The Lantern’s Last Flicker

The rain had been drumming on the tin roof of the old hunting lodge for three days straight, turning the dirt track leading to the main road into a quagmire that swallowed any thought of escape. We were six friends, all in our early twenties, on a week’s holiday at a remote farm in the Drakensberg foothills, a place called Umzololo, named after the winding river that cut through the valley below. The lodge itself was a relic from the ’70s, all dark wood paneling and dusty animal trophies, but it had a warmth to it, a hearth that crackled even in the summer.

On that third evening, the boredom of confinement had set in. We’d played every card game we knew, argued about music until our voices were hoarse, and finally settled into a half-hearted attempt at roasting marshmallows over the single candle that sputtered on the low coffee table. The power had gone out hours ago, and the only light came from the fire and that tiny flame, which cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. I was curled up in the corner of the worn leather sofa, my back pressed into the seam of the cushions, feeling the warmth of the fire on my face while the rest of my friends sat in a loose semicircle on the floor and armchairs.

We traded stories in the flickering gloom – childhood mishaps, first loves, embarrassing moments. I was getting drowsy, my eyelids heavy with the rhythm of the rain and the low murmur of voices. I shifted, resting my head on the lap of my friend, Thabo, who was stroking my hair absently. My eyes closed, and the world faded into a warm, hazy blur. But then, a sudden, profound silence cut through the noise. The rain seemed to stop, the crackle of the fire died, and even the breathing of my friends seemed to cease. My eyes snapped open.

I was looking directly at Lindo, who was sitting across from me. Her face was frozen in a mask of pure terror, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly agape, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at something behind me, just over my shoulder, near the corner where the darkness pooled beyond the candle’s reach. My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to turn, to see what had frightened her so, but my body was locked in place, a primal fear rooting me to the spot. I think I started praying, a desperate, silent plea that whatever it was, it wasn’t burglars or worse, that it would just go away. The seconds stretched into an eternity, the silence so complete that I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

And then, the candle flickered. Not a gentle waver, but a violent, sputtering dance, as if choked by a sudden draft. The flame shrank to a tiny blue bead, then roared back up, and in that brief flare, I caught a glimpse in the dark, polished surface of the window behind Thabo’s head – a reflection. My own reflection, but I wasn’t alone. There was a shape, a darker patch against the darkness, standing just behind me, where no one should have been. It was tall, impossibly tall, and its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, as if it was looking down at me with a curiosity that was anything but human. I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, and the smell of old, wet earth filled my nostrils.

I finally found the strength to move. I scrambled off Thabo’s lap, pushing myself backwards into the corner, my eyes fixed on the spot where the shape had been. But there was nothing there. The corner was empty, just the shadows of the room. My friends were staring at me now, their faces a mix of confusion and fear. Lindo whispered, ‘Did you see it?’ I couldn’t speak. Thabo was shaking, his hands trembling as he reached for me. ‘It was right behind you,’ he said. ‘It was like a man, but… wrong.’

We spent the rest of the night huddled together, the candle extinguished, the fire reduced to glowing embers, and we waited for dawn. But the rain never returned, and the silence that had fallen over the lodge seemed to linger, as if the very air was holding its breath. We left the next morning, our bags hastily packed, and we never spoke of Umzololo again. But sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, I still see that space behind me in the corner, and I feel that cold breath on my neck, and I know that the lantern’s last flicker was not a farewell, but an invitation.