The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

I had always been drawn to the stories, the ones told in hushed tones around dying embers in our village of San Isidro, tucked in the mountains of Nueva Vizcaya. My grandmother would speak of the ‘lamang lupa’—earthly spirits that guarded the land, and the wandering souls who lingered where they died. I devoured every tale, hungry for a glimpse of the unseen, never knowing that my hunger would one day be fed in the most terrifying way.

It was my sophomore year at the provincial high school, and the rains had turned the dirt roads to mud. One evening, as the clock in the church tower chimed eight, a soft knock came at our door. It was Aling Rosa’s daughter, Tina, a shy girl with a perpetually worried brow. She had missed class that day and wanted to borrow my notes. I handed her my notebook, and because the night was thick and the paths were slick, I offered to walk her home. She accepted with a grateful smile, and we set off into the darkness.

The streets were nearly empty, the faint glow of kerosene lamps leaking from windows. We made small talk, our breath fogging in the cool air. After dropping Tina at her gate, I turned back, and not far along, I met my friend Mateo. He was a sturdy boy, known for his practicality, but tonight he seemed uneasy. ‘I’ll walk you the rest of the way,’ he said, and I was glad for the company.

We chatted about school and the upcoming harvest, but as we neared the old acacia tree that marked the edge of our barrio, Mateo fell silent. He stopped, his face pale under the moonless sky. ‘Do you hear that?’ he whispered. I listened, and a faint, rhythmic dripping came from the tree—like water, but it was not raining. Then, a soft, childlike giggle echoed from the branches above.

My heart quickened, a mixture of excitement and dread. I peered up, but saw nothing. Mateo grabbed my arm. ‘We should go,’ he said, his voice tight. But I was transfixed. The giggle came again, closer now, and from the shadows beneath the tree, a figure emerged. It was a small boy, no more than eight, dressed in a tattered white shirt, his face obscured by a thatch of black hair. He held a lantern, its flame an unnatural blue, and he beckoned to us with a tiny hand.

I felt a pull, as if the lantern were drawing me in. Mateo, however, was frozen, his eyes wide. ‘Don’t look,’ he hissed, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. The boy’s smile widened, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. ‘You’re one of them,’ he said, his voice like rustling leaves. ‘The curious ones. Come, I’ll show you what you’ve always wanted.’

My feet moved before I could stop them, stepping toward the boy as if in a trance. Mateo shouted my name, but his voice seemed distant, muffled. The lantern’s glow enveloped me, and I felt a cold hand clasp mine—the boy’s, small and impossibly icy. ‘You’ll be my friend now,’ he whispered, and the world around us twisted.

Suddenly, I was in a vast expanse of black soil, dotted with countless lanterns, each held by a motionless figure. They stood like sentinels, their faces blank, staring into nothing. The boy led me among them, his grip like iron. ‘These are the ones who came before you,’ he said. ‘They sought the unseen, but now they serve me, lighting the way for the lost.’ He pointed to a lantern without a holder, its flame flickering desperately. ‘That one is yours.’

I tried to pull away, to scream, but my voice was gone. I felt my body growing cold, my form becoming translucent. Mateo’s voice cut through the fog, screaming my name, and I saw a sliver of light—the real world. I clawed toward it, but the boy’s laughter rang in my ears. ‘No one leaves the garden,’ he said.

In a desperate surge, I wrenched my hand free, and I was back on the muddy path, gasping. Mateo was shaking me, his face contorted with fear. ‘What happened? You were just standing there, staring at the tree!’ I turned to look, and there was no boy, no lantern, only the gnarled acacia, its leaves dripping with dew. But on my palm, there was a faint, burn-like mark—the shape of a tiny hand.

Since that night, I have seen things I should not see. The dead walk beside me, and the lamang lupa whisper to me in the wind. But worst of all, sometimes, when the rain beats down and the night is deep, I hear a child’s giggle, and I feel a cold tug at my hand, pulling me toward the tree. I sold my curiosity, but I never knew the price. Now, I am haunted by the lantern that waits for me, and I fear that one day, I will run out of chances to say no.