The Lantern’s Vigil

In the autumn of 2011, my grandmother, Marta, passed away. She was a woman of strict routines, and one of them was that she never allowed closed doors in her house, especially at night. She said the doors trapped the bad air, but I think she just wanted to be able to see into every room from the hallway. She had an old oil lantern that she kept lit on a small table near the staircase, its flame casting a warm, flickering glow that reached into every corner. After her funeral, my mother, my sister Lena, and I stayed at her old farmhouse to sort through her belongings. It was a rambling, drafty place, with a guestroom Lena and I used to share when we visited as kids. We hated that room because the door wouldn’t close properly, and we always felt watched from the hallway. Grandma would come up with her lantern and check on us, her silhouette a black shape against the light.

A few months later, in the winter, I caught a bad case of the flu. I was a senior in high school, and the illness hit me hard. I had to stay home from school, and my mother insisted on taking care of me. I moved to the guestroom, the same one from my childhood, because it was closer to the bathroom and had a comfortable bed. The door had been fixed and now closed snugly, but my mother, like her mother before her, disliked closed doors. So, I left it ajar, just enough that the hallway light could spill in. I was too weak to care much, and I fell asleep early, my head pounding.

That night, I woke up to a strange sound – a soft, rhythmic creaking, like wood slowly contracting. I opened my eyes, and through my feverish haze, I saw a faint, orange glow in the hallway, growing brighter. Then I heard footsteps, slow and heavy, coming up the stairs. My heart raced. I wanted to call out, but my throat was raw and dry. The glow stopped right outside my door, and I saw a silhouette – tall and thin, holding a lantern. For a moment, I thought it was my mother, checking on me, but the shape was wrong. It was too gaunt, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. And then, it leaned forward, pushing the door open wider, and the light flooded the room.

The face that stared at me was not human. It was pale, stretched, with hollow eyes that seemed to absorb the light. Its mouth was a lipless gash, and it spoke in a voice that was like wind through dead leaves: ‘I check on the sleeping ones.’ I wanted to scream, but my body was paralyzed, a feverish nightmare. The creature stepped into the room, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. It stopped at the foot of my bed, raised the lantern, and shined it directly into my face. The light was blinding, and I felt a terrible pressure in my head, as if it were looking through my eyes into my very soul.

Then, just as suddenly, it retreated, stepping back into the hallway, its gait stiff and mechanical. The door swung closed behind it, sealing me in darkness. I heard its footsteps creak down the stairs, and the light faded. I lay there, trembling, my sweat soaking the sheets. I must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because I woke to morning light and my mother’s worried face. She asked if I was alright, saying she had heard me thrashing. I told her I had a nightmare, but we both knew it was more than that.

Over the next nights, the creature returned. Each time, it would come, check on me with its lantern, and leave. My fever worsened, and I began to see it even when awake, a shadow lurking at the edge of my vision. My mother, desperate, called a priest to bless the house, but nothing helped. It was only when I recalled my grandmother’s words – ‘The lantern keeps watch’ – that I realized this was not a new presence. It was a guardian, but not a kind one. It was the keeper of the house, and it had been waiting for someone to open the door again.

On the night before my fever broke, I decided to confront it. Instead of fleeing, I forced myself to sit up and face it as it entered. The creature paused, tilting its head as if curious. I spoke, my voice shaking, ‘Why do you watch?’ It raised the lantern higher, and for the first time, I saw something in its expression – a deep, ancient loneliness. It said, ‘Because the door was opened. I must ensure nothing follows.’ And then, it reached out a long, skeletal finger and touched my forehead. A surge of cold energy coursed through me, and I collapsed.

When I woke, the fever was gone. The creature was nowhere to be seen, but the lantern on the staircase was extinguished for the first time in memory. I never saw it again. But sometimes, when I stay in that house, I leave the door open, and I see a faint glow in the hallway, and I know it is still watching, still guarding, waiting for the next time a door is closed in its presence.