The Lantern Line

I remember the summer I turned twelve, the summer my family moved into the old shophouse on Lim Kim San Road. My father had inherited the provision shop from his uncle, and we lived above it, in a cramped flat that smelled of dried fish and mothballs. The shop itself was a relic, its wooden shelves groaning under the weight of dusty tins and jars, the air heavy with the scent of spices and stale air. On the first night of the seventh lunar month, the ghost month, my father told me to stay inside after dusk. He said the veil was thin, and the hungry spirits roamed the streets. I thought it was just his old-fashioned beliefs, but I obeyed, mostly out of curiosity.

That evening, the street outside our shop transformed. Our neighbors, the Tan family, set up a large tent across the road, complete with a makeshift stage for a getai performance. The air filled with the tinny sound of pop music and the raucous laughter of the crowd. But it was the offerings that caught my eye—rows of joss sticks, mounds of fruits, and small paper houses, all laid out on the pavement and gutters. My father had placed a small table near the drain, with a plate of oranges and a cup of tea. He knelt, murmuring, ‘I have prepared a small offering for you, Namo Amituofo.’ I watched from the window above, feeling a strange mix of fear and fascination.

Later that night, after the getai ended and the neighbors retreated to their homes, I crept downstairs. The street was still, the lanterns swaying in the breeze. I wanted to see the offerings up close, to touch the paper money and incense. As I stepped outside, I noticed a line of small candles flickering along the curb, leading from the drain to the staircase of our shophouse. I had never seen that before. I followed it, my bare feet slapping on the warm concrete. The candles seemed to glow brighter, their flames bending towards me as if pointing the way. Then I saw him—a man in a crumpled suit, standing at the foot of our stairs. He was looking up at our flat, his mouth moving silently. He had no reflection in the glass of the shop window. I froze, my heart pounding.

The man turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine. They were not white, but a murky gray, like the bottom of a deep well. He smiled, a thin, bloodless smile, and raised a hand, beckoning me closer. I couldn’t move, my legs heavy as stone. He took a step toward me, and I smelled the faint odor of burnt paper and incense. He stopped at the edge of the candlelight, and I saw that his feet did not touch the ground. He was hovering, just an inch above the pavement. He spoke, his voice a dry rasp, ‘You have a line to your home. Someone left a door open.’ I didn’t understand, but I felt a cold dread seep into my bones.

I turned and ran, up the stairs, through the door, slamming it behind me. I threw the bolt and pressed my back against it, gasping. The candles outside flickered out one by one, and I heard a soft scratching at the door, like nails on wood. It lasted for hours, until the first light of dawn. When I told my father, he went pale. He muttered something about the line connecting the offering to the household, and that I must never mention my full name to the spirits, for they could use it to claim a place in our home. He then took a jar of red paint and smeared a line across the threshold, saying, ‘This will break the line, but only for now.’

From that night on, I never left the flat after dusk during the ghost month. But I would often see, from my window, the man in the crumpled suit standing across the road, staring up at our shophouse. And sometimes, in the deep silence of the night, I would hear a faint voice, calling my name—not my full name, but the name my family had used that night, a name I had carelessly let slip in my terror. I have never been able to shake the feeling that, even now, the man is still waiting, tracing the line of candles that once led him to our door, patient and hungry.