The Lantern Keeper’s Fee

It was the summer of my residency at a sprawling, century-old hospital in Kolkata, where the humid air clung to your skin like a desperate plea. The old medical college building, with its high ceilings and peeling paint, housed our department on the fifth floor. With exams looming, our group needed to prepare presentations, and the only computer with the necessary software was in that department’s common room. Access was strictly controlled: the key was kept at the main security post on the ground floor, a good ten-minute trek from the hostel through the labyrinthine corridors of the main building.

Every evening, after the department closed at five, I would retrieve the heavy iron key from the security desk, sign the logbook, and make my way up. The security office was manned by a rotating crew of guards, each with their own quirks. The night shift, starting at 11 PM, was manned by an old, frail man named Bhola, who always had a strange, faraway look in his eyes. He would hand me the key without a word, his gaze fixed on something beyond me, and I would sign the register with a sense of unease.

The building felt different at night. The corridors were lit by dim, flickering tube lights, casting long, monstrous shadows. The air was thick with the odor of disinfectant mingled with something musty and ancient. My footsteps echoed on the worn marble floor, each step a lonely sound in the vast emptiness. The only company was the occasional guard stationed at strategic points, and the ever-present hum of the old building’s heating system.

One particular night, as I was preparing the last slide for my presentation, I looked up from the screen and noticed a strange, faint glow emanating from the far end of the corridor. Curiosity piqued, I left the room to investigate. The glow came from a small, barred window that overlooked the hospital’s inner courtyard. Through it, I could see a figure holding a lantern, its light casting a warm, flickering pool on the ground. The figure was still, almost statue-like, and I felt a chill run down my spine. There was something deeply wrong about it.

The next evening, I mentioned the figure to Bhola as I collected the key. His face went pale, and he gripped the key tightly. ‘You saw the lantern?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper. ‘Do not approach it. It is the Lantern Keeper. It is said that those who see it are marked.’ I laughed it off, attributing it to an overactive imagination and the old man’s superstitious nature.

But after that night, things began to change. The hospital’s nightly routine became more oppressive. The corridor lights seemed to dim even further, and the shadows grew longer, filled with whispers that skittered at the edge of hearing. My fellow residents started reporting eerie occurrences: the pages of their own presentations would turn by themselves, the computer would shut down at odd moments, and an inexplicable cold would settle in the department despite the summer heat.

The climax came on a stormy night, when the rain lashed against the windows like a desperate plea. I was alone in the department, finishing the last of my work. The lights flickered and died, plunging the room into pitch blackness. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the lantern glow outside the window, closer this time. The figure was just beyond the panes, its face obscured by the hood of a worn cloak. It raised a gnarled hand and tapped on the glass—three slow, deliberate knocks.

Terrified, I backed away, but the door to the room slammed shut. The lantern light grew brighter, searing through the window, and I could see the figure’s face for a split second: a grotesque, empty visage, like a mask of dried skin stretched over a skull. Then it vanished. The lights came back on, and everything seemed normal, but I knew I had been marked.

The next morning, I tried to tell Bhola what had happened. But he was not at his post. Another guard, a young man named Ravi, told me that Bhola had died the previous night of a sudden heart attack. When I looked at the security log, there was an entry from Bhola’s shift bearing the date and time of my encounter: ‘Key returned. No issues.’ But the signature was not Bhola’s. It was a single, inked word: ‘LANTERN.’

I never went back to the department after that night. I completed my residency with a renewed sense of urgency, but the memory of that figure and the token it had left beneath the window—a small, ornate lantern with a light that never dims—haunts me to this day. It sits on my desktop in my private practice, a constant reminder that the dead are not always the ones who linger, and that some institutions hold more than just the secrets of the living.