The Lantern of Ghatsila

The night air in Ghatsila, a sleepy town in the eastern hills, was thick with the smell of wet earth and burnt coal. I was there for a family function, but my cousin Rohan and his friends, a tight-knit group of eight, had dragged me to an abandoned railway bungalow on the outskirts. They were all local, and the bungalow was a known dare—a crumbling relic from the British era, surrounded by overgrown gardens and rusted rail tracks that led nowhere. The story went that the last British resident, a stationmaster named Mr. Craven, had gone mad and hung himself from the iron beam in the living room. His ghost, they said, still lit the old lantern on the porch every night at midnight, searching for his lost wife.

We were five of us drinking—me, Rohan, his brother Arjun, and two others, Vikram and Sameer. The other three—Neha, Priya, and little Dev—were our sober anchors, laughing at our slurred jokes but staying away from the bottle. By eleven, the fireflies were out, and the bungalow loomed behind us, its windows like empty sockets. Someone, I think it was Vikram, joked about trying to summon the stationmaster with a Ouija board. The others laughed, but Neha shivered and said, ‘No, that’s stupid. You don’t mess with things like that.’ But Rohan, being the ringleader, had already found an old cardboard box and a marker. He drew a crude Ouija board, with letters and a ‘yes’ and ‘no’ on a piece of paper, and placed a overturned whisky bottle as the planchette. We were drunk enough to think it was a great idea.

We sat in a circle on the cracked floor of the living room, the only light coming from a dying torch and the lantern we had brought. Rohan lit the lantern, a rusted brass thing we found in a cupboard, and placed it in the center. ‘Let’s ask if Mr. Craven is home,’ he said, grinning. The four of us drinking put our fingers on the bottle. The sober three watched nervously from the corner. We asked, ‘Is anyone here?’ The bottle didn’t move. We laughed, calling it a sham. Rohan, irritated, raised his voice, ‘Craven, show yourself if you’re real!’ And then, the lantern went out.

The flame flickered once, twice, and died, leaving us in darkness. The torch sputtered too. Sudden silence fell, even the crickets stopped. My heart thumped. Someone—I think Sameer—whispered, ‘That’s just a draft.’ But there was no window open. We fumbled for matches, and after what felt like minutes, Arjun got a lighter going. We relit the lantern, and the torch came back. We were all scared, but mostly we laughed it off, blaming the wind. But then Neha pointed at the bottle. It was now pointing at the letter ‘M’ on the board. We hadn’t touched it. A cold sweat broke on my back.

We decided to quit, but Rohan, drunk and stubborn, said, ‘One more question.’ He leaned in, and the lantern flickered again. This time, the flame turned a sickly green. The bottle began moving by itself, slow, deliberate, spelling out a name: M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T. That was Mr. Craven’s wife’s name, as the local legend went. My hands trembled. We all pulled away, except Rohan, who was laughing nervously, ‘Cool trick, who’s moving it?’ But his eyes were wide. Then the lantern went out again, but not all the way—a faint blue light emanated from it, casting long shadows on the walls. And from somewhere deep in the bungalow, we heard a sound like a rope creaking under weight.

We bolted for the door, but it wouldn’t open. It felt like something was pushing against it from outside. We shoved, and it flew open, sending us tumbling into the overgrown garden. We didn’t look back. We ran through the dimness, past the rusted gate, and didn’t stop until we reached the main road. All of us, even the sober ones, were panting and shaking. When we finally got home, we didn’t speak of it. But I couldn’t sleep. At exactly midnight, from my room, I saw a faint light in the distance, flickering through the trees—a lantern’s glow, moving slowly along the abandoned tracks. It stopped at the bungalow gate, then went out.

We thought that was the end. But a week later, Neha called me, her voice trembling. She had found an old photograph in her grandmother’s attic—a faded picture of a family in front of the same bungalow. In the back, it said, ‘Margaret and James, 1932.’ Margaret was holding a lantern. That night, my phone rang at midnight. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’ When I picked up, there was a sound of static, and then a soft, woman’s voice: ‘You’ve found me. But you didn’t finish the game.’ I dropped the phone, and it went dead. Since then, every night at midnight, I hear a knock on my door. But when I open it, there’s no one there. On the doorstep, there’s a small piece of paper with a single letter: ‘M.’