The Lantern’s Toll

My aunt Rosa worked as a live-in caregiver for a woman named Clara, who had the mind of a small child trapped in a forty-six-year-old body. They lived in a remote village in the high desert of New Mexico, in an old adobe house that had been in Clara’s family for generations. The house was modest, but the yard was vast, stretching back into the dusty scrubland, dotted with old wooden sheds and a rusted windmill. The outhouse, a rickety structure with a crescent moon carved into its door, stood at the farthest edge of the property, a good five-minute walk through the dark.

One night, Rosa was jolted awake by a pressing need to relieve herself. She had tried to ignore it, hoping it would pass, but her bladder was insistent. She lay in the dark, her heart pounding at the thought of traversing that black expanse alone. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the wind whispered through the cracks in the walls, making the house groan. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she got up and shuffled to Clara’s room. Clara was curled up, clutching a ragged teddy bear, her face peaceful. Rosa gently shook her shoulder. ‘Clara, honey, I need to go to the bathroom. Will you come with me?’

Clara’s eyes snapped open, and a low growl rumbled from her throat. She hated being woken, but after a moment, her expression softened, and she nodded, her small child-like voice saying, ‘Okay, Rosa. But you have to carry the lantern.’ Rosa grabbed the old kerosene lantern from the kitchen, lit it, and they stepped outside into the cold night air.

The beam of the lantern cast a weak, flickering circle of light that barely illuminated the path ahead. The gravel crunched under their feet, and the sound seemed magnified in the silence. Rosa clutched the lantern with one hand and Clara’s hand with the other. Clara hummed a tune, her voice eerie in the emptiness. They passed the old well, its wooden cover warped and rotting, and the abandoned chicken coop, its wire mesh sagging. Rosa’s eyes darted to every shadow, expecting something to leap out.

As they approached the outhouse, Rosa noticed a strange, sweet smell, like rotting fruit mixed with burnt sugar, hanging in the air. She dismissed it as the scent of the desert night. She handed the lantern to Clara and stepped inside the outhouse, closing the door behind her. The inside was pitch black, and she fumbled with the lock, a rusty bolt that scraped loudly. She did her business quickly, eager to get back to the safety of the house. But as she reached for the door handle, she heard a voice outside—a child’s voice, but not Clara’s—singing the same tune Clara had been humming, but in a lower, more sinister key.

Rosa froze. She pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear. The singing stopped, replaced by a low chuckle. She yanked the door open, and the lantern was gone. Clara was nowhere to be seen. The yard stretched before her, darker than before, the moon still hidden. Panic surged through her. ‘Clara! Clara, where are you?’ she called out, but her voice was swallowed by the vastness. She stumbled forward, waving her arms, trying to find her way, but she had strayed from the path.

The wind picked up, howling like a wounded animal, and the sand began to swirl, stinging her eyes. She felt a cold hand grip her wrist, and she screamed, pulling away. A voice whispered in her ear, ‘I have your little friend. Come find me.’ She spun around, but there was nothing. She ran, tripping over rocks and brush, her heart racing. She didn’t know where she was going, but she kept moving, calling Clara’s name.

After what felt like hours, she stumbled upon the old well. The cover was slightly ajar, and the chain creaked as it swayed. She peered into the dark hole, and from the depths, she heard Clara’s voice, small and frightened: ‘Rosa, I’m down here. Help me.’ Rosa knelt, gripping the edge. ‘Clara! Hold on, I’ll get you out.’ But as she reached for the chain, she saw two glinting eyes in the darkness below, too large and too close together to be Clara’s. A voice, not Clara’s, echoed up, ‘She’s mine now.’

Rosa screamed and scrambled backward, tears streaming down her face. She forced herself to her feet and ran toward the house, not looking back. She burst through the front door, slammed it shut, and leaned against it, gasping. She didn’t sleep that night. At dawn, she called the police. They searched the property but found no trace of Clara, only the lantern, its glass cracked and its flame extinguished, sitting on the edge of the well.

Rosa moved away shortly after, unable to bear the emptiness of that house. She never spoke of that night to anyone, but she always carried a small lantern with her, even in the daylight. And to this day, in that village, they say that if you listen carefully on a windless night, you can hear a woman’s voice calling Clara’s name, and a child’s voice humming an old song, from somewhere deep beneath the ground, where the well still holds its secret.

That is what happened to my aunt, and it’s the reason she left that place forever. And it’s why, whenever I read a story about someone who hears a voice from a well, I think of Clara, and I wonder if she ever found her way out, or if she is still down there, waiting for someone to come and be her friend.