The Lantern Watch

In the summer of 1976, when I was ten, my family and I spent our holidays at my grandmother’s ancestral home in a remote village in the Western Ghats. The house was a sprawling tiled structure, its wooden beams darkened with age, and it could easily shelter twenty of us. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents all gathered there, filling every room with laughter and the aroma of cooking. But the village had no electricity, and by nine in the evening, the only light came from oil lamps and the moon filtering through the trees.

The house was perched on a hillside, overlooking a valley where the forest grew thick and wild. Beyond the back veranda, an old well stood under a banyan tree, its stone rim mossy and cracked. There was a story that the well was bottomless, and that a woman in white had been seen sitting on its edge, combing her hair. Most of the elders dismissed it as folklore, but the servants refused to draw water after sunset.

On the third night, after dinner, the family gathered in the main hall, as was custom, to share stories until drowsiness overcame us. I sat close to my mother, half-listening to tales of spirits that haunted the nearby paths and the ruins of an old temple deeper in the jungle. The conversation ebbed, and soon the only sounds were the crackling of the lamp wick and the occasional creak of the house settling. The oil in my lamp burned low, casting long shadows that danced on the walls.

It was then that we heard it: a commotion from the backyard. Heavy footsteps, a man’s voice shouting, and the clatter of a bucket against stone. It was my uncle, a man of usually calm temperament, who had gone out to fetch water. He burst through the back door, his face pale, his hands trembling. He spoke in hushed, urgent tones, saying he had seen a figure at the well, a tall, thin shape that had been standing motionless, watching him. As he approached, it had stepped aside, as if inviting him to look down. He had felt an overwhelming urge to peer into the darkness of the well, but a cold grip on his shoulder had stopped him. He had turned to see nothing, and when he looked back, the figure was gone. He refused to elaborate further, and for the first time, the elders fell silent, exchanging glances that spoke of a shared, unspoken fear.

My curiosity, however, got the better of me. The next night, I slipped out of bed, determined to see the well for myself. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the faint glow of the kitchen fire. I crept to the back door, my bare feet cold on the stone floor. Outside, the air was still and heavy. The banyan tree cast a vast black shadow, and the well stood like a ancient sentinel. I approached it, my heart thumping in my ears. Peering over the edge, I saw only darkness, an absolute blackness that seemed to drink the light. I leaned further, and a whisper rose from the depths, a soft, sibilant sound that formed no words but carried a chill that ran down my spine. I stumbled back, and as I did, I saw a movement at the far end of the courtyard, just beyond the circle of lamplight from the house. It was a tall, thin figure, draped in what appeared to be a gray shroud. It stood perfectly still, as if observing me. I wanted to run, but my legs felt frozen. Then, the figure raised a long, pale arm and pointed at the well, then at me, then back at the well. It was a clear command: look again.

Against every instinct, I turned back to the well. The darkness seemed to churn, and in its center, a faint light glimmered, like a candle flame far below. As I watched, the light grew brighter, and I saw a face forming in it—a woman’s face, pale and beautiful, but with hollow, empty eyes. She opened her mouth, and a sound emerged, a low and melodious hum that seemed to resonate in my bones. It was not a scream, not a whisper, but something far more intimate, a song of longing that spoke of a life cut short, of a secret buried. The hum grew into a clear melody, and I felt tears streaming down my cheeks, though I did not know why. My mind clouded, and I felt myself leaning further, drawn by a force I could not resist.

Just as my hands were about to grip the well’s edge, a strong hand yanked me backward. My mother’s voice rang out, sharp and frightened. She had seen me slip out and had followed. She held me tightly, her body trembling. She did not scold me; instead, she looked at the well with a grim expression. In the lamplight that she had brought, I saw that the stone rim of the well was covered with bizarre carvings—spirals, crosses, and symbols I had never seen. ‘Do not look down that well again,’ she whispered. ‘There are things down there that do not belong to this world.’

I did not sleep for the rest of that summer. Every night, I lay awake, listening to the distant hum from the well, even when no one else could hear it. The melody became a constant presence, a lullaby that pulled at my consciousness. The family, sensing something was wrong, began to speak of leaving early. The elders consulted quietly, and one evening, my grandfather announced that we would return to the city the next day. That night, as I lay in bed, the hum was stronger than ever, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I turned, and there, standing in the doorway, was the same gray-shrouded figure, its eyes—if it had any—fixed on me. It spoke, but not with a voice. The words formed in my mind: ‘You have seen me. Now you must understand.’ And with that, it dissolved into the shadows.

We left the next morning, and I never returned to that house. But the melody stayed with me, a haunting tune that plays in my mind at odd hours, especially when I am near stillness and silence. And sometimes, when I see my reflection in a dark pool or a glass of water, I catch a fleeting glimpse of a pale face with hollow eyes looking back, and I know that part of me is still there, waiting at the well, watching, and waiting for me to come back. The lantern that once guided my path now only serves to illuminate the darkness I carry within, and I live with the certainty that some doors should never be opened, and some wells should never be peered into, lest they peer back.