut road onto the main street, where a streetlight burned flickering. I collapsed on a bench, gasping, my hands trembling. I looked back, but the road was empty.

I later learned from an old tea vendor that a woman had died on that road twenty years ago, strangled by a man she had been meeting in secret. No one had ever caught the killer. Since then, locals avoided the shortcut after sunset, especially during December, when the fog rolled in. They said her ghost carried a lantern, searching for her murderer, and anyone who saw it would be drawn in. I never took that road again, and I moved to a different accommodation within the year.

But even now, on foggy nights, I sometimes see a faint orange glow in my peripheral vision, and I hear a whisper that carries no words. I don’t know if it’s a memory or if she followed me. I only know that the shortcut road is not our road—it is hers.