The Lantern Maker’s Bargain

Ever since I was a child, I’ve seen things that others couldn’t. My grandmother called it a gift, but I’ve always thought of it as a curse. My family’s roots run deep in Siquijor, but I was raised in the bustling city of Manila, far from the island’s mystical traditions. Still, the blood remembers. I saw flickering shapes at the edge of my vision, heard whispers in empty rooms, and felt cold spots where no draft should be. But the thing that happened when I was six, in the summer of 1993, changed everything.

That summer, my parents sent me to stay with my grandmother in a remote mountain village called Villa Verde. It was a place of emerald terraces and dense fog, where the only lights at night came from oil lamps and the moon. My grandmother was a respected albularyo, a healer, and her wooden house was cluttered with jars of herbs, dried animal parts, and strange amulets. She welcomed me with a warm hug and a knowing look in her dark eyes. ‘You’ve been seeing things, child,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid. Here, you’ll learn to understand them.’

One evening, after a supper of rice and fish, my grandmother took me to a small clearing behind the chapel. In the center stood an old, gnarled balete tree, its roots twisting like serpents. ‘This is where the stories begin,’ she said, pressing her finger to her lips. She then placed a clay lantern with a candle inside on a flat stone near the tree. ‘Tonight is the night of the new moon. The veil is thin. You’ll watch, but you won’t speak.’ We hid behind a thicket, and I watched as the lantern flickered, the flame casting strange shadows that seemed to dance on their own.

Soon, I heard a sound like dry leaves skittering, and from the darkness emerged figures—not alive, not dead. They were translucent, their faces blank, their movements jerky. They gathered around the lantern, seeming to warm their hands over the flame. My heart pounded, but my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder was steady. ‘They are the restless ones,’ she whispered so low I barely heard. ‘They come for the light, to feel something of the living world. But be careful, child. There are things that wear the shape of men.’

I saw one of the spirits turn, and its face shifted into the likeness of my brother, who was far away. Then it smiled, and its teeth were long and needle-sharp. A chill ran down my spine. ‘Don’t look into their eyes,’ my grandmother hissed. ‘They can take your name and leave you lost.’ I looked away, but I felt the weight of its gaze, pulling at me.

Later that night, back in her kitchen, my grandmother brewed a bitter tea and told me the story of the lantern maker. ‘Long ago, there was a man named Elias, a craftsman who made beautiful lanterns for the village fiestas. But he was greedy, and he made a bargain with a spirit of the deep woods. In exchange for fame and fortune, he promised his firstborn child. When his son was born, the spirit came to claim it. Elias begged, and the spirit offered a way out: he would take the boy’s shadow instead, but only if Elias could make a lantern that held a soul’s flame. Elias worked for days, but he could not. The spirit took the boy, but Elias went mad and hanged himself. It is said his ghost still roams, searching for a lantern that can shine through the veil.’

I shivered, not just from the story, but from a prickling at the back of my neck. As my grandmother blew out the oil lamp, I saw in the darkness two pinpoints of red light by the window—like embers, but alive. I blinked, and they were gone. ‘Sleep now,’ my grandmother said, but there was a warning in her tone.

The next day, I woke to find the village abuzz. A boy named Tomas, a few years older than me, had gone missing the night before. The villagers organized a search, fanning out into the jungle. I knew, somehow, that I had to find that lantern from the clearing. It had drawn the spirits, and I felt it was connected to the disappearance. When no one was looking, I slipped away into the woods, following an instinct I didn’t understand.

The forest was dense, the canopy blocking the sun. Shadows stretched into strange shapes, and I could hear my own heartbeat. After what felt like hours, I stumbled upon a clearing where the air was cold, and there, hanging from a low branch, was the lantern—but it was unlit. Underneath, on a bed of moss, lay Tomas, pale and still, his eyes closed. He was breathing, but barely. I shook him, calling his name, but he wouldn’t wake. In frustration, I grabbed the lantern, and as I did, I felt a searing cold in my chest, like something was trying to fill me.

A voice, hollow and dry, spoke from the shadows: ‘The lantern needs a flame. You will light it, or the boy stays.’ I turned, and there stood the lantern maker’s ghost, his face twisted in despair, his hands clutching an old flint. I was terrified, but I thought of Tomas, of my grandmother, of the things I had seen. ‘I won’t,’ I said, trying to sound brave. The ghost laughed—a sound like grinding stone. ‘Then the boy will be like me, forever lost.’ It gestured, and Tomas’s body began to fade, becoming translucent.

Desperate, I remembered my grandmother’s teachings: ‘Fire is the voice of the living. But sometimes, a soul is enough.’ I looked at the lantern, then at my own trembling hands. I thought of my mother, my brother, my grandmother. I had no intention of dying. Instead, I concentrated, as I had often done when I saw spirits, and I pushed my own energy into the lantern. It started to glow with a soft, blue-white light. The ghost recoiled, letting out a wail. ‘No! That is not a soul! It’s a trick!’ But the light grew, illuminating the clearing, chasing away the shadows. The ghost faded, and Tomas’s body became solid again. He stirred, opening his eyes.

We ran back to the village, and I told my grandmother everything. She listened, her face grave. ‘You gave part of your life force, child,’ she said. ‘You may have aged a few years tomorrow, but you saved the boy.’ She hugged me tight. ‘You are strong, but you must never do that again. The lantern is evil, and there are worse things yet.’

That night, I dreamed of the lantern maker, not as a ghost, but as a man, weeping. He pointed to a distant mountain. ‘The true evil lies there,’ he said. ‘I was a fool. But you, child, you can break the cycle. Find the source.’ When I woke, I found that a silver streak had appeared in my black hair. My grandmother saw it and said, ‘You now carry the mark. It will show you things you might not want to see. But it is yours, and you must use it wisely.’

Tomas was returned to his family, but he was never the same. He would stare at lanterns with a strange longing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my bargain had only postponed a reckoning. Years later, when I was older, I returned to Villa Verde. I found the clearing, but the old balete tree was gone, replaced by a new sapling. The lantern was nowhere to be found. But as I turned to leave, I saw a glint in the underbrush—a piece of glass from an old lantern. I pocketed it, and ever since, I’ve carried it. It’s cold to the touch, and sometimes, in the dark, it glows faintly, as if it still holds a flame waiting to be lit. I have learned that some bargains echo for generations, and the lantern maker’s story is not yet over. But I am not the child I once was. I have a name for what I am, and I have a purpose: to find the source of that first darkness and put it out for good.