The Lantern Room

My great-aunt Linh owned a sprawling, colonial-era house in the old quarter of Da Nang, not far from the Han River. It was a rambling structure of dark wood and cool stone, with a central courtyard where a gnarled banyan tree stood sentinel. During the day, the ground floor served as a kindergarten, filled with the laughter and chatter of children aged three to six. I loved visiting as a child; the place felt alive with possibility.

But at night, the house transformed. The furniture was rearranged, the toys were gathered into baskets, and the classrooms became silent, echoing halls. My aunt, a retired teacher, insisted on keeping the upper floors for living quarters, even though she was the only resident. Each floor had two large rooms and a bathroom, connected by a winding staircase that creaked at every step.

One summer, when I was twelve, I stayed with Aunt Linh for a month. The days were delightful—watching the children, playing games, and napping with them in the afternoon. But the nights were unsettling. Aunt Linh had a peculiar rule: every evening, at exactly 7 PM, she would light a single oil lantern and place it on the staircase landing on the third floor. She said it was to ‘guide the night visitors’.

I asked her about it once, and she gave me a cryptic smile. ‘This house is old, and it has seen many things,’ she said. ‘In the war, it was a temporary hospital. And before that, a colonial officer’s residence. The walls remember. They need a little light to find their way.’

I thought she was just superstitious, but on the third night, I woke to a strange sound. It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a cane on wood, coming from the staircase. I crept out of my room and peered down the corridor. The lantern on the third-floor landing glowed faintly, and in its light, I saw a shadow. It was tall and thin, with a long coat, and it seemed to be climbing the stairs, one deliberate step at a time.

I froze. My heart pounded. But then the tapping stopped, and the shadow vanished. The lantern flickered, as if a draft had passed, and then steadied. I convinced myself it was a trick of the light, but I couldn’t sleep.

The next day, I asked Aunt Linh about the history of the house. She told me that during the war, a Vietnamese nurse had been killed in the third-floor room, the one I was using. She was caring for a wounded soldier when a stray bomb hit the building. The soldier survived, but she did not. Aunt Linh said the nurse still ‘checked on’ the rooms at night, making sure everyone was safe.

‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ Aunt Linh said calmly. ‘Don’t be scared. She’s harmless. She just wants to make sure the children are okay.’

That night, I returned to my room, but I couldn’t relax. I lay in bed, watching the door, listening for the tapping. It came just after midnight. This time, the shadow paused at my door and seemed to bow its head. I pulled the covers over my face, whispering prayers.

The tapping moved on, down the hall, and into the room where the children slept during the day. I heard a soft murmur, like a lullaby, and then silence.

The next morning, I told Aunt Linh I wanted to change rooms. She nodded, and I moved my things to the fourth floor. But the tapping followed me. Every night, the shadow would climb the stairs, pause at my door, and then continue. Never entering, but always there.

On the last night of my stay, I decided to confront it. I waited in the hallway, the lantern flickering below. When the shadow reached the top of the stairs, I stepped into its path. It stopped. The air grew cold, and I felt a sense of overwhelming sadness.

‘Who are you?’ I managed to whisper.

A voice, thin and distant, answered: ‘I am the one who watches when others sleep. I am the keeper of the lantern. But my time is ending. The light is fading.’

With that, the shadow dissolved, and the lantern on the third floor went out. I never saw it again.

Years later, Aunt Linh passed away, and the house was sold. Before it was demolished, I visited one last time. The rooms were empty, and the staircase was bare. On the third-floor landing, I found an old brass oil lamp, tarnished and dry. I took it home and placed it on my shelf, but I never lit it.

Now, whenever I close my eyes, I can still hear the tapping. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I catch a whiff of oil smoke. But the lantern remains unlit, waiting for someone to fill it—and for the keeper to return.