The Lantern’s Keeper

I was twenty-three when I moved into the Holloway House, an old Victorian that had been converted into a boarding house for those of us who couldn’t quite afford better. My name is Mara, and I have been profoundly deaf in my left ear since birth, with only partial hearing in my right. I rely on lip-reading, sign language, and the vibrations that travel through the floor. The house suited me—it was quiet, and the landlady, Mrs. Kettle, was a plump, kind woman who knew a little sign language because her grandson was deaf.

My room was on the third floor, the attic, which had been finished into a small studio with a slanted ceiling. The previous tenant had left behind a strange collection: dozens of old brass lanterns, all rusted and dark, hanging from hooks along the exposed beams. Each one was unique, some with colored glass, others with intricate filigree. Mrs. Kettle said she didn’t know where they came from, but that they’d been there for decades, and she didn’t have the heart to remove them. She warned me not to light them, though. ‘They belonged to Mr. Holloway,’ she said, ‘and he was very particular about them.’

On my second night, I woke to a vibration. It was subtle, a rhythmic thrumming that I felt through my pillow. It was like a low hum, but not from any machine. I sat up, straining my good ear, and I could just barely make out a sound—a soft, crackling noise, like fire. I looked around the room, but nothing was out of place. The lanterns swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. I thought it was just the old house settling, and I tried to go back to sleep. But the hum persisted, and I felt a warmth gathering at the center of the room.

I got up and switched on the light. The warmth dissipated, but the lanterns still swayed, as if a ghost had just passed through them. I decided to do some research. Mrs. Kettle had a small library in the parlor, mostly old books. I found a journal, dusty and bound in leather, that belonged to the original owner, Elias Holloway. The pages were yellowed, but his handwriting was clear. He wrote about collecting lanterns from all over the world, each one from a place where people had reported ‘light-based phenomena.’ He believed that these lanterns were vessels for what he called ‘the keeper of the flame’—an entity that fed on the energy of human fear and despair, and that the lanterns were its prisons.

I was skeptical, but as I read on, I learned that Holloway had discovered a way to trap the entity by using a lantern made of special glass, and he had successfully captured it, but at the cost of his own life. The journal ended with a warning: ‘If you ever find yourself in this house, do not light the brass lantern. The one with the red glass is the key. If it is ever lit, the keeper will be released, and it will seek new vessels.’

I looked up from the journal, my heart pounding. The lantern with the red glass was hanging directly above my bed. That night, I had trouble sleeping. I kept feeling a presence, a heaviness in the air, as if someone was watching me. And the vibrations were worse—a constant, pulsing hum that seemed to come from the lantern itself.

A few nights later, I was reading in bed when I saw a flicker out of the corner of my eye. I turned, and the red glass lantern was glowing—a soft, warm light, as if a candle had been lit inside. But no one had lit it. I got up, my heart racing, and approached it. The light was gentle, mesmerizing, and I felt a strange sense of calm. I reached out to touch it, and as my fingers grazed the glass, the lantern went dark, but a whisper-like sensation brushed past my ear, even my deaf ear. It was as if something had just spoken to me, and for a split second, I understood.

I pulled my hand back, frightened. I knew I had done something wrong. The next day, I tried to tell Mrs. Kettle, but she just smiled and said, ‘Oh, that’s just the old house playing tricks. Don’t you worry.’ But I knew it was more.

That night, I woke up to find the room filled with a dim, amber glow. All the lanterns were lit, but there was no source of heat, and the flames cast dancing shadows on the walls. I felt a burning sensation on my right wrist, and I looked down to see a mark—a burn in the shape of a flame. The pain was sharp, and I screamed, but no sound came out because I had lost my voice from fear. The light flickered, and then it faded, leaving me in darkness.

I ran to the door, but it was locked. I could feel the vibration of something moving in the room, something heavy. A figure began to take shape in the corner—tall, thin, made of shadow, with glowing red eyes. It spoke to me, not in words, but in emotions, in images: it showed me a memory of Elias Holloway, his final moments, as he lit the red lantern and trapped the keeper, but not before the keeper had scarred him with that same flame mark.

I understood then that the keeper wanted to escape, and it needed a new vessel. Me. It wanted to use my deafness as a weakness, to isolate me from the world, to make me its lantern. I fell to my knees, and I felt a force pushing me toward the red lantern myself. My hand was reaching out, almost of its own will, to grasp it and light it again.

But then I remembered something my mother had told me when I was a child: ‘When you’re afraid, think of the light. Not the darkness, but the light.’ And I thought of a story I had heard about a girl who had trapped a ghost by using her own willpower. I focused my mind, and I began to sign to myself, the words for ‘strength’ and ‘courage.’ I forced my hand back, and I stumbled to the corner where the journal was. I opened it, and I found a page I hadn’t noticed before—a page with a drawing of a lantern, and beneath it, a phrase: ‘The keeper is bound to its first vessel. It cannot take a new one unless the old is released.’

I realized that Elias Holloway had never died. He was trapped inside the lantern, his soul providing the ‘flame’ that kept the keeper contained. The keeper was trying to trick me into lighting the red lantern, which would release Elias’s soul and allow the keeper to enter me instead.

I understood that I had to do the opposite. I had to extinguish all the other lanterns, and then smash the red lantern, not to release the keeper, but to release Elias. But if I did that, the keeper would be free, and there would be nothing to restrain it. I needed to transfer Elias’s soul to another vessel, a new lantern I had to create myself.

I searched the room frantically. In the bottom of a drawer, I found a small, unpolished piece of amber glass. It was the only one not in the collection. I had a lighter, and I knew what I had to do. I lit the amber glass, and I placed it over the red lantern’s flame, and I spoke the words from the journal, a chant I had memorized in sign language, moving my hands in the air.

Suddenly, the room exploded with light. I felt a searing pain in my chest, and then silence. The lanterns went dark, all except the amber one, which glowed with a steady, warm light. And then I heard a voice, not through my ears, but in my mind: ‘Thank you, Mara. You have freed me. The keeper is gone, now and forever.’

I looked at the amber lantern, and I saw a faint, ethereal face—Elias Holloway, smiling. The lantern glowed a little brighter, and then it dimmed to a low, comfortable light. I felt a warmth spread through me, and my hearing, even in my deaf ear, seemed to sharpen. I could hear the hum of the electricity, the creak of the house.

From that night on, I kept the amber lantern lit, always. It was a small, constant light, and it brought me peace. I never told anyone the full story, but when they asked about the burn on my wrist, I said it was an accident. But I knew the truth: I had become the lantern’s keeper, and I would never let the darkness in again.