The Lantern’s Debt

The first time I saw the marshmallow incident, I knew Nazu was a bad influence. His name was actually Nazir, but everyone called him Nazu because of his twitchy energy, like a moth that had eaten too many lightbulbs. My friend Iris, though, she had a calm that could soothe a storm, and somehow she balanced his chaos. When she called me on a Friday afternoon, her voice had that tightness, the one she got before asking for a favor she knew she’d regret. She said Nazu had found a ‘super authentic’ Ouija board at an estate sale, and they wanted to try it at her grandmother’s old farmhouse, the one that had been in her family for generations but sat empty now. I was supposed to bring supplies and a good attitude. I brought both, but the good attitude evaporated the moment I saw the board.

The farmhouse was a two-story skeleton with a wraparound porch and peeling paint the color of dried blood. Inside, it smelled of dust and old wood, and the floorboards groaned like they remembered every footstep ever taken. Nazu had set up the board in the parlor, on a low table draped with a heavy velvet cloth the color of tarnished brass. Candles were everywhere, their flames casting jumping shadows that made the room feel smaller. Iris sat cross-legged on a cushion, her fingers resting lightly on the planchette. ‘This board is different,’ she whispered. ‘The letters are worn, but there’s a symbol I’ve never seen.’ I leaned in. In the center, instead of the usual sun and moon, there was a crude lantern with a tiny flame, and underneath, the words ‘The Lantern’s Debt’. A cold draft swept through the room, but no windows were open. I should have left then, but Iris looked at me with those trusting eyes, and I couldn’t abandon her.

Nazu insisted we start at exactly 5:00 PM, because that was the time of day when ‘the veil thins.’ We placed our fingers on the planchette, and for a long minute, nothing. Then the planchette began to move, slowly, deliberately, as if guided by a hand much larger than ours. It spelled out ‘H-E-L-P’. Iris gasped. ‘Is someone trapped?’ Nazu’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Ask who!’ The planchette moved again, faster now: ‘M-A-R-Y’. Mary. A common name, but the air turned thick, and the candle flames bent as if bowing to an unseen presence. I felt a cold spot on my shoulder, like a hand resting there. ‘Mary, what do you need?’ Iris asked, her voice steady. The planchette shot to the word ‘P-E-N-A-N-C-E’. Then it spelled ‘Y-O-U’. The letters came so fast they were almost a blur. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the planchette flew off the board and clattered to the floor. The candles all went out at once. In the darkness, we heard a creak from the upstairs, like footsteps on old wood. Nazu laughed nervously. ‘Probably just the house settling.’ But Iris didn’t laugh. She was staring at the back of her hand. In the dim light from the window, I could see a faint, raw-looking outline, like a burn in the shape of a lantern.

We didn’t speak much after that. We moved to the kitchen, which was lit by a single bare bulb that buzzed like an angry fly. The farmhouse had no electricity, but there was a generator hummed in the shed, and we’d brought flashlights. The kitchen was dusty, but there was a wood-burning stove and a sink with a hand pump. We sat at a wobbly table, and Nazu tried to lighten the mood by offering to toast marshmallows over the stove, a joke that no one laughed at. That’s when the phone rang. It was a landline, ancient and yellowed, mounted on the wall. Iris’s grandmother had the phone disconnected years ago. The ring was shrill, like a cry. Nazu picked it up, his eyes wide, and said hello. He listened for a moment, then his face went pale. He held the receiver out to me. ‘It’s for you.’ I took it, my hand trembling. A voice, dry and crackling like old leaves, whispered: ‘You have to finish the ritual. The debt is unpaid.’ I dropped the phone, and it clattered to the floor, but the voice continued from the receiver, now on the ground: ‘May 31st, 5 PM, the lantern will be lit.’ The line went dead. I looked at the window. The sun was already low, casting long shadows, and I realized with horror that it was still May 31st, 2009, the same date that had been stamped on the invitation to the sleepover. And it was 4:55 PM.

We bolted for the door, but it was locked. The key was missing. Nazu shook the handle, but the wood might as well have been iron. ‘The basement,’ Iris whispered. ‘Grandma always said there’s a way out through the basement.’ We found the basement door under the stairs, but it was warped, stuck. With a desperate shove, it burst open, revealing a stone stairway that descended into blackness. A cold, damp smell rose up. We had only one flashlight, and its beam was weak, barely penetrating the dark. We went down, our footsteps echoing. At the bottom, the beam revealed a strange sight: a large circle of salt on the floor, and in the center, a lantern with an old-fashioned wick, and beside it, a box of matches. The air was still, cold, and I could see our breath. ‘The debt,’ I muttered. I remembered the game rules: if you contact a spirit, you must close the board properly, say goodbye, and thank it. We hadn’t. We just left when the planchette flew off. We had broken the first rule.

Iris stepped forward and picked up the lantern. ‘We have to finish it. We have to say goodbye properly.’ She lit the wick; it sputtered but caught flame. The light cast our shadows on the stone walls, but there were four shadows, not three. A fourth figure, tall and slender, stood just behind Iris. I opened my mouth to warn her, but no sound came out. The figure’s shadow raised a hand, and I saw that it held a brass key. It placed it silently on a shelf beside us. Then it pointed upward, toward the ceiling, as if telling us to go. We scrambled up the stairs, back into the kitchen, and through the now-unlocked door. We ran to my car, and I drove without looking back. I didn’t stop until we were miles away, on a main road with streetlights and other cars. We didn’t speak for the entire drive.

At my apartment, we sat in silence, drinking tea that burned our tongues. I examined Iris’s hand; the lantern mark was still there, but it had faded to a faint white scar. Nazu was shaking. ‘What was that thing?’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. But I think we owe it something.’ That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing that shadow, the way it moved with a grace that wasn’t human. The next morning, I searched online for ‘Lantern Debt’ and found nothing. But I found a forum where people shared paranormal experiences, and one post caught my eye. It was dated May 31, 1989. It was a story about a family who lived in a farmhouse, and they played a Ouija board. They contacted a spirit named Mary, who said she was trapped in the house, and she asked them to light a lantern to guide her. They lit it, and then they died. The house burned down, and the only survivor was the grandma’s sister, who claimed that the lantern had taken their souls as payment for releasing Mary. The post was titled ‘The Debt is Real.’ I haven’t told Iris or Nazu, but I know one thing: every May 31st at 5 PM, I light a lantern in my apartment. Just in case. And I always make sure I say goodbye to the spirits I summon, because some debts, you don’t want to owe.