The Lantern’s Wrong Turn

The summer I turned twelve, the heat in our village was so thick you could chew it. My sister Mira and I were sent to our grandparents’ farm while our parents attended to business in the city. The farm was a world of its own: dusty lanes, a creaking well, and endless fields of wheat that whispered secrets in the wind. At night, we slept on the flat roof of the old house, under a sky so full of stars it felt like a blanket of diamonds. My grandmother, Amma, insisted on it, claiming the cool breeze helped her sleep. My grandfather, Baba, preferred the solid ground of his room downstairs, muttering about his aching bones.

That night was a full moon, a ‘poonam’ as Amma called it, and the light was so bright it cast sharp shadows of the guava tree against the whitewashed wall. After a dinner of dal and roti, we climbed the narrow stairs to the roof. Amma laid out the thin mattresses and cotton sheets. I was wedged between Mira and Amma, the rough edge of the mattress digging into my side. My phone had died, so I borrowed Baba’s old brick of a phone to play a snake game. As the screen glowed in the dark, I noticed a series of alarms set for different times: 1:15 AM, 2:30 AM, 3:45 AM. I asked Amma about them. She sighed. ‘He has his little walks, you know. The doctor says it helps his circulation. He goes to the verandah, does his rounds, comes back. It’s been years.’ I nodded, half-listening, and soon drifted off to sleep, the phone slipping from my hand.

I woke with a start. The moon had moved, now hanging low over the horizon, casting long, distorted shadows. The air was still and heavy. I felt a sudden pressure on my chest, as if someone was sitting on me. I tried to move, but my limbs were leaden. I could hear Mira’s steady breathing beside me, but something was wrong. I turned my head slowly, and there, at the foot of the mattress, stood a figure. It was Baba, but not as I knew him. He was wearing his usual white kurta, but his face was hidden in the deep shadow of the moon. He was holding a small brass lantern, its flame flickering with a cold, blue light. He didn’t move. He just stood there, facing the stairs.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The pressure on my chest increased. I tried to shake Mira, but my arm wouldn’t obey. Then, Baba began to walk. He didn’t go down the stairs. Instead, he walked to the edge of the roof, stepped over the low parapet, and vanished into the air. I wanted to scream, but my throat was clamped shut. I heard a soft thud from the courtyard below. Then silence. I forced myself to close my eyes and pray. When I opened them again, the roof was empty. The lantern was gone. The clock on Baba’s phone, still in my hand, glowed 2:30 AM.

I must have drifted off again. The next morning, I woke to the smell of tea and Amma’s voice calling us for breakfast. I jumped up, my heart pounding. I ran to the edge of the roof and looked down. The courtyard was empty, the ground undisturbed. I rushed downstairs and found Amma in the kitchen, stirring a pot. Baba was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled. ‘Good morning, beta. Did you sleep well?’ I stared at him, searching for any sign of the night’s horror. He looked perfectly normal, except for a small scratch on his arm that he didn’t have yesterday.

Throughout the day, I tried to convince myself it was a dream, a night terror caused by too much ghee in the dal. But the phone – Baba’s phone – kept buzzing with alarms. I checked it. A new alarm had been set for 1:15 AM, 2:30 AM, and 3:45 AM, but now there was a fourth: 4:59 AM. I asked Baba about the new alarm. He looked confused. ‘I didn’t set that,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s a glitch.’ But his eyes flickered with something – fear, or recognition.

The second night, I refused to sleep on the roof. I told Amma I had a stomach ache. She insisted I take the charpai in the corner of her room, but Baba said he would stay with me. He set up a small cot next to mine. I watched him as he closed his eyes, but his breathing was shallow. I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, listening to the creaks of the old house. At 1:15 AM, Baba’s phone alarm went off. He sat up immediately, with a jerk, as if possessed. He didn’t turn to look at me. He walked out of the room, down the hallway, and into the main courtyard. I followed, dragging my blanket. He walked to the well, the one we were forbidden to go near. He stopped at the edge and began to turn in a slow circle, mumbling under his breath. I couldn’t understand the words. It was a language I had never heard, guttural and rasping. Then he stopped, faced the house, and raised his hand, pointing at the window of my room. In the moonlight, I saw a shadow move behind the glass – a shadow that didn’t match anything in the room.

I screamed. Baba turned to me, his eyes wide and white. ‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked, his voice normal. ‘You were sleepwalking!’ I lied. He looked at the well and shuddered. ‘I had the dream again,’ he said. ‘The one where I am drawn to the well.’ I helped him back to bed, but I didn’t sleep. I lay awake, watching the door, and at 2:30 AM, the phone buzzed again. Baba stirred but didn’t wake. A figure appeared in the doorway – a woman, tall and thin, wearing a tattered saree. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow pits. She looked at me, then at Baba, and smiled – a smile too wide, full of needle-like teeth. She reached out a long arm and pointed at me, then made a shooing motion with her hand, as if dismissing me. Then she was gone.

The next morning, I told Amma everything. She went pale. She took Baba’s phone and deleted all the alarms. ‘No more walks,’ she said firmly. Baba nodded, but his eyes were distant. That night, we all slept in the same room, locking the door. At 1:15 AM, the phone lit up on the nightstand, the alarm buzzing. Baba didn’t move. Amma grabbed it and turned it off. But then, from the courtyard below, we heard a rhythmic thumping, like footsteps on packed earth. I crept to the window and looked out. There, in the moonlight, was Baba – or his exact replica – walking around the well, carrying the brass lantern. The replica looked up at me, and its face was blank, featureless, like a smooth mask. It raised the lantern and made a gesture, as if to say, ‘Come join me.’

I fell back, trembling. Amma was chanting under her breath. Baba was still asleep, or perhaps in a trance. The thumping grew louder, and then stopped. The lantern light flickered out. When I looked again, the courtyard was empty, but there, on the ground, were fresh footsteps leading from the well to the house, and then stopping right below our window. In the morning, we found Baba’s slippers on the window sill, soaked with water from the well. Baba had no memory of it, but his feet were cold and wrinkled, as if he had been in water. We moved to the city the next week. We never spoke of it again. But sometimes, when I hear an alarm go off at an odd hour, I feel that pressure on my chest, and I see the woman with the needle teeth, and I know that the well is still waiting, and the lantern is still burning somewhere below.