The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

I had always thought my grandmother’s tales were just that—tales. The way she’d lower her voice when she spoke of the Seventh Month, warning never to linger under the banyan trees after dusk, or to accept any offering of fruit left on the roadside. I’d roll my eyes, but I’d never truly disobeyed her. Until that night.

It was my first semester at the coastal university, and I was desperate for a break from my grandmother’s suffocating rules. She lived in the old district, a maze of crumbling shophouses and narrow alleys that smelled of incense and seawater. My friends, Jia and Wei, had invited me to a midnight gathering at the pier. They promised it would be fun, a chance to see the famous ‘ghost lights’ that danced on the waves during the Hungry Ghost Festival. I knew it was forbidden, but the thrill outweighed the fear.

We slipped out of the house at eleven, the full moon hanging heavy and pale over the rooftops. The streets were eerily quiet, but the air was thick with the scent of burning joss paper. At every corner, tiny altars stood laden with fruit and steamed buns, their red candles flickering like hungry eyes. Jia laughed at my nervousness. ‘Relax, it’s just tradition. Nothing’s going to happen.’

At the pier, we found a few other students, all buzzing with excitement. They had brought lanterns, not the paper ones for the dead, but plastic ones shaped like fish and dragons. As we lit them and set them adrift, I felt a pang of guilt. My grandmother had taken me to the river every year to release paper boats for the wandering souls. ‘It’s to guide them home,’ she’d said. ‘Never light a lantern with a name on it, or they’ll follow you.’ I saw that Wei had written something on his lantern’s sail. I asked him what it said. He grinned. ‘It’s my ex-girlfriend’s name. I’m sending her a message.’ The others laughed, but I shivered.

We stayed until the lanterns were mere specks on the black water. Then, as we turned to leave, I saw him. An old man, stooped and gaunt, standing at the far end of the pier. He was holding a single lantern, its glass cracked and dark. He was staring at me. I tugged Jia’s sleeve and pointed. ‘Who’s that?’ Jia squinted. ‘I don’t see anyone.’ Wei shrugged. ‘Maybe a fisherman. Come on, let’s get some supper.’

I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched all the way home. The streets were now completely deserted, and the shops were shuttered. As we passed a cluster of banyan trees, I heard a faint rustling, like paper rubbing against paper. I turned, but nothing was there. Jia and Wei were already ahead, laughing about something. I quickened my pace.

When I reached my grandmother’s house, the lights were off. I crept up the stairs to my room, but as I passed her door, I heard her voice, low and urgent: ‘You went out tonight, didn’t you?’ My heart froze. I didn’t answer. She opened the door, her face pale. ‘Did you see anything? A man with a dark lantern?’ I nodded, trembling. She gripped my arm, her nails digging into my skin. ‘You’ve been marked. He is the Lantern Keeper. He collects the debts of those who release names to the dead.’

I tried to laugh it off, but her fear was real. She made me drink a bitter herbal tea, then filled a bowl with rice and salt, and told me to sleep with it under my bed. ‘Do not leave this house at night for the next seven days,’ she said. ‘And if you hear someone calling your name, do not answer.’ I promised, but I thought it was all superstition.

That night, I had the dream. I was walking through a forest of paper trees, their branches heavy with burning candles. The ground was littered with torn photographs and dried flowers. A voice, soft and plaintive, called my name from behind me. I didn’t turn. But the voice grew louder, more insistent. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I spun around. It was the old man, his eyes empty pits of darkness. He held out his hand, and in his palm was a small, charred lantern. ‘You lit my name,’ he whispered. ‘Now you must carry my lantern until the moon wanes.’

I woke up screaming. My grandmother rushed in, her face grave. She saw the bowl under my bed, and the rice had turned black, the salt scattered. ‘He’s come for you,’ she said. ‘You have three days to find a way to break the bond.’ She told me that the Lantern Keeper was once a man who drowned in the harbour, searching for his lost love. Every year, he seeks a new person to carry his lantern, a vessel for his grief. To release him, I had to find his name and return it to him, but his true name was hidden in the sea where he died.

Desperate, I delved into old records. I went to the library, to the maritime museum, but the name was elusive. On the second day, I found a faded newspaper article from seventy years ago: a fisherman named Ah Seng had gone missing, leaving behind a heartbroken fiancée. She had thrown herself into the harbour, and they were never found. I realized that the old man might be Ah Seng, but I still lacked his full name. My grandmother suggested I ask the dead themselves. ‘Tonight, go to the harbour at midnight. Bring a white candle and a mirror. Listen to the waves. If you hear a name, it is his.’

I was terrified, but I had no choice. That night, I slipped out again, clutching a white candle and a hand mirror. The harbour was empty, the water black and slick. I lit the candle and held up the mirror, and I spoke the old man’s last known name: ‘Ah Seng, I come to return your lantern.’ A wind rose, and the candle flickered. I heard a whisper, so faint I almost missed it: ‘Lee Meng.’ That was it. I repeated it aloud, and the candle flared, then died. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, and I collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

The next day, I returned to the pier. I brought a paper lantern, and on its sail, I wrote ‘Lee Meng’ in gold ink. I set it afloat, watching it drift away. As it disappeared into the haze, I felt a cool breeze brush past me, and I heard a sigh of relief. The old man was gone. I never told my friends what happened, and I never again left the house during the Hungry Ghost Festival. But even now, on quiet nights, I sometimes see a dim light bobbing on the water, and I wonder if the Lantern Keeper has found his peace, or if he’s still searching for another soul to carry his burden.

I learned my lesson. Never go out on the Hungry Ghost Month. Never.