The Lantern Keeper’s Crossroads

In the winter of 2014, we—my husband Arjun, our three-year-old daughter Meera, and I—were visiting my ancestral village in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. On the eve of the new year, we decided to dine at a famed restaurant perched on a solitary ridge, known for its panoramic views and rustic charm. The road to it was treacherous, a serpentine path that wound through terraced farms and dense pine forests, and once you left the main highway, the way was a maze of unmarked forks and deceptive switchbacks. We set out as dusk was falling, the sky a bruised purple, and arrived around eight, the restaurant glowing with fairy lights and the warmth of a crackling hearth.

Inside, we were swept up in the festive cheer—carols, mulled wine, and a lavish feast. Meera, with her tiny hands, clapped at the sight of a life-sized Santa by the fireplace. We lingered longer than planned, and when we finally stepped out, the clock had inched past eleven. The night was utterly black, the stars hidden behind a thick canopy of clouds, and the air had turned biting cold. The parking lot was empty except for our car, and the road ahead was a void. Arjun started the engine, and we began our descent, the headlights cutting weak beams through the darkness.

Within minutes, the silence was unbearable, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rustle of pine needles. The road twisted, and we missed a turn, ending up on a narrower path that seemed to lead deeper into the forest. Arjun cursed softly, trying to reverse, but the road was too tight. We had to keep going, hoping to find a place to turn around. That’s when we saw it—a faint, flickering light ahead. It was a lantern, hanging from a post at a crossroads, something we hadn’t noticed on our way up. The intersection was marked by a weathered stone pillar, carved with symbols we didn’t recognize.

We took the right fork, thinking it would lead back to the main road. But after a few hundred yards, the road curved sharply, and we found ourselves at a gate—a rusted iron gate, half open, leading to a crumbling mansion that loomed against the sky. The place seemed abandoned, its windows dark, yet a single candle flickered in an upstairs room. Meera stirred in her car seat, mumbling, ‘That house is awake, Papa.’ Arjun and I exchanged uneasy glances. We reversed, but the gate seemed to move, closer than before, and the road behind us had vanished, replaced by a dense thicket of thorny bushes.

Panic started to set in. We tried to follow the road we came on, but every turn led us back to that same gate. The lantern, which we thought we’d left behind, now stood beside us, its flame dancing as if laughing. Arjun got out to push aside a fallen branch, and that’s when he noticed the figure—a tall, thin man, standing near the lantern, holding another lantern, not lit. The man’s face was obscured, but he wore a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and he pointed down another lane, one that seemed darker and narrower than the rest. Arjun got back in, shaking. ‘He’s the lantern keeper,’ he said. ‘He wants us to follow that path.’

I had a terrible feeling, a primal dread that made my skin crawl, but we had no choice. The car moved slowly down that path, which was barely a track through the forest. The canopy closed overhead, and the air grew cold as a tomb. After what felt like hours, we emerged into a clearing where a small temple stood, its stones old and moss-covered. The lantern keeper was there, waiting, his unlit lantern now casting a soft glow. He didn’t speak, but his free hand gestured toward the temple door, which was ajar.

We entered, hesitant, the scent of incense and decay mixing. Inside, the walls were covered in murals showing processions of people carrying lanterns, their faces solemn. In the center, a stone altar held a single, extinguished lantern. The keeper pointed to it, then to Meera, who had fallen silent, her eyes wide. I shook my head, but Arjun was paralyzed, as if in a trance. ‘He wants Meera to light it,’ Arjun said, his voice hollow. I grabbed Meera, holding her tight, and shouted at the keeper, ‘No! Leave us alone!’ The keeper simply tilted his head, and the lantern on the altar flared to life on its own, a cold blue flame.

Suddenly, the ground shook, and the temple walls began to crumble. We ran out, and the clearing was gone—instead, we were on the main road, our car parked at the junction where the restaurant’s driveway met the highway. The clock on the dashboard read 11:58 PM. We sped away, not looking back. When we finally reached our village home, we were trembling, and Meera was quiet. She clutched something in her hand—a small, old lantern key, engraved with strange patterns. We tried to throw it away, but it always reappeared. And ever since, on every new year’s eve, a cold blue flame flickers in our bedroom, and we hear the faint sound of footsteps on the roof, as if the lantern keeper has followed us home. We never speak of that night, but we know he is waiting, patient, for Meera to fulfill the promise she made unwittingly in the temple.