The Lantern Tree

The holiday had been a disaster from the start. My brother-in-law, Ravi, had insisted on driving through the Cameron Highlands instead of taking the highway, and the kids had thrown up twice before we even reached the foothills. By the time we passed Tapah, the sun was a smeared orange bruise behind the clouds, and the children—my niece, Aisha, and my son, Dev—were alternating between whining and crying in the back seat. My wife, Meera, had given up trying to soothe them and had taken to staring out the window with a tight-lipped silence that I knew meant she was blaming me for agreeing to this ‘adventure’.

We reached the outskirts of a town called Kampung Pauh at nearly midnight. The main road was lined with shuttered shop houses, and the only signs of life were a few stray dogs nosing through garbage. Ravi’s phone had no signal, and the GPS had died an hour ago. We were exhausted, and the prospect of spending the night in the car was unbearable. Then, as if summoned by our desperation, a flicker of light appeared down a dirt road—a single kerosene lamp swaying from a sign that read ‘Chalet Beringin’ in peeling paint.

We rumbled down the rutted track, the car’s headlights carving through a wall of rubber trees. The chalet was a collection of squat, timber-frame buildings arranged in a semicircle around a courtyard. The main lodge had a wide veranda, and an old man—his face creased like a walnut—stood there, holding the lamp. He spoke in a low, raspy voice. ‘You need rooms? I have two left. The rest are taken.’ We were so relieved we didn’t ask why a nearly empty chalet had only two rooms. He led us to a corridor with four doors. The men’s room was at the end, the women’s was right next to it. ‘The room next to yours is occupied,’ he said, gesturing to the wall. ‘But they leave at dawn. Do not disturb them.’ He handed over rusty keys and shuffled away, leaving us in the humid dark.

The rooms were sparse but clean—two beds with starched sheets, a creaking fan, and a window that looked out onto the courtyard. Meera put the kids to bed while Ravi and I sat on the veranda, sharing a cigarette and watching the moonlight pool among the trees. ‘That old man gave me the creeps,’ I said. Ravi shrugged. ‘Probably just lonely.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the treeline.

At around 2 AM, I woke to a faint scratching sound. It was rhythmic, like nails on wood, coming from the direction of the occupied room. I pressed my ear to the wall. The scratching stopped, replaced by a soft, wet sound—like someone licking their lips. Then a high-pitched giggle, almost childlike, and a whisper so faint I could barely make out the words: ‘They brought toys.’ A chill ran down my spine. I woke Ravi. ‘Did you hear that?’ He was groggy, annoyed. ‘It’s kids. Go back to sleep.’ But the kids in the other room were adults, I knew it—I’d seen a shadow of a tall figure through the window earlier. I lay awake, listening to the scratching resume until the sky began to gray.

At breakfast, the old man served cold rice and salty fish. Meera looked pale. ‘Did you hear that noise last night?’ she asked. ‘It sounded like something breathing on the other side of the wall, right behind the headboard.’ Ravi laughed. ‘Probably rats.’ But the old man’s face grew stern. ‘No rats here,’ he said. ‘That room is for the Datuk’s family. They are still sleeping. You must be quiet.’ He disappeared into the kitchen, and I noticed his hands were trembling.

The kids wanted to explore, so we took them to a small stream at the edge of the property. The water was black, and the trees overhead formed a dense canopy that blocked out most of the light. Dev pointed at a huge tree near the water’s edge. ‘Look, Papa, there’s a lantern hanging from the branches.’ Indeed, a rusted kerosene lantern swung from a low branch, its glass cracked. ‘That’s probably for decoration,’ I said, but as we approached, I saw that the lantern was lit, the flame burning a sickly blue. A small sign was nailed to the trunk: ‘Do not touch the lantern. It keeps the spirits away.’ I pulled my son back. ‘Let’s go.’ But Aisha had already stumbled too close. The lantern flickered, and the flame turned orange. A deep hum resonated through the ground.

That night, we all woke to the sound of footsteps in the courtyard. They were heavy, purposeful, and accompanied by a low moaning like wind through a crack. I peered out the window. A tall figure in a flowing white robe was dragging something behind him—a long, dark sack. He stopped at the base of the lantern tree and hung the sack from a branch. It twisted slowly, and I saw that it was not a sack, but a man, wrapped in cloth. His face was covered, but his bare feet were visible, and they were impossibly pale, as if drained of blood. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed.

Ravi burst into my room, his face ashen. ‘You saw it, right?’ I nodded. We woke the women and children, whispering. The old man met us at the door, his eyes wild. ‘You should have left at dawn,’ he said. ‘Now he knows you saw. You must take the lantern from the tree and burn it. It is the only way to let the spirit go.’ ‘What spirit?’ Meera demanded. The old man fell to his knees. ‘The caretaker. He was my brother. He killed himself under that tree after the guests laughed at him. Now he hangs the lantern to keep his spirit bound. But if you take the lantern, the spirit will be free to leave—or it will take you with it.’

We had no choice. The figure was approaching, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. I ran for the tree, my heart pounding. As I grabbed the lantern, the flame died, and a cold wind swept through the courtyard. The hanging figure began to writhe and let out a shriek that tore through the night. I threw the lantern to the ground and stamped on it, the glass shattering. The spirit—the caretaker—froze, then turned its head towards me. Its face was a gaping void, but I felt it smile. ‘Thank you,’ it whispered. ‘Now I can go.’ And the lantern tree burst into green flames, consuming the wood and the hanging figure in seconds. By morning, there was nothing left but a circle of ash.

We drove away without speaking, leaving the old man weeping in the ruins. The kids were silent in the back. As we hit the highway, Dev asked, ‘Papa, what happened to the man in the white clothes?’ I didn’t know how to answer. The GPS flickered on my phone, and a message from an unknown number appeared: ‘The lantern burns anew. The tree will grow again. And those who tamper with it will feed it.’ I didn’t show Meera. I just accelerated, hoping that the memory would fade. But as night falls now, wherever we are, I cannot shake the image of that lantern tree, and the thing that thanked me for freeing it to hunt.