The Lantern of the Chapel

When I was thirteen, I lived with my family in a small village nestled between dark pine forests and the edge of a cold lake. It was the kind of place where every stone held a story, and the old chapel at the outskirts was the oldest of them all. Its roof had collapsed decades ago, but the bell tower still stood, a crooked finger pointing at the sky. My window faced that tower, and every night, I could see its dark silhouette against the stars.

That year, I began to dream. It wasn’t a dream like any I had before; it was a visitation. I would find myself standing in a field of tall, dry grass, under a sky the color of old bruises. In the distance, a single lantern hung from a post, casting a sickly, pale light. And as I walked toward it, the light would grow, revealing not a landscape, but a portrait. The portrait was of a young woman, her skin so pale it seemed to glow, her hair long and black like the water of the lake at midnight. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and her lips were the color of fresh blood. She never moved, but I felt her gaze following me through the dream. Around her, the light was tinged with blue, like the afterimage of a lightning bolt. And there was music, a low, mournful organ that seemed to resonate in my bones, filling me with a dread so deep I could feel it in my teeth.

I was terrified of sleep. Every night, I would fight to stay awake, reading old comics by the dim light of my bedside lamp, listening to the wind rattle the windows. But sleep always won, and the dream always came. The field, the lantern, the woman with the blood-red lips. The music grew louder each time, and the woman’s eyes seemed to follow me even as I tried to look away. I never told my parents. They were practical people; they would say I was stressed or that I had eaten too much cheese. So I suffered in silence, keeping a diary where I drew the woman’s face, trying to understand who she was.

Then, as abruptly as it started, the dreams stopped. It was the night of the autumn equinox. I remembered because the village held a lantern festival, and the entire town glowed with flickering lights. I slept that night without dreaming, and for the first time in months, I woke feeling rested. I thought the nightmare was over, and I pushed it to the back of my mind, focusing on school and the mundane routines of life.

A few weeks later, I was home with my parents, eating dinner in silence while the television muttered in the background. My father had tuned into a Spanish language news channel, I suppose because the signal was strong that night. Suddenly, the news anchor’s voice shifted, and a story came on that made me freeze. The screen showed a photograph of a young woman, her face pale, her hair long and black, her lips painted bright red. It was her. The woman from my dreams. The anchor’s voice was grave, and I could only pick out fragments of Spanish, but one word was clear: “desaparecida” – missing. She had vanished from a village not far from ours, and the circumstances were strange. The report talked about her love for music, especially playing the organ at her village’s chapel, and how she had been last seen near a lantern that was kept lit in her memory.

My heart pounded. I looked at my parents, but they were absorbed in their food, not paying attention. I wanted to scream, to tell them that I had seen her, that I had been dreaming of her for a year. But the words stuck in my throat. How could I explain? That a stranger’s face had haunted my sleep, and now she was gone? I felt a cold chill crawl up my spine as a terrible realization set in. The dreams had stopped the night she disappeared. I didn’t know if she was dead or alive, but I knew, with a certainty that filled me with horror, that my connection to her was far more real than I had ever imagined.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand. The image of the lantern in my dream flickered in my mind, and I remembered something the news had said: the lantern in the village where she was last seen was kept lit in her memory. But that didn’t make sense. If she was missing, why have a memorial? Unless someone knew she would never come back. As the clock struck midnight, I heard it. A faint, mournful sound, drifting through my window. It was the organ music from my dreams, but it was not coming from my imagination. It was coming from the old chapel. I got up, my legs trembling, and looked out. The chapel was dark, but I could swear I saw a faint blue light flickering in the broken window of the tower.

The music grew louder, and I felt an irresistible pull, as if the lantern was calling me. I knew I had to go. I dressed silently and slipped out of the house, the cold night air biting my skin. The village was silent, the streets empty. I walked toward the chapel, my footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. The organ music swelled, and I could feel the notes resonate in my chest, like a second heartbeat. When I reached the chapel, the heavy wooden door, which had been locked for years, was ajar. I pushed it open, and inside, the ruined nave was bathed in a spectral blue light. At the altar, where the organ used to stand, there was a lantern, its flame burning bright. And beside it, a figure.

It was her. The woman from my dreams. She was as pale as before, her hair long and black, her lips red. But now she was not a portrait. She was real, standing there, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She spoke to me in a voice that seemed to come from the walls, ‘Thank you for coming. You are the only one who ever saw me.’ I asked, ‘Who are you? Why did you haunt my dreams?’ She smiled, a sad smile, and said, ‘I am not haunting you. I was trying to reach you. I died in this chapel, a hundred years ago, but my spirit was trapped. The lantern was my only link to the world. I needed someone to know my story, to free me.’ I felt a cold dread, but also a strange pity. ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘I was in love with a man who played the organ, but he became jealous when I spoke to another. He killed me and hid my body in the crypt. He lit this lantern to keep my soul from wandering, but it only imprisoned me here.’ She pointed to a spot on the floor, where the stones had shifted. ‘My remains are there. You can free me by revealing them.’

The music suddenly stopped, and the blue light flickered. The woman began to fade, her form becoming translucent. ‘Please,’ she pleaded, ‘Don’t let me be forgotten. Tell someone. Let my spirit rest.’ As she disappeared, the lantern went out, and the chapel was plunged into darkness. I stumbled outside, my heart racing. I knew what I had to do. I ran to the town hall and pounded on the door until the constable came out. I told him everything, though he looked at me as if I were mad. But when I led him to the chapel and showed him the loose stones in the floor of the altar, we found a small wooden box. Inside were bones, and a locket with a faded photograph of the woman. It was her. The mystery was solved, and her remains were given a Christian burial in the village cemetery.

The dreams never returned. The organ music was silent. But sometimes, at night, I look at the chapel, and I see a faint blue light, but now it feels warm, like a blessing. I never told my parents the full truth, but I keep her locket hidden under my pillow. It reminds me that the dead are not always silent, and sometimes, they need a living ear to hear their cry. And I am glad that I was the one who listened.