The Lantern Man of Jhargram

It was the autumn of 1998 when I, barely eighteen, set out with four college friends to the red-soil forests of Jhargram, a district in West Bengal that promised ancient temples and a wildlife sanctuary. We had booked a forest bungalow from Kolkata, and our plan was simple: a weekend of adventure, away from the city’s chaos.

Our train pulled into Jhargram station as the sun bled into the horizon. We hired a battered Ambassador car, its driver an old man with rheumy eyes and a deep, phlegmy cough. When we told him our destination, his face tightened. ‘The road to that bungalow is not good,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Especially at night. Are you sure?’ We laughed it off, insisting, and offered him double the fare. He shook his head but eventually relented, muttering something about ‘the lantern man’ as he started the engine.

The road was a nightmare: unpaved, potholed, and swallowed by darkness. The car’s headlights cut through a thicket of sal trees, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. There were no streetlights, no villages, no sign of life. After an hour of bumpy driving, I checked my watch. ‘We should have been there by now,’ I said. The driver looked at me, his face pale. ‘I know this road like the back of my hand,’ he said, ‘but I think I took a wrong turn.’ He stopped the car, and we all peered into the blackness. The forest was unnervingly silent—no crickets, no birds, just the heavy thrum of our own breathing.

Then we saw it: a distant glow, bobbing in the trees. ‘What’s that?’ my friend Rohan whispered. The driver froze, his hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘The lantern man,’ he said. ‘Stay in the car. Do not call out to him.’ But curiosity got the better of us. My friend Mira rolled down her window to get a better look. The light was closer now, a warm amber orb, and behind it we could discern a tall, thin figure in a long coat, holding a brass lantern. Its face was hidden in shadow.

‘Hello?’ Mira called out. The figure stopped. Then, in an instant, it was at her window, its face inches from hers. It had no features—just smooth, pale skin where eyes, nose, and mouth should have been. The lantern in its hand flickered, and we saw that it wasn’t a lantern at all, but a cage filled with fireflies that pulsed in unison. The creature tilted its head, and a voice, dry as fallen leaves, seeped into our minds: ‘You should not have come.’

The driver slammed the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. We sped through the forest, the lantern man’s light bobbing behind us, always keeping pace. The road twisted and turned, and we passed the same gnarled tree three times. ‘We’re going in circles!’ I shouted. The driver was sweating, muttering prayers under his breath. Finally, we burst into a clearing, and there stood the bungalow—old, colonial, with a wide veranda and windows that gleamed like dead eyes.

We scrambled out of the car, but the driver refused to leave. ‘I’ll wait here until dawn,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘You go inside. Lock all doors. Do not look out the windows. And whatever you do, do not answer any knock after midnight.’ We thought he was being dramatic, but we were too scared to argue.

The bungalow was dusty and smelled of damp wood. We lit kerosene lamps, and the shadows danced on the walls. We tried to make a fire, but the wood was wet. We sat in the living room, our flashlights trained on the door. At exactly midnight, there was a knock—three slow, deliberate knocks. We all froze. ‘Who’s there?’ Rohan called out. No answer, but the knocking continued, growing more insistent. Then, a voice, muffled and hollow: ‘Let me in. I’ve lost my way.’

Mira, ever the skeptic, walked to the door. ‘Don’t!’ I said, but she ignored me. She peered through the keyhole. I saw her face go white. She stumbled back. ‘It’s a man,’ she whispered, ‘but he has no face.’ The knocking stopped. Then, from the windows, we saw the lantern man standing outside, staring in. The fireflies in his cage began to swarm, covering the glass, filling the room with a pulsing light.

The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor, the morning sun streaming through the windows. The others were scattered around, groaning. The driver was gone, but his car was still there, its tires slashed. We found a note on the dashboard, written in a shaky hand: ‘He took the lantern. He always takes a lantern. You must find it before tonight or he will take one of you.’

We searched the bungalow, and in the attic, we found a brass lantern, old and tarnished, filled with dried husks that might have been fireflies. It was the same lantern. We took it down, thinking we could return it. As we left, I noticed a name engraved on the base: ‘A. Chatterjee, 1912.’ The caretaker who met us later told us the story: A British officer named Chatterjee had gone mad in this forest, and he would lure travelers with a lantern, only to steal their shadows. He was buried somewhere in the woods, but his lantern was never found. The caretaker’s face grew grave. ‘You found it, then. You must burn it tonight, or he will come for you.’

We didn’t burn it. We were young and foolish, and we thought we could keep it as a souvenir. That night, we stayed in a hotel in town, laughing about our ridiculous adventure. But at midnight, as we were about to sleep, there was a knock at the door. We froze. The knocking was familiar. Then, a voice: ‘You have something of mine.’

I looked at the lantern on the nightstand. Its glass was warm, and inside, I saw a single firefly, glowing. But it wasn’t just a firefly—it was a tiny, flickering flame, and in its center, I thought I saw a face. My face.

We tried to burn the lantern in the hotel’s courtyard, but the flame wouldn’t catch. The lantern grew hot, but it wouldn’t burn. The knocking continued, moving from door to door, as if the lantern man was walking through the walls. Finally, in desperation, we threw the lantern into the hotel’s well. The knocking stopped.

It’s been twenty years since that night. I’ve moved far away, changed my name, and tried to forget. But sometimes, when I’m walking alone at night, I see a distant glow in the corner of my eye. And if I look closer, I see a tall figure, striding toward me, carrying a brass lantern filled with pulsing light. And I know, one day, he will catch up with me, to take back what I took from him. And this time, there will be no well deep enough to hide in.