The Lantern Under the Neem

In the autumn of 2018, I was traveling from the coastal town of Verana to the inland city of Karakoram for a job interview. I had always been fond of night journeys, the way the world faded into a black velvet blanket dotted with occasional lights. The bus was a rickety old thing, but it was cheap and direct. I had booked my seat through a phone call, a habit of my father’s that I had adopted, and now I clutched my small bag, filled with a fresh shirt and some documents, as the bus rumbled through the dark landscape.

We stopped at a roadside restaurant called ‘The Golden Fork’ around midnight. The conductor, a stout man with a voice like gravel, announced a twenty-minute halt for refreshments. Half-asleep passengers shuffled out, and I followed, my stomach grumbling. The restaurant was a dimly lit shack with plastic tables, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and stale spices. I ordered a plate of noodles and a cup of chai, eating quickly while the other passengers chatted in low murmurs.

After finishing, I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. The cool night air felt good against my face. I lit up and took a deep drag, looking up at the stars that seemed unusually bright. As I exhaled, my eyes caught a figure standing under a large neem tree about fifty meters away. It was tall and thin, barely visible in the shadows, but I could see the faint outline of a long coat and a hat. I assumed it was another passenger from a different bus, perhaps waiting for someone. I took another drag, but something made me look again. The figure hadn’t moved, and it seemed to be facing me, though I couldn’t see any features.

A chill ran down my spine, and I quickly finished my cigarette. I flicked the butt and headed back inside the restaurant. Just as I was about to step through the door, I glanced back. The figure was closer, now about thirty meters away, and I could have sworn it was holding a lantern that emitted a cold, blue light. But there was no one else around, and the light didn’t seem to illuminate anything around it. I shook my head, thinking it was just my imagination playing tricks, and entered the restaurant.

I sat back at my table and ordered another chai to calm my nerves. The other passengers were beginning to return to the bus, and the conductor was shouting that we would leave in five minutes. I looked out the window, but I couldn’t see the tree from where I sat. I told myself to forget it, that it was probably just a farmer or a local out for a stroll. But a part of me felt uneasy, as if I was being watched.

I paid my bill and walked out to board the bus. The parking lot was now empty of people, and the bus’s engine was already running, its headlights cutting through the darkness. As I stepped up the stairs, I couldn’t resist one last glance toward the tree. The figure was gone. I let out a sigh of relief and took my seat by the window. The bus pulled away, and I leaned back, trying to relax.

About twenty minutes later, we were on a desolate stretch of road flanked by dense forest on both sides. The other passengers were dozing off, and the only sound was the steady hum of the engine. I felt a strange drowsiness overcome me, and I found myself drifting into a half-sleep. In that state, I saw the figure again, but this time it was sitting right next to me, its face hidden under the brim of a hat, and its hand was resting on a lantern that glowed with a sickly green light. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I jolted awake, my heart pounding. The bus was still moving, and the lights were dim. I looked beside me, but the seat was empty. I chided myself for falling asleep and having a nightmare. But then I noticed something odd: my bag, which had been on my lap, was now on the floor, and its zipper was open. My documents were scattered on the floor. I quickly gathered them, my hands trembling.

Just then, the bus came to a sudden stop. A loud thud against the roof, like something heavy landing. The driver cursed, and some passengers stirred. I looked out the window and saw that we were in the middle of nowhere, thick trees lining both sides, and the only light was from the bus’s headlights. The conductor got up and went to the driver, and they exchanged a few words. The conductor then announced, ‘Sorry, passengers, we have a small issue. Please stay seated.’ He and the driver got off the bus, leaving the door open.

I watched them as they inspected the outside, shining a flashlight under the bus. They didn’t seem to find anything. After a few minutes, they got back in, and the driver started the engine. But just as we were about to move, the conductor said, ‘Wait, where’s the old man who waved at us back there?’ Everyone looked around, but no one had seen an old man. I felt a knot in my stomach.

The driver looked in the mirror and said, ‘There’s no one back there. Let’s go.’ And he drove on. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

We drove for another hour in silence, the forest giving way to open fields. I noticed that the bus seemed to be moving slower, and the headlights were growing dimmer. The driver flicked a switch, but the lights didn’t brighten. Then, without warning, the engine sputtered and died, and the bus coasted to a stop. The driver tried to restart it, but the battery was dead. ‘We’re stuck,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait for another bus.’

Groans filled the air. Some passengers got out to stretch their legs. I stayed in my seat, feeling an inexplicable dread. Then I saw it again: a faint glow in the distance, coming from the direction we had come from. It was moving toward us, bobbing slightly. My heart raced. I knew it was the figure with the lantern.

As it got closer, I could see that it was indeed the tall figure, cloaked in a tattered coat, its face hidden. But now, under its arm, it carried a bundle that I recognized with a sickening lurch: it was the conductor’s hat, and the driver’s wallet was in its other hand. It stopped at the bus door, and a voice, dry and raspy, said, ‘Room for one more?’

Nobody moved. The passengers were frozen with terror. The figure stepped onto the bus, its lantern casting grotesque shadows on the seats. It walked down the aisle, pausing at each seat, as if inspecting the occupants. When it reached my row, it stopped. Through the fabric of its hood, I saw two pinpoints of red light. It leaned closer, and I could smell decay, like wet earth and rotting leaves.

A whisper, not from its mouth but from inside my mind, said, ‘You saw me at the tree. You should have stayed on the bus.’ It raised its hand, and the lantern’s light grew blinding. I shut my eyes, and then everything went silent.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the side of the road, the bus gone. The sun was rising, and I was covered in dew. My bag was beside me, intact. I looked around, but there was no sign of the bus or the other passengers. On the ground, there was a small, clay lantern, cold and unlit. I picked it up and saw that it was ancient, with strange symbols etched into it. I have no memory of how I survived, and I never found out what happened to the bus or its passengers. To this day, I keep that lantern in my closet, sealed in a box, because sometimes at night, I hear a faint scratching sound coming from it, and I am too afraid to open it again.