The Lantern’s Lament

In the humid stillness of a Bahamian night, waves lapped against the wooden stilts of our house on the island of Eleuthera. My father, a marine biologist, had moved us here for a year-long study of the coral reefs. Our home was a two-story clapboard structure, creaking with age, and the only light for miles came from our kerosene lanterns and the distant flash of a lighthouse on a neighboring cay.

Every evening, before bed, my father would walk the narrow path to the shoreline to check on his research equipment and the small dock where he kept his boat. He always carried a lantern, and as he passed my window, the light would flicker across my ceiling, and he’d tap on the glass to signal goodnight. I’d open my window and wave, and he’d continue on his way. It was our little ritual.

One night, around nine, I was reading in my room, the window slightly ajar to let in the sea breeze. The familiar tapping came, and I looked up, expecting to see my father’s silhouette. But the glass was dark. No lantern. No shadow. I waited, thinking he’d moved on, but the tapping came again, more insistent. I crossed to the window and threw it open, peering into the darkness. The path was empty. I called out, ‘Dad?’ but only the surf answered. I went to the living room, where my mother was mending a net. ‘Is Dad outside?’ I asked. She looked up, needle paused. ‘No, he’s been reading in the study all evening.’ A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I forced a laugh, ‘Must have been a branch.’ But the palm fronds hung motionless in the still air.

Back in my room, I tried to ignore the incident. But as I sat on my bed, I noticed the curtains stirring, though the window was now closed. A faint scent of salt and something sweet, like rotting fruit, filled the room. Then, from the corner, a low humming began. It wasn’t a human voice, but a resonant, hollow tone, like wind through a conch shell. The sound seemed to emanate from an old wooden box on my shelf—a keepsake box that had belonged to my grandmother, who had been a Bahamian healer.

My heart hammered. I reached for the box, fingers trembling. Inside were shells, dried herbs, and a single photograph of my grandmother, her eyes deep and knowing. The humming grew louder, and the photograph began to flutter as if blown by an invisible breath. I snapped the box shut, and the sound ceased abruptly. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the tapping returned, not on my window, but on the floor beneath my bed. It was rhythmic, like a code. I knelt down and peered into the gap. In the dim light, I saw a small shape—a wad of black hair, like a bird’s nest, but greasy and matted. It moved, shifting slightly, and I realized it was breathing. I grabbed a flashlight from my nightstand and shone it under. There, nestled in the dust, was a creature no bigger than a rat, with wrinkled, leathery skin and oversized ears. It had no eyes, but its mouth was open wide, and from it came the faint, high-pitched hum I had heard before. It was singing, a haunting melody without words.

I stumbled backward, hitting my head on the bedpost. The creature began to crawl out, its limbs moving with an unnatural fluidity. It climbed up the bedpost, and I scrambled to my feet. It perched on the headboard, its mouth fixed in a ghastly grin. Then, it spoke, in a voice that was not quite human but echoed my own thoughts: ‘You should not have opened the window, child.’

My throat tightened. ‘Who are you?’ I stammered.

‘I am the one who taps,’ it replied. ‘I was bound to this house by your grandmother, to protect her family. But she is gone, and her promise is broken. Now I must find a new keeper.’

It lunged, and I screamed. My parents burst into the room, my father brandishing a machete. The creature hissed and dissolved into a puff of sea mist, leaving behind a single black pearl on my pillow.

My grandmother’s box lay open on the floor, the photograph now torn. In the corner, a lantern flickered to life, though none of us had lit it. On the wall, shadows writhed like living things, and from outside, I heard the tapping again—but this time, it came from the water, as if something was calling me into the deep.

We moved away the next week, but I still dream of that creature. And sometimes, when I look into a dark window, I see a small, eyeless face, singing its mournful song, waiting for me to open the glass once more.