The Lantern Keeper’s Vigil

In the autumn of 2011, I traveled to Prague with my aunt, and we stayed with her old friend, a retired historian named Mrs. Novak. On our second day, we visited the medieval fortress of Vyšehrad, which sits on a hill above the Vltava River. The place is known for its ancient walls and dark legends.

Our first oddity occurred as we passed through the main gate. I glanced up at one of the cylindrical towers, and in a narrow slit window, I saw a figure pressed against the glass, staring down with an expression of profound longing, as if they were imprisoned there. I felt a chill, but I assumed it was another tourist. When I later climbed to that tower, I found the window was twelve feet above the floor, with no stairs or ladder leading to it. The guide said the room had been sealed for centuries.

Later, we wandered into a separate tower that had once been a prison. Inside, the air was cold and heavy. I began to see tiny flashes of light, like fireflies, darting at the edges of my vision. I blinked, but they persisted. Then, I stepped up to a small alcove with a dusty mirror. I saw my reflection, but behind it, there was a second figure—a gaunt man in a dark coat, holding a lantern that flickered with an unnatural blue flame. He smiled at me, and then he raised a finger to his lips as if to shush me. When I turned around, the alcove was empty.

That night, back at Mrs. Novak’s apartment, I couldn’t shake the image. I asked her about the tower. She grew pale and said, ‘Ah, the Lantern Keeper. Local legend says he was a guard who was walled up alive in that tower for falling asleep on duty. His ghost still patrols, and those light flashes are his lantern. He only appears to those who are about to face a great trial.’ I laughed it off, but that night I dreamt of the man in the tower, pointing toward the old cemetery at Vyšehrad.

The next day, determined to prove it was just a trick of the light, I returned alone. I climbed to the prison tower and stood in the same alcove. The mirror was still there. I stared at my reflection, waiting. Minutes passed, and then the air grew cold. The ghostly figure appeared behind me, but this time, his lantern was extinguished. He pointed to a stone in the floor. I knelt and noticed it was loose. I pried it open and found a small iron key, aged with rust. On its handle was an engraving of an eye.

I went to the cemetery and found a mausoleum with a lock that matched the key. Inside, instead of a coffin, there was a spiral staircase descending into darkness. I walked down, my heart pounding. At the bottom, there was a hidden chamber filled with old manuscripts. One journal described the true fate of the ‘Lantern Keeper’: he was not a guard, but a watchman who discovered a conspiracy to poison the water supply. He was sealed in the tower to keep him silent, and the ghost’s warning was for those who might uncover the truth.

The last entry was written in a shaky hand: ‘If you are reading this, you have seen the Keeper. The trial is not a test of courage, but of resolve. The truth is a burden. You must decide whether to carry it or bury it again.’ As I read those words, I heard a soft click. The staircase behind me had vanished. I was trapped in the dark, with only the Keeper’s lantern now glowing at the top of the stairs that had reappeared. He nodded, as if to say, ‘It is your choice.’

I finally climbed out, the key clutched in my hand. I decided to keep the secret, and I have never spoken of it since. But sometimes, at night, I see a flicker of blue light in the corner of my room, and I know the Keeper is watching, waiting for me to decide if I was worthy of his vigil.