The Lantern Keeper’s Vigil

In the winter of 1987, my grandmother, Lola Ising, passed away in her small farmhouse in the highlands of northern Luzon. We practiced the traditional nine-day novena, but here, the old folks had a different twist: they believed the soul would hover near the house until the final day, drawn by the scent of burning candles and the glow of a special lantern placed on the windowsill. I had always scoffed at such superstitions, but with Lola Ising, I felt an unspoken pull that I couldn’t brush aside.

On the third night after her death, I was alone in the house, the last relative to leave after the evening prayers. The other mourners had departed, leaving me to clean the dishes and snuff out the candles. As I reached for the lantern to extinguish it, I noticed the flame flicker in a way that didn’t match the draft. It bent toward the window, as if something outside was blowing on it. I peered into the darkness, but saw only the bare trees and the winding dirt path leading to the river.

I convinced myself it was just the wind, but then I heard it: a faint, rhythmic scratching on the wooden door, like fingers dragging slowly across the grain. My heart hammered. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ The scratching stopped. After a tense silence, I forced myself to open the door a crack. The porch was empty, but on the doormat lay a single, fresh sampaguita flower, still damp with dew. Lola Ising had always worn those flowers in her hair.

On the seventh night, I returned to the farmhouse after attending a gathering in the nearby town. The lantern had been lit, though I had left it unlit that morning. My cousin, who was staying in the adjoining room, swore she had seen an old woman in a white dress standing by the window, gazing at the lantern. I dismissed it, but that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in Lola Ising’s bed, the scent of her herbal ointments lingering in the pillow. Around 3 AM, I heard soft footsteps padding down the hall, then the creak of her rocking chair in the corner of my room. I didn’t dare look, but I felt a cold presence settle beside me, and I heard a whisper, barely audible: ‘Don’t forget the lantern tomorrow.’

On the ninth and final night, I decided to stay awake until dawn, determined to prove this was all in my head. I placed the lantern on the windowsill, its flame steady. I sat in the kitchen, sipping hot ginger tea, when the clock struck midnight. A wave of cold air swept through the house, and the lantern’s flame turned a deep, otherworldly blue. I walked to the window and saw, at the edge of the yard, a luminous figure. It was Lola Ising, but she looked young, her face unlined, her hair flowing. She was holding a bundle of sampaguita flowers. She raised her hand and waved at me, then she pointed to the river. Without thinking, I opened the door and stepped outside. The figure began to drift toward the river, and I followed, my bare feet numbed by the cold ground.

At the riverbank, she stopped and turned to face me. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, she pointed to a spot where the water rippled oddly, even though the wind was still. I knelt and saw, caught on a submerged root, a small, waterlogged wooden box. I reached in and pulled it out. When I opened it, I found a photograph of a young man in an army uniform, and a folded letter. The letter was dated 1945, addressed to Lola Ising, from a man named Tomas. In it, he confessed that he had been forced to leave her, believing he had no choice, but he promised to return. The letter ended with: ‘If you read this, know that my love never died.’

I looked up, and the figure was fading, a serene smile on her lips. As she vanished, I heard her voice, clear as day, say, ‘Burn it. Then he can rest.’ I ran back to the house, grabbed the lantern, and held the letter and photograph over the flame. They caught fire quickly, and I watched them turn to ash. At that moment, the lantern flame flickered back to normal, and a gentle breeze passed through the room, carrying the scent of sampaguita and a sense of peace. I never saw her again, but I knew why she had returned: not to haunt, but to be freed. And I understood that the old myths weren’t just superstition—they were a way of honoring a love so deep it outlasted death.

That night, I learned that the dead visit us not to frighten, but to settle the unfinished. And I never forgot to light the lantern on the ninth day, for it is a beacon that guides the lost home.