The Lantern of the Unsettled

My sister-in-law, Delia, had moved in with us after my brother, Marcus, had left her high and dry with a newborn and a toddler. I couldn’t turn my back on her, even though my loyalty to Marcus was strained. For months, Delia was a ghost in our home, her eyes hollow, her sobs muffled by the pillows at night. I tried everything to console her, but nothing pierced the wall of her grief.

One crisp autumn weekend, I decided to visit a tarot reader in the neighboring town, a place I’d been to once and vowed never to return. Yet, there was a pull, a curiosity that got the better of me. Delia, desperate for any distraction, asked to tag along. The reader, an elderly woman with piercing gray eyes, told me things that made my skin crawl, but it was Delia she seemed to focus on, her gaze lingering with a knowing unease.

After that reading, Delia was different. A feverish light had ignited in her eyes, and she became consumed with the idea of winning Marcus back through any means necessary. She pestered me with questions about the old ways, knowing that my grandmother had been a practitioner of folk magic. I warned her, told her that meddling with forces like that could backfire, but she wouldn’t listen. She insisted I tell her what I knew, and in a moment of weakness, I gave in, laying out the basics I had learned as a child.

We ended up at a dusty shop on the edge of town, crammed with candles, herbs, and strange trinkets. The proprietor, a man with a voice like gravel, listened to Delia’s story and then handed her a candle encased in black glass, its wick black as coal. ‘This is an Intranquil Spirit candle,’ he said. ‘Light it, and it will bring the one you desire back, but beware, the spirit that answers is not a gentle one.’ My blood ran cold. I knew of those candles, and the stories were not kind. I tried to dissuade her, but she clutched the candle to her chest, her expression unyielding, and I felt a sickening dread settle in my stomach.

That night, Delia set the candle on the dresser in her room, its flame casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with malevolent life. She knelt before it, muttering prayers to a Saint I’d never heard of, and I could feel the air grow thick and heavy. I begged her to blow it out, but she shooed me away, saying she needed to do this alone. I retreated to my own room, but sleep was a stranger. Through the wall, I heard the candle’s flame flicker and hiss, and I swear I heard whispers that were not Delia’s.

Over the next few days, strange things began to happen. Objects moved on their own, cold drafts swept through rooms, and the constant feeling of being watched clung to me like a second skin. Delia, however, seemed rejuvenated, a manic smile playing on her lips. She claimed Marcus had called her, that he was coming back, and I prayed she was right. But then I started noticing the burns—small, circular marks on her arms, as if from a cigarette, but she never smoked, and she shrugged off my questions.

One night, I woke to the sound of Delia screaming. I rushed to her room and found her thrashing on the bed, her eyes wide but unseeing, clawing at her chest as if something was inside her. The candle was still burning, its flame now a sickly green, and the room was filled with the smell of sulfur. I tried to shake her awake, but she kept screaming, ‘It won’t leave! It’s inside me!’ I grabbed the candle and hurled it to the floor, stamping out the flame, and as I did, Delia went limp, her breathing ragged but steady.

In the aftermath, I learned the terrible truth. The Intranquil Spirit is not a force to summon lightly. It is a tormented soul, damned to wander the earth, and when you call it, it does not just bring the one you desire—it attaches itself to you, feeding on your despair, and eventually, it seeks to possess you completely. Delia had been its vessel, and my futile attempts to help had only made things worse.

We found a local curandera who specialized in spiritual cleansings, an old woman with gnarled hands and a back bent with age. She performed a ritual that lasted three days, using herbs, salt, and prayers that made the air shimmer with power. At the end, she told us that the spirit had been banished, but not destroyed. It was bound to the land now, and it would be drawn to those who call on it again. Delia was free, but she was a shell of what she once was, her eyes haunted by what she had seen and felt.

We decided to move, to start fresh in a place where no one knew our names or our past. But sometimes, when the night is quiet and the wind howls through the eaves, I catch a glimpse of a shadow by the window, shaped like a man, and I know it is not Marcus. It is the spirit, wandering, searching for a new host. And I am terrified that one day, it might find its way back to us, knocking on our door, asking to be let in. I have learned my lesson: never again will I tamper with forces beyond my understanding, and I will never, ever suggest such a path to anyone, no matter how desperate they are. The lantern of the unsettled burns eternal, and it only wants company.