The Lantern-Keeper’s Bargain

The year I turned eleven, my family moved to a dusty little town called San Isidro, where the dry season cracked the earth into puzzle pieces and the nights hummed with insects. Our new house stood at the end of a dirt lane, flanked by the crumbling adobe of the Delgado family on one side and the newer, paint-chipped bungalow of my cousin Tessie’s family on the other. Across the narrow road, a field of tall, brittle grass stretched toward the tree line, and beyond that, a neglected orchard where old mango trees drooped like arthritic giants.

I was not a brave child. I feared the dark, the creak of floorboards, and the way my shadow seemed to lag behind me on moonlit walks. My cousins, Tessie (fourteen) and Mila (thirteen), often teased me for it, but they were kind enough to keep me company on the nights our parents allowed us to sit outside, watching the fireflies blink over the empty lots where the neighbors said an ancient balete tree once stood before being cut down.

On the night of our house blessing, our yard was strung with paper lanterns, and the smell of grilled fish and coconut rice hung in the air. Around nine, the adults retreated inside to play cards, and I found myself perched on a low concrete wall outside Tessie’s house, while Tessie and Mila argued about which of them had seen a shooting star first. I was only half-listening, my gaze wandering to the dark field across the road, where the grass seemed to rustle without any wind.

Then I saw her.

A woman in black, standing at the edge of the field. She was too far to see clearly, but I knew she was looking at me. Her eyes were not eyes—they were two coals, glowing red, burning with a hatred that felt personal. I tried to call out to my cousins, but my throat closed. The woman took a step forward, and the grass parted around her as if bowing. Then another step. And another. Each step ate the distance between us, and with each one, the temperature around me dropped.

Tessie was mid-sentence, gesturing toward the sky, when she noticed my frozen stare. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ she asked, but her voice sounded far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. The black lady was halfway across the road now, and I could see her face—pale, gaunt, her mouth a thin line stretched too wide. Her black dress hung wet and heavy, dripping something that glistened in the lantern light. She raised a hand, long fingernails like needles, and pointed at me.

My breath came in shallow gasps. I wanted to run, to scream, but my legs were stone. The lady’s lips moved, and though I could not hear her, I felt her words scrape against my mind: ‘You took my place.’

Then Tessie saw her. Her face went as white as the chalky stones under my feet. She grabbed Mila’s arm, and Mila let out a choked sob. But Tessie did not run. Instead, she extended her hand toward me, palm open. ‘Take my hand! Now!’ she shouted, her voice breaking through the haze. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and as our palms touched, a jolt of warmth shot up my arm. Slowly, I pulled myself up, and Tessie began to drag me backward toward the doorway of her house. The black lady kept coming, faster now, her steps silent but her presence pressing down like a weight.

Mila was already inside, crying. Tessie’s grip was iron as she pulled me across the threshold. The moment my foot crossed the line of the doorframe, I felt a shudder run through the house, and the black lady stopped. She stood inches from the door, her red eyes boring into mine. Then she smiled—a slow, terrible smile that split her face like a wound. She opened her mouth, and black liquid spilled down her chin. ‘Until next time,’ she seemed to say, and then she dissolved into a wisp of smoke that the night swallowed.

I collapsed to the floor, heaving. Tessie knelt beside me, her own hands shaking. ‘What was that?’ Mila whimpered from behind a chair. I shook my head, unable to form words. That night, I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the red glow, that smile, the way she had pointed at me as if I owed her something.

The next morning, I asked my grandmother, who had come for the blessing, about the woman in black. She was a storyteller, full of old wives’ tales. She grew quiet, then said, ‘Long ago, a girl named Ines drowned in the well behind where the balete tree stood. She was promised to a man from the next town, but he left her. On the night of her wedding, she drowned herself. Some say she still walks, looking for a face to take hers—a girl or boy who is ‘pure,’ to swap places.’ She looked at me. ‘Why do you ask?’ I lied and said I had a nightmare.

But I couldn’t shake it. For weeks, I refused to go outside at night. I threw a tantrum if anyone tried to make me. My parents thought I was just scared of the dark, but only I knew the truth. And then, one afternoon, as I was walking home from the market with my mother, I saw a girl about my age standing at the edge of the field. She wore a white dress, but her eyes—her eyes were red. She smiled, and I felt a chill as if I were looking into a mirror.

That was the moment I understood: the black lady had marked me. She had planted a seed in my dreams, and I knew that if I ever stepped into the field at night—if I ever went near the spot where she had stood—she would be waiting. And this time, she would not be turned away by a doorway.

I never told anyone the full story. I carried the secret like a stone in my chest. The years passed, and I grew up, moved away, but every once in a while, on nights when the moon was hidden and the wind carried the smell of wet earth, I would catch a glimpse of a woman in black at the edge of my vision. She never approached, but she was always there. And I knew she was waiting for me to make a mistake—to glance into her eyes, to linger too long in the dark, to offer her my hand.

I am sixty now, and I have never once gone back to San Isidro. But as I write this, sitting in my porch at dusk, I see her across the street, under a flickering streetlamp. She is closer than she has ever been, and her red eyes are fixed on me. I know now what she wants. She wants the bargain I never understood: I was not just a witness that night—I unknowingly accepted her token when I saw her eyes. And now, she is here to collect.

I have left this story as a warning. If you ever see a woman in black with red fiery eyes, do not look away. Do not run. Turn and walk, slowly, calmly, to the nearest bright light, and never look back. But most importantly, if you hear a voice whispering in your ear, ‘Ate, wag niyo ko iwan,’ do not pause to check. Because it may not be your cousin. It may be her, wearing a voice you love, and if you answer, she will think you are willing.

I will not end this with a neat conclusion, because there is none. I only hope that by writing it down, I may shed the burden, and perhaps she will pass over me and choose another. But in my heart, I know she never leaves a chosen one. She merely waits for the night when the lanterns are lit, the doors are open, and someone foolish enough to meet her gaze steps outside.