The Lantern in the Hall

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I mean, I’d heard the stories, seen the videos, but it was all just entertainment. That changed the summer I turned nineteen, when I visited my cousin’s new flat in the outskirts of Multan. The area was so new that the roads ended in dirt tracks, and our street had just three houses, all of them dark at night except ours.

My cousin, Daniyal, and his younger brother, Faraz, had moved there a few months before. The flat was modern, with white walls and polished floors, but there was something off about it. The first night, as we sat in the living room, Daniyal mentioned how their sister, who was studying in Lahore, often appeared in the hallway at night. He’d see her silhouette through the frosted glass of the guest room door, brushing her long hair. Faraz nodded, adding that he once heard her humming from the kitchen when she was miles away.

I laughed it off. ‘You’re letting the quiet mess with your heads,’ I said. But I was curious. I called out into the empty hall, ‘If you’re here, show me a sign. I’m not afraid.’

Nothing happened. We went back to chatting, but the air felt dense, like a held breath. Around midnight, the power flickered once, and the fridge fell silent. Then, just before three, I saw it. A soft, warm light danced under the gap of the guest room door. It wasn’t a shadow; it was like a lantern had been lit inside, casting a gentle glow that swayed as if someone was walking with it.

‘You see that?’ I whispered, pointing. Daniyal froze. He and Faraz had seen it before, they said, but never like this. We all got up, and I led the way. My heart was pounding, but I felt excited, not scared. I pushed the door open slowly.

The room was empty. A single bulb flickered overhead, and on the dresser, a small oil lamp was burning. It wasn’t there before. The flame flickered, and I felt a cold draft. Then, I noticed the mirror. In it, I saw a reflection of the room behind me, but there was a woman standing in the corner, dressed in a white shalwar kameez, her face obscured by her hair. She held a comb in her hand, and she was slowly running it through her long, dark strands.

I turned, but no one was there. When I looked back at the mirror, she was gone. But the lamp was still burning, and on the floor, I saw a single strand of black hair. I picked it up. It was longer than any of ours.

We left the room and didn’t sleep that night. In the morning, we told Daniyal’s mother, who just smiled and said, ‘It’s just an old woman who lost her daughter. She comes for comfort.’

We didn’t stay longer. I returned home, but I’m writing this from a hospital bed. Because three days ago, I found that strand of hair in my luggage. And last night, I woke up to see a figure at the foot of my bed, holding a familiar lantern. She didn’t need to comb her hair; she just pointed at me with the comb and smiled.

Now, I can’t stop combing my own hair, even though I’m a guy with a buzz cut. And every time I look at the mirror, I see her reflection behind me, waiting. This lantern in my hall is the only light I have left.