The Lantern Keeper

I grew up in a small town in the heart of Pahang, Malaysia, where the jungle pressed close against the edges of the village, and the air was thick with the smell of rain and rotting leaves. The houses stood on stilts, and at night, the darkness between them seemed to breathe. My family’s home was at the end of a dirt road, and beyond our fence, the forest began its slow, hungry encroachment. I was a curious child, prone to wandering, but my mother’s rules were firm: never go out after sunset, and never, ever, approach the fence line. ‘There are things in the dark that don’t want to be seen,’ she would say, her voice low and serious. I thought she meant snakes or wild boars, but I was wrong.

It was during the monsoon season, when the rain fell in sheets for days on end, that I first noticed her. The power would often flicker, and in those moments of near-darkness, I would see a figure standing just beyond our fence, near the old kapok tree that leaned toward the house like a curious giant. She was tall, draped in a white kain that seemed to shimmer, and she held a lantern that cast no light. Her face was a blur, as if the rain itself had smudged her features. She stood perfectly still, facing the forest, as if waiting for something. At first, I thought she was a neighbor or a traveler, but something about her made my skin prickle. When I called out to her, she turned, and though I couldn’t see her smile, I felt it. She raised a hand and waved, then returned to her vigil. I told my mother, and her face went pale. She grabbed my shoulders and said, ‘You must never speak to her. Never acknowledge her. She is not one of us.’

But I could not forget her. Every night, I would creep to my window and watch. She was always there, sometimes closer, sometimes farther, but always with that lantern that seemed to swallow the light around it. I began to notice that she never stood in the rain. The water would fall around her, but it never touched her. She was dry as bone, and her white dress remained pristine. I started to feel a strange pull, an urge to go outside and ask her who she was, what she wanted. I resisted, but the urge grew stronger with each passing week. I began to have nightmares of walking through the forest, following the glow of her lantern, and finding myself in a clearing filled with ancient stones, where a voice would whisper, ‘You came.’

One night, a month into the monsoon, the rain stopped abruptly. The air grew still, and a heavy silence fell over the village. My parents were away visiting relatives, and I was alone. I lay in bed, listening to the drip of water from the roof, when I heard a knock on my window. It was soft, like a fingertip tapping glass. I turned, and there she was, her face just inches from the window, for the first time clear. Her eyes were black, deep pools that seemed to hold the night itself. She smiled, and her mouth was too wide, full of sharp, small teeth. In a voice that sounded like wind through dry leaves, she said, ‘You are the one who sees me. You are the one who will help.’ Then she pointed to the lantern she held. Inside, instead of flame, there was a tiny, flickering shape—a man, his face contorted in silent agony.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I felt my body moving on its own, unlocking the window, climbing out. My feet touched the wet ground, and I walked toward her, past the fence, into the embrace of the forest. She led me along a path I had never seen before, though I had played here all my life. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches like grasping hands. The lantern’s glow illuminated a circle of mushrooms, and in the center, a small, crude doll made of twigs and cloth. She handed me the doll and said, ‘He was a hunter, lost in these woods. His soul is trapped here. I am his keeper, but I am fading. You must take my place.’

I tried to refuse, but my voice was gone. She pressed the lantern into my hands, and the heat of it seared my palms. The man inside the flame grew still, and then he began to dissolve, merging into the flame, becoming part of the light. The lady smiled, and her form began to fade, like mist burning away in the morning sun. ‘Now you will stand guard,’ she said. ‘You will keep the lost ones from wandering. You will be the lantern bearer.’ And then she was gone, and I was alone in the forest, the lantern heavy in my hands, the doll clutched to my chest.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, the lantern on my nightstand, its flame steady and pale. My palms were burn-free, but I felt a coldness inside me, a knowledge that I had changed. I never told my parents. I continued my life, but every night, I feel the pull to the fence, to the forest. And tonight, I will go. I will stand where she stood, and I will wait. Because I have seen what happens when the lantern goes dark: the shadows come alive, and they are hungry. And I am the only one who can hold them back.