The Lantern in the Root Cellar

In the autumn of 1987, my parents, my younger sister, and I moved into a ground-floor flat in an old Victorian house on Alder Street, in the outskirts of a rainy northern town. The flat had once been the servant’s quarters, and it smelled of damp coal dust and boiled cabbage. We were there because my father had taken a job at the local textile mill, and the rent was cheap. I was seven, and my sister was three.

The flat had a small kitchen with a cast-iron stove, a cramped bathroom, and two bedrooms. But the most intriguing part was the root cellar, accessible through a wooden trapdoor in the hallway floor. My father lifted it once to show us, revealing a narrow stone staircase descending into darkness. He said it was for storing potatoes and canned goods, but to me, it felt like a mouth leading to the earth’s insides. He locked it with a padlock, saying it was too dangerous for us to play in.

I was a curious child, and I was drawn to that trapdoor. I remember the first time I saw the lantern. It was the third night in the flat. I woke to a faint glow seeping through the cracks of the locked door. I crept out of bed, my heart thumping, and pressed my eye to the keyhole. A flickering light, like a kerosene lantern, moved slowly down the stone stairs, casting dancing shadows. I heard no footsteps, only the creak of the floorboards as if the house itself was breathing. I called for my father, but when he came, the glow was gone, and the lock was undisturbed.

I tried to tell my parents about the light, but they dismissed it as my imagination or the streetlight through a crack. My mother said I was too old for such fancies. But I knew what I saw. And over the following weeks, the glow appeared every night, always at the same time, just after midnight. It would emerge from the wall near the trapdoor, hover, then descend into the cellar. Once, I saw a shape within the light: a hunched figure, like an old man, carrying a lantern, but when it turned, it had no face, only a dark hollow where features should be.

Our cat, a scruffy ginger tom we called Pickle, began to sit by the trapdoor and meow pitifully at odd hours. Then, one afternoon, my mother found Pickle dead at the bottom of the cellar steps, his neck broken. She wailed, and my father dragged the trapdoor open, his face white. There was no sign of how Pickle got in; the lock was intact. My father took to drinking more, and my mother grew quiet. But we couldn’t afford to leave, so we stayed.

I started having dreams. In the dreams, I was in the cellar, and the lantern sat on a shelf, its light pulsing. The faceless figure stood beside me, and a voice, like dry leaves, whispered, ‘You see me, child? You can see. That is a curse.’ I would wake screaming, but my parents said I was just having nightmares.

One night, I decided to confront it. I took my father’s spare key from his drawer, and while my parents slept, I unlocked the trapdoor and crept down the stairs. The air was cold and thick with the smell of earth and rust. At the bottom, the cellar was small, with dirt walls and a few empty shelves. But at the back, there was a stone wall that seemed newer than the rest. As I approached, I saw the lantern materialize on a shelf, its flame sputtering. The faceless figure stepped out of the shadows, and this time, it wore a long coat, like the one my grandfather used to wear. It raised a hand, and I felt a cold pressure on my chest, and then it spoke, not with a voice, but directly into my mind: ‘Now you must take my place.’

The lantern flared, and I saw my face reflected in its glass, but it was not my face; it was the face of the old man, hollow and empty. I screamed, and then the light went out. I don’t remember climbing the stairs, but I woke in my bed, my parents shaking me, asking why I was so cold. I tried to tell them, but my voice was hoarse, and only a whisper came out. That morning, the trapdoor was locked, and I never saw the light again.

We moved out a month later, but the damage was done. I never wanted to dabble in the supernatural again. But now, as I write this, I realize the lantern is still with me. I see it flickering in the periphery of my vision, in the reflection of a window, always waiting. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see the hollow face of the old man staring back, and I know that I have inherited his curse. The cellar may be gone, but its door has opened inside me. I only hope that when I die, someone finds my own lantern, and takes my place, so that the cycle does not end with me.

But I fear it will. For the light is patient, and it has seen many lanterns. And it is hungry for the next one to carry its flame.