The Lantern’s Guest

In the autumn of 2011, I moved into a cramped flat above a derelict bakery in the town of Ashford. The walls were thin, the radiators clanked, and the smell of stale flour clung to everything. I thought it was just character. My boyfriend, Marcus, joined me a month later, and that’s when the disturbances began.

At first, it was small things: a tap on the bedroom window when nothing was there, the floorboards groaning as if someone walked the hallway at night. Then the voices started. I’d be on the brink of sleep when a woman’s voice, soft and close, would whisper my name, ‘Lena.’ I’d jolt awake, but the room was empty. One morning, I overslept and heard a firm voice say, ‘Get up. It’s time to get up.’ I checked my phone; my alarm had failed. It was helpful, but unsettling.

Marcus laughed it off, saying the old building had quirks. But I noticed he’d started sleeping with the lamp on. We never talked about it directly, just exchanged nervous smiles.

One Saturday, we decided to visit his parents in the countryside, a three-hour drive. I knew we’d return after dark, so I switched on the single lamp that sat between the two windows in our living room. Its warm glow spilled onto the street, a beacon. We left at five.

The visit was pleasant—his mother’s roast, his father’s stories. But as the evening wore on, a knot tightened in my stomach. I kept glancing at my watch, eager to be home. The drive back was quiet, save for the hum of the engine. We talked about trivial things, but my mind wandered to the lamp, to the emptiness of our flat.

We pulled up to the curb at nine. The street was dim, our building a dark silhouette except for the lamp’s glow in the front windows. I was about to get out when I glanced up at the right-hand window. There, silhouetted against the light, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was motionless, facing out. The lamp cast his shadow long across the room. My breath caught. I grabbed Marcus’s arm.

‘Marcus, look… in the window.’

He followed my gaze. ‘I see it.’ His voice was low.

‘Is that… a reflection?’ I asked, trying to rationalize.

‘No. We’re parked at an angle. It’s someone.’

We sat frozen, watching the figure. It didn’t move. After a long minute, Marcus said, ‘I’m going to check.’ He opened the door, and I watched him approach the building, his footsteps echoing. He disappeared through the front door. I waited, heart pounding.

Then, the figure in the window turned its head slightly, as if looking down at me. A chill ran down my spine. It raised a hand and pressed it against the glass, leaving a faint smudge.

I heard Marcus’s footsteps on the stairs inside. The figure vanished. The empty room stared back.

Marcus came out, looking pale. ‘The flat’s empty. The back door was bolted. I searched every room. Nothing.’

I got out, and we stood on the pavement, looking up at the window. The lamp still burned, casting its light on the empty space. I shivered.

We went inside, checking every corner, but found nothing. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, Marcus’s arm around me. At around 3 a.m., I heard a voice, not a whisper but clear as day, ‘I was here before you. This is my place.’

I didn’t tell Marcus. But from that night on, whenever we left the lamp on, I always saw the figure in the window. And I began to notice that the smudge on the glass never faded, even after I cleaned it.

One night, I woke to find Marcus standing at the window, naked, his hands pressed against the glass, his back to me. He turned, and his eyes were black, and his mouth moved silently as if repeating something. I screamed. He blinked, and he was himself again, confused.

We moved out a month later. But now, wherever I go, if I see a single lamp burning in a window, I look away quickly. Because sometimes, I think I see that figure—and it’s looking back.

Now, in my new place, I never leave a lamp on. I use the overhead light. It’s safer that way. But last night, I heard a tap at my window. And a voice, soft as the wind, said, ‘I found you.’ I’m writing this by my phone’s flashlight, in the dark, because I’m afraid to turn on any light. Because I don’t want to see who’s standing in the glass.

Tonight, the moon is full, and my window is bare. But out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall shape, motionless, watching. And I’m not sure if it’s a reflection of my mind or the truth. All I know is, it never leaves.

The End.