The Lantern Maker’s Debt

In the damp October of 2013, I was stationed at Fort Marlowe, a sprawling base carved into the pine barrens of New Jersey. I had just received orders for a transfer back to my hometown, a quiet coastal town in Maine, and my five closest friends in the unit—Marcus, Theo, Ivan, Gareth, and Pete—had gathered in my cramped apartment off-base to celebrate. The walls were thin, the heating was broken, and the only light came from a flickering lamp that cast long shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

As we passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey, Marcus, who had a morbid curiosity for the occult, noticed an old wooden box on my shelf. It was a spirit board, a family heirloom I’d forgotten I had. He asked if we could use it. I hesitated, recalling my grandmother’s warnings never to use it lightly. But the alcohol loosened my tongue, and I agreed.

We cleared the coffee table, lit two candles, and placed the board between us. Pete, the skeptic of the group, laughed and said, ‘This is a waste of time. There’s no such thing as ghosts.’ I sternly reminded him that if we did this, we had to be serious, no joking. But Pete just rolled his eyes.

I began to recite a protective prayer I remembered from childhood, but Pete interrupted, ‘Let’s just get this over with. I’ve got a date later.’ He placed his fingers on the planchette without waiting. I sighed and did the same.

Me: ‘Is there anyone here with us tonight?’

The planchette shuddered and slid to ‘YES.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. Pete laughed, ‘Oh, it moved. You’re pushing it, Marcus.’

I ignored him. ‘Is it just you?’

The planchette glided to ‘YES.’

‘Are you a good or evil spirit?’

The planchette moved erratically, then landed on ‘NO.’

I repeated, more firmly, ‘Are you good or evil?’

The planchette didn’t hesitate and slammed onto ‘GOOD.’

But then the candles flickered, and the room grew colder. The planchette began to move on its own, faster than we could follow, spelling out a single word: ‘LANTERN.’

We all pulled back. ‘What the hell?’ Ivan whispered. ‘Is that a name?’ I shook my head, my heart racing. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

The planchette spelled: ‘I AM THE KEEPER.’

Bold letters appeared on the board, but there was no such word on the printed surface. That’s when things went wrong.

Pete, still amused, said, ‘Keeper of what? The gate to hell?’ He laughed, but the room’s temperature plummeted. The planchette shot to ‘NO,’ then to ‘YES,’ then spelled ‘DEBT.’

Before we could react, the lights went out. When they flickered back on, the board was glowing faintly, and Pete was frozen, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, for a full minute. Then he slumped forward, gasping.

‘What happened?’ I cried. He shook his head, trembling. ‘I saw… a lantern. A man with a lantern. He had no face. He said I owe him a debt.’

The others panicked. Ivan wanted to leave, but the door wouldn’t open. The windows were sealed as if painted shut. The room felt like a meat locker.

The board moved again, without our hands on it. It spelled: ‘PETE OWES. THE GAME WAS TOO LATE.’

I asked, ‘What does he owe?’

The planchette circled ‘GOOD’ repeatedly, then shot to ‘NO’ and spelled ‘YOUR SOUL.’

Pete started to convulse. His body twitched, and his voice changed, becoming low and guttural, not his own. ‘You laughed,’ it said. ‘You disrespected the gate. Now I’ll take what’s mine.’

We tried to hold Pete down, but he was unnervingly strong. He bit Ivan’s arm, drawing blood. Gareth, the quietest of us, grabbed the board and tried to snap it, but it felt like solid steel. He threw it against the wall, but it bounced back and landed on the table, undamaged.

In desperation, I remembered the prayer I had started. I began to recite it out loud, shouting over the chaos. The planchette flew off the board and clattered to the floor. Pete went limp. The room warmed slightly. We all stared at each other, breathing heavily.

But then Pete lifted his head, and his eyes were pure black. He smiled—not a human smile—and said, ‘The debt is not void. It is merely delayed.’

We threw open the door and fled into the night, leaving everything behind. The next morning, I reported to my commander, but I couldn’t explain what had happened. They dismissed it as a prank. Pete was sent to the infirmary for exhaustion, but he was never the same. He became withdrawn, paranoid, and obsessed with lanterns. He would draw them constantly.

Two weeks later, I received my transfer orders and left Fort Marlowe. I thought I could escape. But a week after I arrived home in Maine, I found a package on my doorstep. Inside was the old spirit board, wrapped in burlap, and a note in a handwriting I didn’t recognize: ‘The Lantern Maker never forgets. He will come for you when your time is near. Or sooner.’

I tried to burn the board, but it wouldn’t catch fire. I buried it in the woods, but the next morning it was on my bedside table. I drove to a pawn shop and left it there, but the owner called me a week later, asking why I had left trash in his store, and that the address I wrote didn’t exist.

Now, I keep the board in a locked safe, wrapped in iron chains, praying that the Keeper’s lantern never flickers in my direction. But I know he’s watching. Every night, I see a faint, cold light outside my window, and I hear a voice, soft as ash, say: ‘You called. You answered. You owe.’

And I never touched another spirit board again. But the debt remains.