The Lantern Keeper’s Welcome

In the scorching summer of 1987, my father, a man of routine, decided to honor a promise our family had neglected for decades. Our clan deity, Lord Khandoba, had a temple in a remote village named Bheemapur, nestled in the arid heart of the Deccan plateau. We had never visited because my grandfather had died young, and no one had taken the pilgrimage. But my father, after securing a stable job, felt the time had come to pay our respects. So, we set off from the bustling city of Pune, traveling by a rickety state transport bus that groaned with every mile.

The journey was long, and the landscape gradually changed from green fields to dusty, barren land. As dusk fell, the bus rattled along a bumpy road, and the conductor, a thin man with a perpetual frown, announced ‘Bheemapur’ in a monotone. We were the only passengers to alight. The bus pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the darkness, leaving us alone in a desolate stop. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the wind whispering through dry shrubs. There was no sign of the temple, but we saw a faint glow in the distance, and a narrow, unpaved path led towards it. My mother held my hand tightly, and my father carried our small bags, determined.

We walked for what felt like an eternity, the glow growing closer but never seemingly nearer. Finally, we reached a small, ancient temple, its stone carvings weathered by time. Oil lamps flickered inside, casting dancing shadows. An old priest, his face lined with deep wrinkles and eyes that seemed too dark, emerged from the sanctum. He wore a faded saffron dhoti and had a peculiar habit of tilting his head as if listening to something we couldn’t hear. He spoke in a soft, eerily calm voice, ‘You’ve come from far. The Lord has been expecting you. Stay the night; the room is ready.’

We were relieved but also unsettled by his words. He led us to a small room attached to the temple, sparse but clean, with two cot beds and a single window overlooking a courtyard. The priest said he would bring us food and left. We settled in, but the room felt cold despite the warm night. My mother whispered, ‘This place feels strange, but let’s not be rude to the priest.’

A while later, the priest returned with a tray of simple food – rice and dal. He placed it on a small table and stood there, staring at us with an odd intensity. ‘Eat. You’ll need your strength for tonight,’ he said, then left without another word. My father and I exchanged glances, but hunger overcame our unease, and we ate. My mother only picked at her food.

At midnight, I woke to a strange noise – a low, rhythmic chanting, like many voices murmuring in unison. I saw my parents were also awake, sitting up in the dark. The moonlight filtered through the window, revealing their drawn faces. My father whispered, ‘It’s coming from the temple.’ We decided to investigate. We crept out of the room, careful not to make a sound, and followed the eerie chant. The temple hall was lit by a single lamp, and in its dim light, we saw the priest and several shadowy figures – villagers, perhaps – standing in a circle, all facing the deity’s idol. They were chanting in a language we didn’t recognize, their bodies swaying slowly. Suddenly, the priest turned and looked directly at us, his eyes glowing unnaturally in the lamplight. A cruel smile spread across his face, and he beckoned us to join.

My mother gasped, and my father grabbed our hands, pulling us back towards the room. As we fled, the chanting grew louder, more frantic. We slammed the door and locked it. The chanting then abruptly stopped, replaced by a profound silence. Then, we heard footsteps approaching our door, slow and deliberate. A voice, the priest’s, but twisted and deep, whispered through the keyhole, ‘You cannot leave. The Lord demands another vessel.’

Terrified, we looked for another exit. The window! It opened into the courtyard, leading to the main road. My father forced it open, and we scrambled out, landing with a thud. We ran through the dark, stumbling on rocks and bushes, not looking back. Behind us, we heard a commotion – angry shouts, the sound of something heavy being dragged. But we kept running, soon reaching the main road. We flagged down a passing truck, and the driver agreed to take us to the nearest town, looking at our terrified faces with concern.

We never returned to Bheemapur. Later, we learned from locals that the temple was considered cursed, and the priest had been replaced many times, each one disappearing or dying mysteriously. Some said the deity demanded an annual sacrifice, and those who missed it were claimed. We were the first to ever escape. To this day, my mother never speaks of that night, and my father has a persistent fear of candles and oil lamps. I, on the other hand, still hear that chant in my dreams, and sometimes, in the quietest hours, I feel a presence watching me, waiting for the day I might stray too close to a forgotten temple again.