The Lantern Procession of Bhaktapur

I never believed in the old stories until the night I saw the procession myself. My grandmother used to tell me about them when I was a child, sitting by the fire in our small village in the hills of Nepal. She spoke of a parade of floating lights that would appear on the roads after someone died, especially if the death was sudden or violent. She said the lights were the souls of the departed, marching to the afterlife, but if you dared to watch them, you risked being drawn into their journey.

I grew up in Kathmandu, far from my grandmother’s village, and I dismissed her tales as superstition. But last year, my mother fell ill, and I returned to Nepal to care for her. She lived in a small house on the outskirts of Bhaktapur, a city known for its ancient temples and narrow alleys. The house was old, with creaking floors and a courtyard where a single lamppost flickered at night. My mother’s condition worsened, and I spent long hours by her bedside, listening to the sounds of the city fade into silence.

One night, after my mother had finally fallen asleep, I stepped out into the courtyard for some fresh air. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the lamppost, which buzzed weakly. I noticed a faint glow at the end of the alley, just beyond the courtyard gate. Thinking it was a neighbor with a lantern, I watched as the glow grew brighter and began to move toward me. It was a ball of fire, about the size of a melon, floating at chest height, and it cast an eerie orange light that danced on the cobblestones.

At first, I thought it was a trick of my eyes, but then another light appeared behind the first, and another, until a long line of floating fires stretched down the alley. They moved in a solemn procession, bobbing gently as if carried by invisible marchers. I remembered my grandmother’s words: ‘Never look directly at them, and never let them see you.’ But I was transfixed. I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall, but the leading fireball paused, as if sensing my presence.

The lights seemed to pause for a moment, then they began to move again, but this time they veered toward the house, floating across the courtyard and stopping right in front of the door. My heart pounded as the first fireball hovered there, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. I felt a cold dread wash over me, but I couldn’t move. The door creaked open on its own, and the fireballs began to drift inside, one by one, like a stream of ghosts entering a hall.

I forced myself to follow, my legs trembling. Inside, the house was bathed in an unnatural glow. The fireballs gathered around my mother’s bed, circling her like a guard. My mother stirred but did not wake. I saw her face look peaceful, but as the lights encircled her, I noticed that they left faint scorch marks on the floor, and the air smelled of ash and burnt copper.

Then the lead fireball hovered over my mother’s chest, and I saw a wisp of smoke rise from her body, as if her soul were being drawn out. I screamed and lunged forward, but the fireballs surged toward me, forming a barrier. The heat was intense, and I fell back, shielding my face. When I looked again, the lights were retreating, floating back through the door and into the night, leaving a trail of glowing footprints that slowly faded.

My mother passed away that night, and I never told anyone what I had seen. But now, whenever I walk the streets of Bhaktapur after dark, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a distant glow at the edge of my vision. And I remember my grandmother’s warning: the procession is always watching, waiting for the living to join its march. I do not know if I will ever see it again, but I know this: when I die, I will not be alone. The lights will come for me, and they will lead me away, just as they took my mother.