The Lantern Man of Marble Road

In 1994, I was in the seventh grade at St. Xavier’s School, which lay at the far end of Marble Road, a stretch of old bungalows and overgrown gardens. My family lived in the government quarters near the clock tower, and I walked the two miles to school every day, past the dilapidated Wilson House, which everyone said was haunted. The house had been empty for decades, its windows like hollow eyes, and the iron gate was always chained shut. But on my way to the annual day performance, I noticed something different: a single, flickering light in an upstairs window, as if someone was holding a lantern.

That year, I was meant to perform a classical dance piece in the cultural night, and my father had ironed my white kurta with extra care. The school grounds were decorated with marigolds and paper lanterns, and the chief guest was the Deputy Minister of Education, a man with a stern face who arrived in a black Ambassador car. The program dragged on for hours, with speeches and plays and dances, and I grew more and more anxious as the clock hands crept past midnight. My own performance was pushed to nearly 11 p.m., and by the time the prize distribution and farewell ceremony were over, it was past 1 a.m.

I was exhausted but elated, clutching my participation certificate, when I stepped out of the school gate. The road was deserted, the streetlights were out (a common occurrence then), and the only illumination came from the moon, half-hidden behind clouds. I started walking briskly, my sandals slapping on the pavement, and soon I reached Wilson House. There it was again: the lantern light, now glowing steadily in the window, as if waiting for me. I quickened my pace, but then I heard a sound—a soft, rhythmic clinking, like a chain being dragged. I turned, and there, at the gate of Wilson House, stood a man in a long black coat, holding an old-fashioned lantern. His face was in shadow, but I could see a small, pale hand emerging from his sleeve, motioning for me to come closer.

My heart pounded, and I broke into a run. But the clinking sound followed me, growing louder, and I could hear a low, guttural muttering. I didn’t dare look back until I reached the street corner, where a dim streetlight cast a weak yellow glow. I glanced behind me: the man was standing under a banyan tree, the lantern swinging gently, and then he vanished, leaving only a wisp of smoke. I sprinted all the way home and collapsed at the front door, panting.

I told my mother, who dismissed it as a stray dog or a watchman. But the next morning, when I walked to school, I saw that the gate of Wilson House was open. Curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked inside. The garden was overgrown, and the house was dark, but on the front steps lay a rusted iron lantern, its glass shattered. I picked it up, and inside was a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. On it was written in faded ink: “Beware the one who walks with eyes sewn shut, for he sees the lies you tell to yourself.”

I never walked that way again. But sometimes, late at night, I dream of that lantern, and I see a figure standing at my window, holding it aloft, and I feel an inexplicable dread, as if something is waiting for me to take the lantern and set out on a path I cannot turn back from. And I know, in my bones, that the man in the black coat is still there, on Marble Road, but now he’s waiting for someone else.

Years later, I heard that Wilson House was finally demolished, but the laborers refused to work after they found a hidden room in the cellar, its walls covered with drawings of lanterns and a single phrase repeated over and over: “Keep the light burning, for the night is long.” I keep the lantern on my bedside table, though I never light it. Some nights, I swear I can hear a faint clinking, as if the chain is being dragged closer.

I have never told anyone the full story, but I write it now, because I feel that the time is drawing near. The lantern’s glass, once shattered, is now repaired, and it glows softly on its own when the clock strikes 1 a.m. And I know that one night, I will have to follow the man with the lantern, and whatever lies beyond, I must face it. But I will wait until I am ready, until I can step into that darkness without fear. Until then, I keep the lantern close, and I listen for the clinking, and I hope that when the night is long, the light will be enough.